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.

Water Lilies

My family moved to East Haven, Connecticut, the summer before I started 4th grade.  Within easy walking distance of our house, there were three small lakes, or ponds.  The closest was Pollywog Pond, which was approximately a mile into the woods behind our house. Pollywog Pond wasn’t much more than a puddle, good for mock naval battles with model ships we’d built or for catching pollywogs in the spring.  If we pedaled our bikes a mile and a half down Bradley Street, then walked them down a short path through the woods, we’d be at Pirot Pond.  Pirot Pond was our local fishing hole … it was only good for sunfish, bluegill and an occasional perch, but it was close and open to the public.  Yes, things were different in 1955.   Ten year old boys were tramping about in the woods by themselves and going off on boys-only fishing expeditions.  Two miles down Bradley Street in the opposite direction from Pirot Pond was the YMCA’s Camp Hubinger, home of Grannis Lake which we called Lake Hubinger.  By joining the YMCA’s Family Camp, we could swim in the lake … and fish for the large-mouthed bass that were plentiful.

Going Soft

Last night, my wife and I drove over to the park to walk.   Spring seems to have arrived here in Southern California and the evening was perfect for walking.    However, my legs … sore from ten minutes of torturous exercise from The Ten-Minute Total Body Breakthrough … weren’t up to our usual three miles, so I sat down on a bench by the lake halfway through to wait for my wife to finish.  The lakes at Yorba Regional Park are big man-made puddles compared to any respectable lake but they are periodically stocked with trout by the California Department of Fish and