Prologue II
River thoughts
So I wanted to tell of a time still vivid of a Pennsylvania river.
It’s not that good of a place to go but it is a fishing story.. a time when I caught my mother.
The amber waters of the Juniata are legend among anyone who has fished in the East. My memory is of Mexico and Matawana, places along this river. These are places that my dad had found on the fishing map, places where my daughter caught her first fish and the place I had first seen a wild small mouth bass.
This river, which finds its outlet to the Susquehanna at Clarks Ferry, derives from truly wonderful mountain trout streams west and North of the places I have named. My dad, always with the fishing map in tow, led us here long ago. We came the first time in the old rambler to find a place different and yet rural…a place we could visit in a single day out, unlike Wyalusing and Homet ferry. Here, there was a wild river too. The banks here and there with campsites and a really unknown fishing place, as per my dad. It was only the old map that suggested a place for bass.
The shore fishing near Matawana was unknown. Then to a small boy, it seemed liked a raging torrent, muddy and wide, in the mountains, a great accompaniment to the upper Susquehanna, but closer to home.
As a child, I did not know that the backcast could be dangerous.
I cast back and caught my mother, who was sketching, in the eye..There was no harang, my dad, the always battlefield soldier packed my mom off to the hospital in Lewistown, some 20 mile distant. I recall this in great detail. Not for that moment so much, but when I caught a big salmon years later south of Anchorage, Alaska, when a hook flew out of a snagged dog salmon, among the natives and scavenging bears, I found a treble in my face and was taken to the hospital. The laughing doctor said welcome to Alaska, and removed the hook It was 1982, and 1966 all again.
So trout season has come and past here both on the Island and in Pennsylvania. I noticed the season here because the local radio said fishing was on, and although not the big day it once was, many older folk still kept the tradition. For me, an off-islander, it came and went only as a thought of my times past with dad and later friends at the yellow breeches. Here, April 15 is set in stone as opening day, as the second Saturday in April of my youth. But here, mid-April sun is hollowed by a cold, ice-driven sea breeze. I picture sluggish trout of the sea as reluctant as I am to wander to a place to call a fishing spot. I saw old folk, at a town hall I cannot name, meeting ritualistically at a time and place accorded, to eat a meal prior to casting a line, now alone No young ones were there. It was as if an old tradition, slowly dying was being played out. It was on the local TV. It made me feel sad, as if this day I should have been at yellow breeches with my children. Even then the fishing would not be as good, and there would be no way to tell anyone why it was different. Here a cold, icy, ocean breeze swept across the street by my home. It is only a few miles to where the old stalwart fisherman, only a few years ahead of me, cast the line on this opening day. I bet each one at the traditional opening breakfast had more memories in their hearts that cannot be told and that of lost friends, fish, and loves. But they really wanted to go out cold and face the sunrise. Memories and stiff, old joints do that. But the warm glow of memory, even on the cast or dreams made for long lost memories will push to the stream banks.
Dad was so excited. Here, along the muddy bank, my father caught his first small mouth, It seemed we could do nothing wrong. He cast a small plug, a rocky junior I think, and in seconds caught an angry small mouth right along the bank of the snow-melted high river. The fish was golden yellow bronze, and about 2 pounds. I asked dad if we could keep him, as I also hooked a smaller fish at the same time. We felt the sacred connection to take the fish and make a meal as in Wyalusing, but the season was closed. My dad was strict on rules, and in a lonely place where only we were, we released our catches until the law and God allowed another encounter. Perhaps until that time I never knew how honorable my father was. On his deathbed, I recounted this. He was weak and pale from cancer, the day before the end. He said, “Luke, I am a fighter. But I may not make it.” I was at his bedside. “Take care of your mother and sister”. I told him that if I were half the man he was I would be a success.
The next day they took his withered wan form out in a black bag. My sister had announced, “He’s dead”. I was 10 feet across the hall. My mom said she saw a thin black smoke arise, the angel of death.
I was 15. I grew up that day. It was the second day of the New Year, 1972.
The past is history. The future has not happened, All we have is the present-the present is our only eternity. To recount life through fishing is a vision that you may not appreciate. But fishing, or the thoughts of fishing are the vehicle, which makes meaning for me. What makes meaning in the chaos for you is your own affair. It’s totally personal. Perhaps, in this, you may find your own meaning,
River thoughts
So I wanted to tell of a time still vivid of a Pennsylvania river.
