The Stream Of Time
The alarm clock was ringing in my ear. I couldn’t
figure out why that thing was squaking in my ear at
3:00am. I sat up and reached across the bed to turn
the infernal thing off. I turned off the alarm and
laid down to go back to sleep. My bride of 35 years
then elbowed me. she said: " Get out of bed you old
fool." I responded: I am retired now, I thought we
threw that alarm clock away!" She said: “Len is
expecting you at 4am.” It then dawned upon me…“I am
going trout fishing today!” I sprang from my bed.
Sprang is a relative word. As sprang as 62 year old
recently retired school teacher can sprang.
Today was the day. I was going to re-introduce
myself to my childhood passion. *Trout * fishing. I
quietly left the bedroom and brewed a pot of coffe. As
the pot brewed, all the memories of my childhood
fishing rushed over me. The day i was bitten by the
trout fishing bug. It seemed just like yesterday. I
have played that memory over and over again in my head
many times. It usually happens when the first cold
snap hit in late september.
My dad rolled me out of bed at the crack of dawn.
My Uncle Sig is already in the car waiting. The gear
is packed and all that is left is to get me dressed
and get me in the car. My dad hurries me…tells me
that we need to get on the water before it gets too
sunny. We are on our way. My dad turns the old buick
westward.
My dad and Uncle Sig are giddy with anticipation.
They are talking about old outings they took together
when they were young. My dad tells me about the first
time he went fishing with his dad. I had heard that
stories lots of times and smiled as he told the
story…The fish he had caught had grow again from the
last time he told the story.
The road gets long and I nod off. All of a sudden
my dad and uncle are almost shouting. Here is the
bridge! My Uncle Sig exclaims. My uncle exits the
buick and and gets down on all fours and crawls up to
the bridge’s edge. He peers over the bridge and then
he crawls back and comes running to the car. Uncle Sig
is really fired up. He says: “Young man there are a
couple nice browns under that bridge with your name
written on them!”
My dad places me downstream from the bridge. My
uncle Sig is in the sneak position again. He crawls to
the edge of the bridge to aid me into placing my cast
properly.
My dad directs my cast with the aid of Uncle Sig.
It seems just like yesterday. The beautiful brown
trout takes my offering on the first cast. My dad and
uncle are cheering me. The battle seemed infinite. I
landed a smallish brown. My dad and uncle made me feel
like that trout was the biggest and most beautiful
trout they had ever seen. A farmer in truck drove by
at the same time and gave me a thumbs up as he drove
across the bridge.
Man did I ever get side tracked. I got to
get in the car and meet up with Len. The time is
just screaming by. It screamed by just like all those
years of teaching had. I had NEVER gotten a change to
go back to that bridge. Teaching and family had just
washed away any chance of getting back there.
I met up with Len and we got into his truck
for the trip to the BRIDGE. I did NOT remember the
exact area of the bridge. I was 6 years old the last
time there and I had slept the way there . I just knew
a general area of the bridge. As Len drove to the
bridge I tried to describe what the bridge looked
like.
I told Len the story about my first outing with
my dad and uncle. I described the bridge to a tee. The
way my uncle had hung off the bridge on his belly to
direct my first cast. We searched and searched the
area. We could not find the bridge. We stopped and
looked at the map to see if there was a place we were
missing. I was so sad. I could not find that bridge…
it had disappeared. I could not talk with my dad or
uncle. They both had been taken by the stream of time
to where all good anglers go. We finally gave up on
the Bridge and turned around and decided to hit some
close water.
Len slowed the truck…and said: “Peter
is that it out in the field?” I said: " No, it can’t
be. It isn’t the way I remember it. It was on the main
road and it didn’t look like that." Len told me that
the county had straighten the road about 30 years ago
and made a new bridge. That bridge out in the field
had to be it.
Len could see my disappointment in my face. I
got out of the truck and strung up my rod. I asked
Len if I could fish the stretch alone. I wanted to
try to re-capture some of the magic of my ancient
memories. Every thing looked different. I thought to
myself that this couldn’t be the bridge. I carefully
approached the bridge hole…I placed my first cast
directly in the feed lane. A brown trout came up and
took my presentation. I knelt down to net the
brown…the memories rushed back…the bridge ruins
jolted my memory.
Don't let The Stream Of Time wash you away before
you have found your bridge.
)