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Tuesday, 13 January 2009

Goin' Fishin'

By Sydney Halet

I’m twelve years old agin,
It’s summer an’ I’m goin’ fishin’;
The sky’s so light blue,
I c’n almos’ see through it
Inta the other world;
No clouds’re showin,
An’ there’s nary a breeze
Ta stir so much as
A leaf or blade o’ grass;
The only movin’ thing is me.

I’m twelve years old agin,
It’s summer an’ I’m goin fishin';
I see shimmerin’ waves o’ heat
Reflectin’ non-existent puddles
On the dusty country path
That leads to the water hole,
Puddles that disappear
As my sockless, shoeless feet
Reach them only to kick up
Tiny clouds o’ tan dust.

I’m twelve years old again,
It’s summer and I’m going fishing;
The water hole is shaded by
White birch, pine and old hickory trees
That cast dappled reflections into
The moss-green, reed-filled water,
I stick a blade of grass between my teeth
And drop my line into the water
Without a wiggly, chocolate-brown worm;
I don’t want to fish...I want to laze.

The picture fades, and I’m grown again,
My world is tight with pressure and care;
But, when the race gets too fast for me,
I close my eyes, and I am there,
Just for a minute...or maybe, two;
I see the heat and smell the air;
I clear the pressure from my mind,
And I think back on that condition,
When I was only twelve years old,
And it was summer, and I went fishin’.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. Instructions are here.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post


Just great! I can see the little barefoot boy with his fishing pole over his shoulder walking down the dusty path to the fishing place.

Too bad we can't all return to such innocence. I'm glad you are able to do so in memory.

Super Wow!
That story took me back to the summer of '62 in northeast Oklahoma. I was 14 and was staying with my elderly grandma and her husband who I worked for,and with, hauling hay. He was a little dried up old man of 78 years, a genuine, "sure 'nuff" farmer all his life and he could throw a bale of hay onto the flatbed truck higher than I could.

The dusty dirt road that passed their place crossed a small bridge about a mile from the house. The bridge spanned a nice sized creek that was wooded on both sides with willow, hickory, and oak, as well as other vegetation.

On days when I wasn't doing much, I'd grab my pole, dig some worms from the garden, and walk down to the creek.

Leaving the road at the bridge, I'd walk up the creek a ways to my favorite spot. It was shady and cool, even on the hottest days.

It usually didn't take long to land several good size perch, enough for a "mess".

I'd walk back to the house, clean the fish and my grandma would cook them for supper.

Your story really hit home with me.


You have been the "light of my life" for more than 50 years. First my boyfriend and then my husband...your poetry and art talents have brought treasured thoughts to life...May God grant you another 50 years of good health to enjoy. Love your wife!!!

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