Snow in May - A Blast From the Past

It’s freezing cold in May. Frost warnings for this weekend, and snow advisory for the north, expecting up to four inches of snow. So, naturally, my thoughts turn to fishing.

The most extensively-prepared-for family outing when I was a kid happened to be the opening day of Fishing Season on May 5 in my high school days. Sandwiches were prepared. Creels were located. Trout fish size limits and bag limits were carefully reviewed. Poles? Check. Reels and line? Check. Hooks? Check. Brothers? Check. Snow? What? Snow? Yes, that morning it snowed several inches on top of us as we sat just after dawn in the Blue Hills, lines in the water. How ridiculous!

Back when I was an outdoors girl growing up in the north woods, I used to go fishing. Not obsessively, but frequently. Some of my favorite memories are sitting with some family member or another beside a body of water, casting a line out and jawing. But quietly jawing. As anybody knows, fish don’t like to be eaten by raucous chatterboxes, preferring to be masticated by demure young ladies.

All kinds of important information was passed along during these fishing trips. With my grandmother, I got the other side of the stories that I had always been too little to hear. Those stories changed my mind about things a bit. She taught me to never forget to bring toilet paper, so that you wouldn’t run the risk of having to use poison ivy leaves when wiping up. She knew this from first-hand experience. Also, it’s a good idea to keep hand lotion and crochet supplies in your tackle box.

With my brothers, I got all the high school gossip that swirled and stormed and jack-knifed through the halls and missed me every time. Sometimes my jaw hung agape at what they told me. To my brothers, I gave more cautionary tales than they were in the mood for. (I was an EXCELLENT big sister: bossy AND a know-it-all.) Plus there were bait fights. Noisy affairs which guaranteed no fish. But Randall did catch a clam on a sinker once. Clams apparently could care less about noisy fisherfolk.

With my step-dad, I learned all kinds of stuff: how to reel in the really big ones (I never did get any practice with that skill), how old sturgeon can grow to be, why Johnny Cash was supreme ruler of the music kingdom, how to remove bloodsuckers with a shaker of salt. I also learned that if I were to again embed a hook and worm in my scalp, I should be very still and not panic. And to wear a hat next time. I also learned how to put a little bit of white paper on the tip of your pole so you can see nibbling and striking action in the dark. A lot of lore and instructions about Coleman lanterns was shared, but the lantern intricacies were never less than mysterious. For example, how can those little mantles burn and burn and never burn up? And a very good lesson: when to cut the line and go home.

I would listen keenly to my mom and her friend Pam talk about disgusting grown-up women stuff. I always pretended to ignore them, of course. But from them I learned the ins and outs of boyfriends and babies, the best recipes were the ones you got from friends, the pros and cons of teen pregnancy, and that even grownups can have a lot of fun being with their friends. Which was a bit of a shock, because of course, to a high-schooler, the only possible fun thing is to be with teenaged friends.

My uncle Mike was the one who would keep us entertained for hours telling jokes and making us sing along to the “Duke of Earl.” And even when we’d be skunked after hours of fishing, he could fling a cigarette butt into the water and we’d be darned if a fish wouldn’t come up after that butt. Stinkin’ fish wouldn’t eat our carefully selected and applied bait, but a cigarette butt would be devoured. Although once we saw it get sent back up the top, having been found lacking. Some fish can be discriminating.

And as I grew older, I would join my high school friends out fishing for river catfish at night, playing cards and sitting by fires in the dark. They were cheaters, putting bells on their poles and bobbers on their lines. Bells, for chrissakes. This was insurance to give them time to catch their poles before they got pulled into the river, so distracted were they by their card games.

And so as we await the first May snowstorm since I was a high school girl, I remember my six perfect trout from opening day and my mouth waters at their delicate taste, all buttery and crisp from a quick trip through the frying pan. And I’m thankful for those quiet and fun moments shared with my family and friends.