Lake Woebegone and getting older

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Its as though I'm on one shore line of Lake Woebegone: I see across the deep water, calling, knowing no one can hear me scream for attention. I see the shadow of my Dad way over there. I see my older sisters over there. They're griping about not getting popcorn when they wanted it, being smacked for not being quiet when they were supposed to be asleep. Did all that happen? I wasn't even born when the nasty stuff happened if it did. If I could only paddle in a canoe across that lake, paddle quickly back to childhood, I'd ask Dad: were you angry cause you were in pain from your smoking and your ulcers and bad back? Hey Dad, did you really cook in a restaurant when you were young, there on the Oregon coast and hey, did you drive a logging truck and most of all, did you honestly, really, break broncos in Montana? Broke them to ride? Is that why you could walk up to a pasture of horses and they would all run to you as if they'd known you forever? But here I am unable to paddle a canoe, a physical canoe. So I must head out, doing my best to be the elder, the one providing good memories for the next generation. I must attempt to be a role model, someone to remember, even if its only me showing them how NOT to make a canoe propel in water.