My Dad and Fishing

I can’t remember the very first time my dad took me fishing, but I suspect it was when I was about five years old and got a very old, rudimentary black casting rod and reel from my Uncle Arno. Uncle Arno was my mother’s brother and he and Aunt Helen lived on the street next to ours. I do remember going to their house and going into the garage. He took down a dusty old black fishing rod and reel. My dad agreed to clean it up and take me fishing one day.

We went home and dad and I went to work cleaning up the old fishing rod. The first thing dad did was take the reel apart and clean up the parts. He reassembled it and oiled the gears and bearings and put new fishing line on it. Now I was ready to go fishing.

However, it wouldn’t surprise me that in reality, the very first fishing moment in my life was with a long bamboo pole with a piece of fishing line, a hook at the end and a makeshift wooden bobber about a foot or so from the hook. It probably took place at the “pump house”, the nickname we gave to the small lake at the end of our street and just across the railroad tracks. The lake had a small population of carp, many of which were gold fish, likely planted there by people who got tired of their pet goldfish.

The “Pumphouse”

There are a number of fishing experiences with my dad that I remember vividly, two of which involve that old black casting rod and reel from Uncle Arno.

The first I recall was when our family visited my Uncle John and Aunt Elsie. They lived in a house on the banks of the Passaic River. I remember my brother and I fishing along the raised bank of the river using dough waded on the fishing hook for bait. My dad set up the rigging and we caught three catfish that day. One was large, about a foot long, one was smaller about nine inches long and the third was small and about five inches long. We boasted that we caught the whole family! My brother Roy and I both agreed that they were really ugly with their long black whiskers. I don’t remember if we threw them back into the river, but I am sure we didn’t eat them.

My next fishing memory was also with the old black fishing rod. This time my dad and I joined some of our neighbors and their sons at a lake some distance from our home. We rented two row boats and fished most of the day. I don’t recall if I caught any fish while in the boat, but my most vivid memory was when we returned the boats.

While my dad was taking care of our things and getting them stowed in the trunk of the car, I was still trying to catch fish. There was a park bench set between two large oak trees at the edge of the lake. Our neighbor, Mr. Barton, was sitting on the bench while I looked into the clear water of the lake. I could see a whole colony of sunfish. I couldn’t resist trying to catch one. I baited my hook with one of the last worms in the bait can and tried to cast it out to where the fish could clearly be seen.

Frustrated at being unable to get my baited hook close enough to the fish, I attempted to reach them by wrapping one arm around one of the oak trees. Steadied by the tree, I swung my fishing rod in a wide arc hoping to get the bait farther out into the lake. Alas, I lost my grip on the tree and tumbled into the water still gripping my fishing rod.

Fortunately, Mr Barton saw the whole thing unfolding before his eyes and his fast reaction saved me from possibly drowning. The water there was deep and I didn’t know how to swim, plus I was weighted down with all my clothes. Mr. Barton rolled off the bench and on his belly reached into the water, grabbed my collar and lifted me out of the water. I stood there shaking and grateful for Mr. Barton’s rescue.

When I was a little older, Mr. and Mrs. Herold, owners of the local German butcher shop and members at our church, rented us their bungalow at Greenwood Lake for a week one summer. That was a real adventure in fishing for me. Even though we didn’t have access to a boat, every day I joined my friend Dickey on a nearby dock and fished till our hearts were content.

Dock Fishing at Greenwood Lake

Many fishing days were spent with my dad in various locations over the ensuing years. We fished for fluke in Manasquan River that lead into the Atlantic Ocean. We fished Greenwood Lake with my Uncle Bill and cousin Herb who had a rowboat on the lake. We fished the lake for bass, perch and pickerel. These trips were very memorable and imparted a real love for the sport of fishing.

When I reached the age of twelve fishing with my dad suddenly changed. Dad’s job as a refrigeration engineer at Country Club Ice Cream Company changed to partial shift work. He had to work every Saturday and had Sunday and Monday’s off. That removed the possibility of fishing since Monday’s were school days for me.

That’s when my Uncle Henry stepped up and stepped in for me. All of us called him Uncle Henny. He was a painter by trade but was a master trout fisherman. He offered to take me fishing with him on Saturdays when he fished the many fast moving streams in northwestern areas of New Jersey. Places with names like Sparta, Lafayette, and Berkshire were old towns in the area that had streams flowing through them. The venues we fished were right in town, in open fields or farm pastures. Uncle Henny had a scheme for where and when to fish each spot.

When fishing with Uncle Henny became a reality, Dad took me to Meltzer’s Sporting Goods Store and bought me a fly rod, the required fishing equipment for fishing for trout in a fast stream. Along with the fly rod, we bought a reel, special floating fishing line and a wicker creel. Uncle Henny donated his old trout fishing vest to hold all the spare hooks, flies and spare line and leaders. He also gave me a used pair of hip boots.

Fully outfitted for trout fishing in fast moving streams, I was ready for Uncle Henny to teach me the fine points of the art of trout fishing.

The first day of trout fishing began with Uncle Henny picking me up at my house very early on a Saturday morning. We loaded my fishing gear into his car and off we went. The first stop was the Berkshire Valley. Uncle Henny parked his car in a dirt turnoff in an old residential area of town. Across the street from the houses was a stretch of the stream that gave access for fishing. Under the trees, Uncle Henny showed me how to bait the hook with night crawlers. I had caught my own supply of the large worms the night before by snatching them up from our backyard lawn after dark.

After the initial lesson, Uncle Henny set me loose and suggested I fish a stretch of the stream about twenty yards long. He assured me that there were lots of trout in that stretch. He left me there and headed downstream to fish.

For the next hour, I fished the stream but came up empty. Not a single bite could I get in spite of following Uncle Henny’s instructions. I was so disappointed. Uncle Henny eventually returned and asked how many trout were in my creel.

Reluctantly I said, “None.”

He paused and laid his fly rod with a still baited hook on the ground at the edge of the stream. He proceeded to take a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Unseen by either of us, the baited hook slipped into the stream when he laid his fishing rod down. Just as he pulled the red strip from his cigarette pack to access a cigarette, his rod began to jump around. Quickly he picked it up and reeled in the trout he had caught without even trying!

Uncle Henny

Now the lessons from my uncle became more detailed and the location and method of placing the baited hook into the stream made all the difference. By the end of the day, we both had our limit.

For the rest of my teenage years, Saturdays during trout season were spent with Uncle Henny fishing the streams of Northwestern New Jersey. Each Saturday afternoon I returned home with the limit of fresh trout that my mother masterfully turned into a delightful meal for the family on Sunday after church.

Turning Points

Dad’s introducing me to the joys of fishing was a turning point in many ways. It was an experience that bonded us together and introduced me to a sport that I enjoy to this day. Its rewards also helped me create a special bond between me and my son Randy.

The unexpected turn of events with Dad having to work on Saturdays, opened the door for me to learn a new venue of the sport of fishing and to build a rewarding relationship with Uncle Henny.

I began to explore other venues for fishing beyond lake and stream and river fishing. I discovered surf and deep sea fishing. All of these I eventually shared with Randy.

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