It’s not that good of a place to go but it is a fishing story.. a time when I caught my mother.
The amber waters of the Juniata are legend among anyone who has fished in the East. My memory is of Mexico and Matawana, places along this river. These are places that my dad had found on the fishing map, places where my daughter caught her first fish and the place I had first seen a wild small mouth bass.
This river, which finds its outlet to the Susquehanna at Clarks Ferry, derives from truly wonderful mountain trout streams west and North of the places I have named. My dad, always with the fishing map in tow, led us here long ago. We came the first time in the old rambler to find a place different and yet rural…a place we could visit in a single day out, unlike Wyalusing and Homet ferry. Here, there was a wild river too. The banks here and there with campsites and a really unknown fishing place, as per my dad. It was only the old map that suggested a place for bass.
The shore fishing near Matawana was unknown. Then to a small boy, it seemed liked a raging torrent, muddy and wide, in the mountains, a great accompaniment to the upper Susquehanna, but closer to home.
As a child, I did not know that the backcast could be dangerous.
I cast back and caught my mother, who was sketching, in the eye..There was no harang, my dad, the always battlefield soldier packed my mom off to the hospital in Lewistown, some 20 mile distant. I recall this in great detail. Not for that moment so much, but when I caught a big salmon years later south of Anchorage, Alaska, when a hook flew out of a snagged dog salmon, among the natives and scavenging bears, I found a treble in my face and was taken to the hospital. The laughing doctor said welcome to Alaska, and removed the hook It was 1982, and 1966 all again.
So trout season has come and past here both on the Island and in Pennsylvania. I noticed the season here because the local radio said fishing was on, and although not the big day it once was, many older folk still kept the tradition. For me, an off-islander, it came and went only as a thought of my times past with dad and later friends at the yellow breeches. Here, April 15 is set in stone as opening day, as the second Saturday in April of my youth. But here, mid-April sun is hollowed by a cold, ice-driven sea breeze. I picture sluggish trout of the sea as reluctant as I am to wander to a place to call a fishing spot. I saw old folk, at a town hall I cannot name, meeting ritualistically at a time and place accorded, to eat a meal prior to casting a line, now alone No young ones were there. It was as if an old tradition, slowly dying was being played out. It was on the local TV. It made me feel sad, as if this day I should have been at yellow breeches with my children. Even then the fishing would not be as good, and there would be no way to tell anyone why it was different. Here a cold, icy, ocean breeze swept across the street by my home. It is only a few miles to where the old stalwart fisherman, only a few years ahead of me, cast the line on this opening day. I bet each one at the traditional opening breakfast had more memories in their hearts that cannot be told and that of lost friends, fish, and loves. But they really wanted to go out cold and face the sunrise. Memories and stiff, old joints do that. But the warm glow of memory, even on the cast or dreams made for long lost memories will push to the stream banks.
Dad was so excited. Here, along the muddy bank, my father caught his first small mouth, It seemed we could do nothing wrong. He cast a small plug, a rocky junior I think, and in seconds caught an angry small mouth right along the bank of the snow-melted high river. The fish was golden yellow bronze, and about 2 pounds. I asked dad if we could keep him, as I also hooked a smaller fish at the same time. We felt the sacred connection to take the fish and make a meal as in Wyalusing, but the season was closed. My dad was strict on rules, and in a lonely place where only we were, we released our catches until the law and God allowed another encounter. Perhaps until that time I never knew how honorable my father was. On his deathbed, I recounted this. He was weak and pale from cancer, the day before the end. He said, “Luke, I am a fighter. But I may not make it.” I was at his bedside. “Take care of your mother and sister”. I told him that if I were half the man he was I would be a success.
The next day they took his withered wan form out in a black bag. My sister had announced, “He’s dead”. I was 10 feet across the hall. My mom said she saw a thin black smoke arise, the angel of death.
I was 15. I grew up that day. It was the second day of the New Year, 1972.
The past is history. The future has not happened, All we have is the present-the present is our only eternity. To recount life through fishing is a vision that you may not appreciate. But fishing, or the thoughts of fishing are the vehicle, which makes meaning for me. What makes meaning in the chaos for you is your own affair. It’s totally personal. Perhaps, in this, you may find your own meaning,
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