“We’re going into the pond from the Cross,” suggested Fred during my visit to Maine, in September 2003, going back one of the places of our youth. It was agreed willingly. Fred liked especially sentimentality associated with our growing together. We spent a lot of our adult years saved. It is a cruel form of modern life – the breakdown by the needs of racing and everything that goes with it. Time passes too quickly. Now were getting united, although conditions were not the best. We have a lot to catch up – quickly! At the age of seven years, we join our fisheries Uncle Harry “on his way to the Cross Pond in Morrill, Maine. (Aunt Ruth sometimes. Uncle Bruce had never participated in this event, as I recall, was not the type of fishing. Never time I saw him fish.) Our Sunday evening after – hay a memorable and rewarding fishing trip adventure. Every time. We have a fascinating use of a few men began to take a heavy small rowing boat, but much to our flatbed farm. It was not easy task in the construction of her grandfather did not spare wood, which became the subject of lively discussion whenever attempted loading or unloading. There is no real debate. Rather, curses and groans of all the questions involved, why in the name of God, built so heavy. (There is no matter how many times while the ship was for the same charges, after.) My grandfather was so proud of them in the boat, built to withstand the biggest waves of North Sea Cross Pond I never saw – or pretended not to – no complaints . He just smiled and stood back to their own strengths glass seriously preparing for the trip. When the ship was loaded, the youth jumped over the back of a truck to go to Poor’s Mill Road to the pond. It was fun in itself as the wind hit his face and waved to the neighbors along the way. If any travel outside the farm into an adventure of our lives, our fishing trip was particularly exciting. After driving a few miles in this rural road, Uncle Harry, and went to a well-used dirt road along a stone wall in the hay field belonging to a farmer whose name I never knew. “These days have been more friendly. Today, you will be considered. Do not mind to pay and that he never criticized for it. Later, the clearing among the trees, stood cross the pond and market our region . pond was generally calm and beautiful, calm and flat, the sun warm and seductive. ideal spot for a good day of fishing. Download the vessel was driven by the same complaint, which precedes the load. Every time. All pulled and pulled and struggled the boat until it fell to the ground. Then fell to the floor of grass by a small pebble beach from the shore. Sooner or later we began, arranged with our tools, many lures, and much anticipation of the great catch, we would knead. And do not forget the delicious sandwiches Aunt Ruth has prepared a picnic for us. Fishing makes a man hungry, you know. It was a boat full load – no, overload – the rowing was another adventure. Any sudden movement could lead to a wave of water spilling over the sides. Our salvage tin was used regularly to keep most of the water from the boat, but always quite moving around the bottom to ensure no one could get away without getting his feet wet. Soon, anchored in our favorite place to fish near lily pads patch. Water was clear, you can look at the sides and look at the bottom, twenty feet below. It was a fish in its simplest form. There was no fancy electronic equipment or fish finders. No motors. Simple and fun fishing. “Drop a line,” my grandfather said, according to the cotton purchased by the drum fishing in the local hardware attached to the tip of our rods simple – there also buy. We show off the hooks, Eagle Claw mark so thinks he is the best. They still are. We had no bait or lure of fantasy. Only plump, Wiggly worms dug from the piles of composting manure the old cow barn. They were always abundant. I like fish. baiting, as opposed to today. We offer hundreds of cans of old rescued from the trash. From a very early age, we can bait a hook. Uncle Harry Brook Farm catches us almost as soon as he could walk . So I had very little help in reaching our lines in the water and start fishing. And the fish, which we did – all afternoon without stopping – get a white perch, pike, yellow perch and bullheads time. There has been considerable Pickerel instantly and sincerely wanted to take one but they were difficult to achieve. I never did. occasionally to catch eels. I hated the slippery eel anxiety. They looked like something from the past and prehistoric times, do not resemble the fish I knew I wanted nothing to do with eels. We fished until dusk. My grandfather likes to fish so this was not a sporting event, as was the possibility of stocks for a week or more consumption of fish. My. Pathetic combination of distant loons began to echo over the pond. fast approaching from the darkness, paddled toward shore and began the process of loading in the reverse order . Now, only the intensity of the debate increased due to the fact that she has absorbed water, but higher than in the dry state. The fish were placed in empty grain sacks cowboy heritage. It was not unusual to have two or even three of these jute bags full of fish. Tens and perhaps a few dozen fish in bags and loaded onto some of them continued to decline. enough fish to occupy our grandparents fine half-day on Monday. Cleaning and smiling all the time. He liked to fish. At any time, in any form. Even for breakfast. In Following the cleaning action, fish scales, unfortunate atrocities and threats fly attraction, were everywhere on the porch days. They objected to the drag, drag, and even wind. But my grandfather enjoyed every minute of creating this mess. more weight, must eat more fish. We have summer, after a routine catch for many years, leaving only as engaged in a more opportunities, interests and broader horizons wider. Friends in your own car. Maybe even had a few girls play in it. The girls, apparently at that time were not very interested in fishing. I like how to admit to a girl more attractive option than fishing as well as grow in our teens. (Now in my sixties, that he was in some mysterious way back to the old ways.) Weather plays tricks with memory. It may be recalled that the pond as it looked great when we were young. When I was there again in September 2003 with Fred, a terminal cancer patient, had shrunk considerably, apparently. But the bright memories of that time does not decrease at all, yet live, as Fred and remained on that day at the same point of delivery, which fifty years earlier, relying on a childhood adventure that was then. Geographically, really nothing has changed. We have not changed, he had aged. Pond was not. I fondly remember the end back in the autumn Cross Pond. Once again, it seemed to connect our youth to discuss and summer fishing long ago in this beautiful place, quiet. There were moments of silence, while we were in the same stony shore, looking at our past. I’m sure that they were going for the future: like my old man young enough to recall, Fred uncertain. My brother, Fred, died a year later, almost to the day. This afternoon return to the past was one of our “On Golden Pond moments” of life in last year.