“Let’s go to Cross Pond,” I sug-
gested to Fred during my visit to
Maine in September, 2003, intent
on revisiting one of the places of
our youth. He eagerly agreed. Fred
liked sentimentality, especially that
associated with our growing up to-
gether. We had pretty much spent
our adult years apart. That is one
of the cruel ways of modern life
- separation by the exigencies of
careers and all that goes with that.
Time passes much too fast. We
were now getting reacquainted al-
though the circumstances were not
the best. We had a lot of catching up
to do - quickly!
From the age of about seven
years old, we would accompany our
Uncle Harry fishing ‘up the road’ to
Cross Pond in Morrill, Maine. (Aunt
Ruth would go sometimes. Uncle
Bruce never attended this event as I
remember; he was not a fishing guy.
Never once saw him fish.) Our Sun-
day afternoon after-haying fishing
expeditions were memorable and
rewarding adventures. Every time.
This was always an exciting
exploit for us. It began with sev-
eral men loading this small but ex-
traordinarily heavy rowboat onto
our flatbed farm truck. This was
no small task since, in constructing
it, Granddad had spared no wood;
this became the subject of intense
discussion each time loading or un-
loading it was attempted.
Not discussion really. More like
cursing and moaning by all con-
cerned questioning why in God’s
name he had built it so heavy. (No
matter how many times that boat
was handled, the same complaints
ensued.)
My grandfather was so proud of
his hand crafted boat, built more to
withstand the heavy waves of the
North Sea than the ripples of Cross
Pond, he never noticed - or pre-
tended not to - any complaints. He
simply stood back and beamed in
earnest seeing his own sturdy ves-
sel being readied for a fishing trip.
Once the boat was loaded, we
youngsters would jump up on the
back of the truck for the ride up
Poor’s Mill Road to the pond. This
was fun in itself as the wind hit our
faces and we waved to the neigh-
bors along the way. If any trip away
from the farm was an adventure at
our age, our fishing forays were es-
pecially exciting.
After traveling a few miles on
that country road, Uncle Harry
turned off and drove down a well
used dirt path along a stone wall
in a hay field belonging to some
farmer whose name I never knew.
Those were friendlier days. Today,
it would be considered trespassing.
We paid no mind to that and were
never reproached for doing so.
Ahead, through a break in the
trees, loomed Cross Pond and our
launch area. The pond was usually
placid and beautiful, the surface
calm and flat, the sun warm and al-
luring. A perfect setting for a good
afternoon of fishing.
Unloading the boat was again
accompanied by the same com-
plaining that had preceded the load-
ing. Every time. We all tugged and
pulled and wrestled with that boat
until it thudded to earth. We then
scooted it along the grassy ground
and the small pebbly beach to the
water’s edge.
Sooner or later we launched,
piled in with our fishing gear, an
ample supply of bait, and a great
deal of anticipation of the large
catch we were about to amass. And
not to forget the delicious picnic
sandwiches our Aunt Ruth had pre-
pared for us. Fishing makes a man
hungry, ya know.
This was a rowboat fully loaded
– no, overloaded – so rowing was
another adventure. Any sudden
movement would result in a wave-
let of water spilling over the sides.
Our bailing tin was used regularly
to keep most of the water out of the
boat, but there was always enough
sloshing around the bottom to en-
sure one would not escape without
wet feet.
Soon we would anchor at our
favorite fishing spot in the vicinity
of a patch of lily pads. The water
was clear; you could peer over the
sides and see bottom at twenty feet
below.
We had no fancy baits or lures
either. Simply plump, wiggly worms
dug from the composted cow ma-
nure piles behind the old cow barn.
There were always plenty available
there. Fish loved them. Free bait,
unlike today. We put hundreds in
old tin cans salvaged from the gar-
bage.
This was fishing at its most ba-
sic. There was neither fancy equip-
ment nor electronic fish finders.
No motors. Simple and fun fish-
ing. “Drop a line,” my Grandfather
would say, a woven cotton fishing
line bought by the spool at the local
hardware store tied to the ends of
our simple cane poles also bought
there. We did splurge on Eagle Claw
brand hooks then thought to be the
best available. Most likely still are.
From a very young age we
could bait a hook. Uncle Harry had
us fishing the farm brook almost
as soon as we could walk. So we
needed little assistance in getting
our lines into the water and begin-
ning to fish. And fish we did – all
afternoon nonstop - catching white
perch, yellow perch, and bullheads
at times. There were large pick-
erel there and I wanted to catch
one badly, but they were elusive. I
never did. An occasional eel would
be caught. I loathed those squirmy,
slippery eels. They seemed like
something out of the prehistoric
past and did not resemble any fish I
knew; I wanted nothing to do with
eels.
We fished until near dusk. My
grandfather loved fish so this was
not a sporting event to him so much
as it was an opportunity to stock up
for a week or more of fish eating.
That we did.
With darkness fast approach-
ing, we would row back to shore
and begin the loading procedure in
reverse. Only now the intensity of
the discussion increased due to the
fact that the boat had absorbed wa-
ter and was even heavier than when
dry.
The fish were stuffed into empty
grain sacks brought along from the
cow barn. It was not unusual to have
two or even three of these burlap
sacks full of fish. Dozens, maybe
fifty or sixty fish, were bagged and
loaded some still flopping about.
Enough fish to keep our grandfa-
ther busy cleaning them half the
day Monday. Cleaning and smiling
the whole time. He loved fish. Any
time, any kind. Even for breakfast.
In the aftermath of his cleaning
efforts, fish scales were everywhere
about the front porch for days.
Those scales were wretched eye-
sores and fly attracting nuisances.
They resisted being swept away,
washed away, or even blown away.
But my Grandfather enjoyed ev-
ery minute creating that mess. The
more scales, the more fish he would
have to eat.
We followed this summer fish-
ing routine for many years stopping
only when we became involved with
greater opportunities, wider inter-
ests, and broader horizons. Friends
got their own cars. Maybe even
girls had some play in it…girls, it
seemed back then, weren’t much
interested in fishing. As much as I
hate to admit it now, girls became a
more appealing option than fishing
as we grew into our teenage years.
(Though, now in my sixties, that
thinking has somehow mysterious-
ly reverted back to the old ways.)
Time plays tricks with one’s
memory. It is odd remembering