Fish Camp Tails

I don’t know about you, but in these times, but in these days, I find myself going back, back to different times, different days, memories that replace the frowns, with smiles.

“Ain’t no good chairs in here, ain’t no comfy couches in here…

…that’s ‘cuse you kids ain’t need to be sitting inside, you need to get your butts outside, the world awaits your asses.” Uncle Leo

I remember rawhide laces and large leather boots lined up at the door. Worms in old Tomato Soup cans, cane poles and reels that came in Sears & Roebuck boxes.

I remember Uncle Jim’s fishin’ hat…

…and the smile that always came over him when he put it on saying simply, “Home,” even though his mailing address was in a totally different country, and that was nowhere near his favorite hat.

The hat was in a rural farm near Dunnville, Ontario, Canada, it was surrounded by other rural farms of which all those who lived within, were family, real family, Aunts, Uncles and dozens of cousins.

I was of the stock of the Long and of the Robbins family, as a very young child every porch step I sat on was within my DNA. Clayton Robbins, born 1885, married Theresa Long, born 1897, they had two children, both girls, Rita, my aunt, and Helen, my mother.

I have in my heart, a huge space for Canada, I have in my memories a dozen summers on the farm, hundred’s of trips to the ‘creek out back,” the ‘pond over at Uncle Pat’s,’ and a freshwater ocean called, Lake Ontario.

There was a time when all was new…

…when every cast caught your imagination. There was a time when every stick ended in a marshmallow.

There was a time of endless tomorrows filled with frogs to catch and streams to fall in.

There was a time when forever waited, a time when the greatest stories ever told were done so with a creaky wooden rocker as their only musical score.

It is those days, those stories, those times and what they meant to us that we now, maybe more so now than ever, that we need to not only remember, but to also pass on so as to not forget, so as to also learn from.

To our children, and their children we must not leave a legacy of an Xbox but one of a tackle box, one of clear cool streams and muddy pants, people and porches, and the tales of those long ago adventures where we laughed with friends and family while learning who we were.

So here’s the deal…

…I want to read about your Fish Camp Tails…even if it didn’t involve an actual camp.

And I want to share your story of back when, with people who read this stuff all over the world as they did with the story I wrote about fishing with my son, Jimmy, and buddy, Mac, a week before Jimmy got married. Here’s a sample of the reach that story had.

Here’s how it will work…

…I want you to write a story about your own childhood “Fish Camp,” and who took you there, what you did there, what you learned there, and what you miss from there.

A photo or two would be great as well if you have any, make the story between 1,000 and 1,500 words and send it to me.

On the first Sunday of every month we will run it right here, YOUR STORY YOUR BYLINE.

And here is an extra incentive…every story picked to be published here will get a goody bag of lures and things from my good buddy, Mark, at LEWS & STRIKE KING to use personally, or to bring to your own Fish Camp and give to the children there.

Here’s how you can reach me to tell me you are interested and what you think your story will be about:

Your story will be your own..

…your name as the author and as such you will be the sole owner of your work, your work will not be sold by me, or anyone else without you getting some of the moola of the sale as well.

I WILL NOT FACT CHECK ( especially when it comes to size or weight of fish caught/saw/lost) OR GRAMMAR CHECK YOUR WORK.

I will introduce it and say something to close it, but other than that…it is all you.

As we walk this earth we should leave something gracious behind…

…for our children to know us, for their children to know us, for ourselves to know ourselves.

May in a small way your Fish Camp Tails…do exactly that.

Can’t wait to read them.

db