By Jon Show — I’ve always viewed people who claim to see “signs” as quacks. In my mind, the only people who see signs are the ones looking for something to make them feel better, or to offload the responsibility of making a decision like a normal adult.

My first exposure to someone referencing signs was my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Knecht.

She was a bit of a hippie, and one day she stood in front of our class to tell us she was buying a new house, and had come to the decision after taking a walk and spotting a flat rock that was the same shape as the pond on the property she was now buying.

Even at 10, I was a bit pragmatic, so it seemed absurd to me.

I raised my hand and asked her for clarification. Were there any other existing conditions she considered, such as, I don’t know, the price, location, size, neighborhood, etc.?

“No, it was just the rock,” she said.

Who makes a decision based on the shape of a rock? Also, aren’t all rocks roughly the shape of a pond?

In that moment, I decided signs were junk science.

Sign stealing

One year ago, we lost my dad. I wrote at the time that he’d left a hole in my soul that I wasn’t sure would ever heal.

A year later, I’m doubtful. I don’t feel any better about it sitting here today than I did when I wrote his obituary.

The month after he died, I told you about a rainbow trout I caught days after his death in a stream where rainbows don’t live. When I published it, I received a torrent of messages declaring it a sign from above.

“I am a FIRM believer in signs and I would say this is a huge one,” wrote a friend, who included a rainbow emoji.

I’m so dumb the whole rainbow/heaven thing escaped me entirely.

Regardless, I dismissed the messages. Signs were for quacks, for people reaching out into the universe to try to find something to make them feel better.

I’m not so sure anymore.

There might have been a time in my life when I would have been embarrassed to admit it, but lately, I’ve seen more signs than I care to explain away.

Birthday wishes

On the day of what would have been his 84th birthday in August, I sat at my desk on a Friday morning while planning to head to the mountains to fish.

Why fish? Some people go to therapy to deal with their feelings. Some people take walks, smoke cigarettes or do whatever else makes them feel better. When I need to, I stand in a river until the hope I feel when fishing washes over me and I’m ready to go back home.

While wrapping up some work at my desk, a small American goldfinch plopped itself on the windowsill next to me.

I’ve sat at this desk every day for 12 years. I’ve seen birds fly straight into the window dozens of times. I’ve seen birds sit on the rocking chair and look out at the world.

I’ve never seen one fly onto the windowsill and stare at me like that goldfinch. I mean, the damn thing sat there and looked at me and did not break eye contact for a full minute.

My dad loved birds. He was never an expert by any stretch, but he always kept bird books next to his chair and earmarked each page when he spotted something he’d never seen.

His favorites were always the ones with lots of color. The only one he loved seeing more than a bright red cardinal was a yellow goldfinch.

And of all the fish I’ve caught over the years, the one he loved seeing most of all was a colored-up southern brook trout.

Take me to the river

I finished my work and headed for the Blue Ridge Parkway to a spot I usually fish on my birthday.

On that day, I had no ulterior motive for fishing, but my dad was on my mind. Sometimes it’s hard to get him out of there.

I pulled up in my truck, grabbed my gear and headed for the creek.

From the get-go, my casting was terrible. The kind of casting that only comes from a polluted mind. A mind that’s out there seeking something instead of patiently waiting for something to happen.

I hooked a couple of wild brown trout on an elk hair caddis but kept changing flies for reasons that made no sense. You don’t change flies when you’re catching fish.

About an hour in, my phone dinged. I took it out of my pocket to find a text from my mom that read: “55 years ago today I was getting ready to go fishing with my boyfriend.”

That’s right, in addition to his birthday, it was also their anniversary. He always joked that he got married on his birthday so he’d never forget the date. They honeymooned in a fishing shack because they were broke.

I took a deep breath, and for the first time that day, my legs stopped wobbling, my breath slowed and my mind went clear.

I looked into my fly box, tied on a little white mayfly and threw a cast at the edge of a seam just upriver.

It was the perfect cast, followed by a small splash, a tight line and the perfect wild brook trout, landed in a net that I made this summer using my dad’s 40-year-old tools.

I took a picture and sent it to my mom: “Probably not the kind of hooking up you did on your honeymoon, but I caught him a birthday brookie.” The brook trout were always his favorites.

And then I sat down and cried in the river for the second time in my life.

Was the brook trout I caught in a net made with his tools a sign? Was the bird a sign? Was the rainbow I caught last September a sign?

My dad and grandfather used to take whiskey “beeps” out of Beep juice glasses. Was it a sign that I randomly found four of the 50-year-old cups on eBay last winter when I had been checking annually for 25 years?

I don’t know.

But they all made me feel better, and maybe there’s nothing wrong with that. Perhaps that’s the whole point. Like I always say, I’m not too quick on the uptake.

I guess sometimes there’s nothing wrong with looking out into the universe and hoping to see something that makes you feel good.

Maybe I’ve just learned to appreciate it rather than judge it.

Maybe Mrs. Knecht wasn’t so wrong after all.

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Jon Show lives in Robbins Park with his wife, who he calls “The Mother of Dragons.” Their 18-year-old son is “Future Man” and their 14-year-old daughter is “The Blonde Bomber.” Their dog is actually named Lightning.