I remember...

I remember.

I remember the first warm breeze of March, that gave the boys on my street a glimmer of hope that the long, cold winter would really be coming to an end. Sometimes, in the dreary gray of those late February days that lingered into March, we feared Summer was going to pass us by. That first warm day gave us hope.

I remember the first peal of thunder around this time too. My grandmother would call it “The storm that breaks Winter’s back.” Because once you heard thunder, there couldn’t be many days left until Spring.

I remember the first warm Saturday, when we would all grab our fishing rods and go back to the little creek behind our houses. It wasn’t fed by anything…it was just a long catch basin for all the storm drains in town, and it only held water after a good rain. But there was the occasional pool, and we’d practice casting the new plugs we’d accumulated over the winter, just to see how they swam.

I remember the first fishing trip of the year, and pedaling our Spider bikes through Chelsea Estates, down highway 141, across the open meadow encircled by the off ramp to I-95 to our secret fishing hole, “Nonesuch Creek.”

I remember the day before, digging in the yard for garden worms, and trying to fill an old metal Maxwell House can.

And red cork bobbers. And Eagle Claw hooks. And pyramid sinkers.

And waiting for a nibble.

And talking about the things that little boys used to talk about in another place and time in this country. A place and time when little boys could hop on their bikes early on a Saturday morning in late March, pedal three miles and fish in a spot out of sight from the world. And nobody worried about them.

The jokes we’d heard our fathers tell, that they weren’t supposed to tell in front of us, but we just happened to be there, and they’d had a beer or two and they told the joke with a wink that said, “don’t tell your mother.”

I remember bologna sandwiches and warm Cokes in a brown paper bag. Peeing in the bushes. Finding a stick, poking it into the ground and resting our fishing rod in the crook of the “Y.”

I remember the wily old bass who lived in the “back pond” section of Lum’s Pond, a section full of cypress stumps and lily pads and chain pickerel, that looked as if time had forgotten about it.

I remember my first subscription to Field and Stream, and reading Gene Hill, and wanting to write like he did…and only being nine years old.

I remember joining B.A.S.S for the first time and reading the articles about exotic fishing locations like Normandy Lake, Rock Hill reservoir, Lake Sam Houston.

I remember when- before the Outdoor Channel, and the Fishing Channel-- there was only one man to watch fishing; the great Jerry McKinnis and “The Fishin’ Hole.”

I remember my best friend Mark, and I, talking about fishing where Jerry McKinnis fished someday.

I remember the hot days of Summer, and the cool of the Brandywine River on my feet as I looked for smallmouth bass. The steamy nights of Little League baseball, staying outside way past dark, and talking about tomorrows.

I remember the first early signs of autumn and going back to school and trying to squeeze in just one more trip to “Nonesuch Creek” before we got busy with homework.

The excitement of the first frost and the coming of deer season.

I remember my first deer stand, my first shotgun, and my first buck.

I remember hunting alone. Walking for hours with only my trusty Spaniel, Jesse, by my side.

Somehow -with the passage of time, and the gradual loss of wonder—we all became “anglers,” my friends and I. My True Temper fiberglass fishing rod disappeared and became several graphite rods and high-speed reels. Nightcrawlers somehow became taboo…beneath the skill set of a fisherman like me.

My hundred-dollar Glenfield 778 pump action 12 gauge just had to be replaced by a Stoeger, or a Beretta.

The little boy who tried understanding the “Solunar Tables” became the adult with phone apps that tell me the best times to be in my deer stand, or on the river.

Jesse, my beloved Springer, lies beside his mother in a meadow in Delaware. But I remember everything about him.

The little boys of Monroe Avenue…the boys I fished with and grew into adulthood with, are all grown men now. Husbands, ex-husbands, dads, and grandads. And one- my first friend on that street, Tommy, now lives only in my memories too.

And in my heart.

It’s funny what becomes of memories as we grow older.

I have several nice fishing rods, but I’d trade them all plus a hundred bucks, for that old True Temper fiberglass rod and the red “737” reel.

And my little red tackle box, full of fish hooks and split shot and bobbers and a smelly jar of pork rind with the lid rusted shut.

I have a very nice, deadly accurate, Remington 783 / .308 deer rifle. I love that gun.

I’d hand it over before my next breath, if you could find me my old Glenfield 778.

My TV is full of fishing and hunting shows. But Jerry McKinnis is only in the reruns now. He’s retired and “The Fishin Hole” went off the air after 44 seasons.

Mark and I haven’t fished together in almost 35 years.

Johnny lives in Ohio. Richard still lives on our old street.

Tommy fishes in Heaven now…if they fish there.

But I remember them all. I cherish them. I long for them.

For the days of sunburnt shoulders, and spider bikes with baseball cards in the spokes.

For the first honks of Canada geese, and the nip of Fall.

For the soft music playing underneath Jerry McKinnis’ slight drawl, while he describes his next adventure in his Itasca motorhome.

I remember when this man, this dad, this busy, stressed-out, never-enough-time fifty-five-year-old, was just a boy.

On a bike.

With his friends.

Heading for adventure.

In a time and a place that won’t ever be here again.

But I remember…