Sometime in mid-summer after the first crop of alfalfa was
in the barn and before the grain harvest, the brothers would go fishing –
though there really never was a time on the farm when it was easy to get away,
especially in the summer.
After morning chores, they got their fishing tackle
organized, dug some angle worms and with a lunch packed by mom and a thermos of
coffee, they took off. It was about 20
miles to any of the lakes over by Faribault and they had to get back in time
for milking in the evening, so they wasted no time. Those
brothers were my dad, Arnold, and my uncle Leonard, also a farmer who lived on
the original Aaker farm down along the Zumbro river.
They stopped at a bait shop to buy minnows before arriving
at French Lake, or maybe Roberts, or Dudly Lake. All those lakes were good for crappies or sunfish
and an occasional bass. If they wanted bullheads, which they usually didn’t,
they went to Cannon Lake. They didn’t have their own boat or outboard motor, so
they rented them for the day, and headed out to the spot where they had caught “a
mess of fish” the last time they were there. They threw down the anchor and settled down to
try their luck. It was the easiest kind
of fishing – put a worm or minnow on the hook, test the depth, put on a bobber
and cast the line out.
Then, finely, it was quiet – and they relaxed for the first
time that day. Silence, except for the sound
of a gentle breeze splashing water against the side of the boat; a duck vigorously
flapping its wings as it took off or voices heard from shore – maybe children leaping
in the water. It’s amazing how sound
carries over water. They usually didn’t
have to wait long for the first bite, but there was always time for conversation
in the quietude – not about anything in particular. They had theories about the best or worst
condition for fishing; when and where – the wind coming from the north or was
it the south, whether cloudy or sunny conditions were best; calm water or some waves? the
right time of day. They shared a bit of gossip about a neighbor
and chuckled, or talked about how the crops were doing. Quiet conversation. Men talk best in a boat.
I never owned a boat either but did have opportunities to go
fishing with my brother Vern in his boat on Lake Eunice, where he and Donna had
a cabin. Vern owned a pontoon and that
is an especially comfortable way to be out on the lake. I was away for long periods during my
working years and always felt contentment going back to Minnesota and Lake
Eunice when I came “home”. Vern liked to
reminisce about our years growing up on the farm, remembering neighbors,
cousins, and classmates – country school and playing football in high school. We talked quietly out there on the boat; conversations
with my brother were always of that kind - being the quiet and gentle man that
he is.
I don’t remember that we got into
any topics of depth or substance.
Certainly, we didn’t talk about the meaning of life! But then, there it was! We were experiencing
the meaning of life –
the contentment that dad got in just being with his
brother in the boat and fishing, without the pressures of the farm for just a few
hours. And how I felt savoring those
times and quiet conversations with Vern.
Few words are needed or expected when you are in the boat with your
brother. It’s true - men talk best in a
boat.
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