Summer Sundays On Cross Pond

"Let´s go to Cross Pond," I suggested 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 together. 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 although 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 Sunday afternoon after - haying fishing expeditions were memorable and rewarding adventures. Every time.

This was always an exciting exploit for us. It began with several men loading this small but extraordinarily 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 unloading it was attempted.

Not discussion really. More like cursing and moaning by all concerned 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 pretended not to – any complaints. He simply stood back and beamed in earnest seeing his own sturdy vessel 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 neighbors along the way. If any trip away from the farm was an adventure at our age, our fishing forays were especially 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 alluring. A perfect setting for a good afternoon of fishing.

Unloading the boat was again accompanied by the same complaining that had preceded the loading. 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 prepared 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 wavelet 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 ensure 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. Simply plump, wiggly worms dug from the composted cow manure 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 garbage.

This was fishing at its most basic. There was neither fancy equipment nor electronic fish finders. No motors. Simple and fun fishing. "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 beginning to fish. And fish we did – all afternoon nonstop - catching white perch, yellow perch, and bullheads at times. There were large pickerel 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 approaching, 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 water 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 grandfather 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 eyesores and fly attracting nuisances. They resisted being swept away, washed away, or even blown away. But my Grandfather enjoyed every minute creating that mess. The more scales, the more fish he would have to eat.

We followed this summer fishing routine for many years stopping only when we became involved with greater opportunities, wider interests, 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 mysteriously reverted back to the old ways.)

Time plays tricks with one´s memory. It is odd remembering that pond as seeming to be so large when we were so young. When I again visited there in September 2003 with Fred, ill with terminal cancer, it had seemingly shrunk considerably. But the fond recollections of those bygone times had not diminished and were still vivid as Fred and I stood that day at the same launching spot we´d been fifty years before, reminiscing on those boyhood adventures we´d had then. Geographically nothing had changed really. We had changed; we had aged. The pond had not.

I fondly recall that fall afternoon return to Cross Pond. We once again seemed to connect as we discussed our youth and our long ago summertime fishing at that beautiful tranquil place. There were moments of silence as we stood on the same pebbly shoreline gazing out on our past. I am certain we both were contemplating our future: mine as an aging man remembering youth, Fred´s so uncertain.

My brother, Fred, died one year later almost to the day. That afternoon return to the past had been one of our ´On Golden Pond´ moments in his last year living.