Grand Fishing

Lynnette Snell

I remember the creek back in the North Fork
with the fallen timber criss-crossing it's banks.
The small crystal pools it formed
where I could see the rainbow flash
just below the surface.
 You, grabbing the poles in one hand,
and mine in another-
giving Grandma a nod of acknowledgement
as you set off to show me the art of fishing-
Not really listening to her warnings of
                cougar, direction, or your age.

I remember the crawdads we caught
along the banks of Little Therault,
just below the Canadian border
and the people you invited from the next camp
to enjoy our tender delicacy.
But we couldn't get the flame to catch
and you tried to hurry it with
diesal in an old tin Foldgers can.
It spread- flying back onto you,
lighting your shirt,
and you danced toward the lake in a madcap way;
all the while with me screaming
the ABC's of grade school training-
Stop, Drop, and Roll, Grandpa!
Stop, Drop, and Roll!
You hadn't time to give me the prefunctory nod of heard warning
before you dived into the lake.

Fork of the Flathead

I remember Carpenter lake
and the scores of Sunfish that we caught
on bits of canned corn.
How David followed me about the boat,
each time I brought one in.
The net full of the day's catch
wasn't enough to satisfy a small boy's triumph
at another; when you dropped the small
wriggling fish
over your shoulder and out of the boat.
"He slipped",
you said,
as David's eyes grew wide in suprise
with a debt he is yet to forget.

I remember the hours of card games
and fillets of salmon.
The way you could roll brook trout
in tinfoil and butter, stick it in the coals,
and bring it out just right.
I remember the way your eyes danced
like the ripples in water;
dreams of fishing glancing off your eyes
like sunlight.

For more writing or a synopsis of the novel I am trying to complete; Brass Kettles email me at lynnette_snell@bigfoot.com

I remember the way you made me feel,Grandpa.
Alive, and free, and giddy.
And I still see the remnants in your eyes
as you sit in an overstuffed armchair
listening to the grandkids squabble
over the Tonka truck in your front room.