Fishing (Again)

My Dad, Frank, was an avid fisherman.  Even though he worked fifty or sixty hours a week, he still found time to go to one of the local fishing spots for a couple of hours.   He frequently returned empty-handed, sometimes because he threw back little ones and sometimes because he threw back keepers.   Although he was a fan of catching fish, he was not fond of eating them.   But the truth is, he just liked some solitary time walking along the edge of Lake Saltenstall or one of the other lakes within a half hour of home.  It was natural, then that I became a fisherman at first with Dad to show me how.   Sometimes we’d rent a rowboat and fish the shores of the big lake at Saltenstall.  Other times we’d fish the streams at Chatfield Hollow, or a lake in Guilford where his boss let us use his boat. Incidentally, one evening in 1952, Dad landed the largest bass caught in Connecticut that year, an 11 pound beauty.  Opening day was special … we’d rise early and stop for breakfast at the New Idea Diner, then head to Chatfield Hollow to compete with the dozens of anglers fishing for trout.   Beginners, my Dad called them, some of them idiots.   One particularly cold spring, I lost my footing on a slippery rock ans sat down in the brook.   My hip boots filled with freezing cold water, which my Dad thought was hysterical.   Looking back, it was … but at the time, not so much.

As I got older, I began to fish with my friends.  There were several decent fishing ponds … Lake Hubinger and Pirot’s Pond … fifteen minute walk away and if we were up for a hike we could climb over the mountain (that was really just a hill) to Lake Saltenstall.  We caught bluegills, bass, bullheads and an occasional perch.   By high school, I was working fo the YMCA as a lifeguard and camp counselor at Lake Hubinger, which gave me full time access to rowboats and canoes for fishing.  I caught some very nice large mouth bass there.   In my sophomore year of college, myself and several friends went on a one week road trip to Canada fishing for pike.  I remember when I was first married and living in Rhode Island occasionally going off to fish and unwind in the evening.  Once we moved to California it became less convenient to fish.  I took my son a couple of times but he found is boring so I got involved in coaching his soccer teams instead of taking him fishing.

Since we moved to Utah, when we ask what my grandsons, Reed and Maddux were doing, my daughter frequently tells us they’ve gone fishing at a fishing pond walking distance from their house.  Just the thought of them going off on their own, fishing poles and bait box in hand made me nostalgic.   This past Sunday, Father’s Day, my daughter’s family came over to make us dinner,   The boys were so excited about giving me my Father’s Day present that I had to get it first thing.   I am now the proud owner of a new spinning reel and rod … and an assortment of hooks, lures and bait.   It was the boys idea to buy me a rod so that I could go fishing with them and they picked it out themselves with the help of their Dad.   And Tuesday morning, the three of us went to the South Jordan Fishing ponds together.    We didn’t catch anything but we had a great time.   And there will be another day, soon.  And so at 76, I’m a fisherman again, thanks to my grandsons.  I’m smiling.

 

 

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Tags: family, fishing, grandchildren, nostalgia, smiles

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