Fish Stories

My parents during their honeymoon in what is now the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. Before the arrival of us four kids a small canoe met their needs. Later they added the huge rowboat that held all of us for fishing, swimming and all-day summer leisure activities.

We fished from the dock, from the shore and from the large clumsy rowboat that accommodated our family of six, bait, rods, nets and lunches. Growing up in the north woods brought us intimacy with nature in many forms. The bears raided our garbage cans during the blueberry scarce years, the howling wolves sang us to sleep, the deer and rabbits fed us through the lean depression years and the lakes supplied us with fish, fun and ice for the winter Sunday supply of yellow rich ice cream with the milk furnished by our Jersey cows, Marie, followed by Cornet and lastly Lady who remained through  the end of the depression.

Last weekend Bob and I went fishing for the first time since moving to South Dakota.

What fun! I never tired of watching that bobber hit the water and bob about. The fish were biting frantically and we enjoyed three tasty meals of fresh fish. Unfortunately the deer flies were also biting in full force and the bites they left as mementos are still itching for this entire week. Lordy, how they itch!

But the misery of the bites is displaced by the sweet memories of many years ago when I sat with eager anticipation in the bulky family rowboat, casting, reeling, baiting the hook with fat, squirmy night crawlers we caught the night before. The thrill of watching that bright red and white bobber float the waves and finally pop below with my line slicing the water has remained through these many years. I never forgot the quick tug on the line between my fingers, letting me know that a fish somewhere in those dark waters below had taken the bait and the hook, allowing me to reel him into the boat and later into the frying pan. (Or as often happened, had taken the bait, escaped the hook, and left me worm-less.)

During those years of depression, the woods, our extensive garden and the lakes supplied us with abundant food. My father was jobless but we never wanted at our dinner table. Each fall, before the ice covered the lake, my father, the provider for his family of four children, would set out a net in a bay of the lake. Twice a week in the dark of the early evening we would head out to the net and I would help steady the rowboat as he hauled in the many wiggling fish that he would clean and my mother would fry and pickle in jars for the long, lean winter ahead. The wind was raw, the netting was difficult work and never gave me the thrill of fishing with a bobber, but in looking back these many years later, I realize that those nets brought in a rich harvest to fill our bodies with the needed protein to supplement the dwindling deer meat and waning rabbit population. Fishing, diving and swimming from that sturdy, unsinkable rowboat during the warmth of the summer days furnished the healing entertainment also sorely needed during the stark days of the 30's.

Yes, we lived through the great depression, but the scars barely touched us kids. We were protected from want by the fertility of the land and the water in a home located in the heart of the north woods, guided by parents who knew their duty as providers for both our bodies and our spirits.

Years later in 2016 in the Black Hills of South Dakota with a catch of 3 pound bass!