Hi, Diary.
It's outside this house that I get to do fun things and kind of forget what happens inside. Kind of. So, that's what I'm writing about today. It was about ten in the morning a couple of days ago when I heard knocks on the front door. Mother yelled, "Gordon, you still in your room?"
"Yeah," I answered. I was here in my bedroom, watching tropical fish swim in the large aquarium Mrs. Majewski, my piano teacher, gave me, along with a bunch of fish, including a Siamese fighter, four large angel fish, male and female orange swordtail, a bottom feeder, and a bunch of neon tetras and guppies along with containers of fish food.
"Paul's at the front door."
Sure enough, Paul was standing in front of the front door. After I opened it, I saw Glen down on the sidewalk, straddling his bike. One hand held a fishing pole that he laid across his bike's handlebars. The other hand held on to the handle of a newly painted but old steel tackle box.
"Wanna go fishing?" yelled Paul.
I turned to yell to Mother who stood at the kitchen sink. "Can I go fishing?"
"Why ask? You do whatever you want, anyway."
"I do not," I yelled back. I turned to Paul, "Sure," I told him.
"We got worms and everything," said Glen. "All you need is your rod and tackle box."
"Remember where that steel bridge is on that gravel road near Biron?" yelled Paul.
"Where we picked blueberries?"
"Yeah."
"That's a long ride and besides that water is as dark brown as our river."
"We think there might be some trout there, big ones, because it looks like nobody fishes there," said Glen.
"How do you know?" I asked.
Glenn shrugged. "We just know."
Biron's a small paper mill town, more than a few miles from Wisconsin Rapids. It has only one grocery store on its main street. The store has a couple of old faded and rusty gas pumps out front. Dad says, "Nobody fills his car there because the gas is more expensive than anywhere else on earth."
I don't know about that, but the store and a bunch of homes are on one side of the street. On the other side is a stone and mortar dike that runs the whole length of the town and beyond, built to keep the Wisconsin River from overflowing and drowning everyone in town during the spring thaw. At least, that's what our fifth-grade teacher at Howe School Annex said.
That day, it was hotter than blazes. When it gets that hot, we'd rather go fishing than pick blueberries or blackberries mainly because we sweat a lot, which causes a million mosquitoes to bzzzzz around our ears and land on our skin and steal our blood. We love berry pies our mothers bake for us and the rest of the family, but it isn't worth all the swatting and mosquito bites that itch into the next day, or two. "If it doesn't work out," Paul yelled, "we can go to Lake Wazeecha."
That didn't make a whole lot of sense to me. Lake Wazeecha is in the opposite direction. On Thirty-Second Street, we rode our bikes across Highway 54. That's where at least a dozen floppy eared brown and black coon dogs in the rear of the corner house howled and howled. "Why are you guys so loud? We're not raccoons," I yelled at them.
My pals laughed and so did I. Thankfully, those hounds were tied up and couldn't chase us, unlike a couple of German shepherds that had already forced us to pedal twice as fast as we normally do. We outran them. Thankfully.
When we finally made it to the bridge, we leaned our rods against the steel railing and put our tackle boxes right next to the rod handles. Next, we walked our bikes down and up a deep ditch and hid our bikes in the brush so no kids would hide them in another place while we were fishing.
The best place to fish under a hot sun is a shady spot. The bridge provided the best shade but we couldn't even get near it because of the steep banks. And we didn't want to look like big city boobs and fish from the bridge. So, we went down and up the ditch and started walking through the woods. Suddenly, the woods ended just like that and we faced a hayfield and a barbed wired fence. I was ready to push down on the middle wire, avoiding its barbs, and lift one leg over it. "Don't touch it," yelled Paul, "it's electric."
Slightly above the top barbed wire was stretched a smooth wire that if you looked left or right, which I did, you'd see it was attached to white insulators on each fence post. Those insulators are giveaways. So, I put my rod and the tackle box on the ground and like a soldier in combat, I shimmied under the bottom wire. "There," I said, kind of proud of myself as I got up on the side opposite the Petersons. "Give me the rods and tackle boxes," I told my pals.
Glen made his way under the fence. Paul, however, got one blue jeans' leg caught in the barbed wire. "Help," he yelled.
While Glen laughed and I chuckled a bit, I struggled with getting the barb out. Couldn't free it. Finally, I used my jackknife and made a little hole in Paul's pants leg. "My mother will patch it," he said. Finally, he made it to our side of the fence without getting caught again. After he stood and brushed off, he yelled, "Let's go."
"We were waiting for you," quipped his brother. We kept walking in that hayfield.
"Hear that?" yelled Paul.
"Sounds like a waterfall," said Glen.
"Sure does," I chimed in. As we continued walking, the noise of falling water got louder and louder.
And surprise of surprises, we came upon a good-sized pond. On its far end was a huge pipe about six feet up where water gushed out. If we could have, we would've been able to stand straight up in that pipe without hitting our heads. It was that big. Water was cascading out of it. "I know what this is," Paul yelled.
"What is it?" asked his brother.
"See on top of that berm?"
"What's a berm?" asked Glen.
"A small hill, you idiot," screamed Paul.
"Yeah," I said, "those are railroad tracks on top."
"That's right, said Paul, "and on the other side of that berm and those tracks are cranberry bogs."
"I don't think we'll catch any trout in here," I said. "It's a cranberry ditch."
"You're right," said Glen, who untied his Keds, took off his socks, removed his T-shirt and then lowered his jeans.
"What are you doing?" yelled his brother.
"There aren't any trout in here and I ain't about to bike out to Wazeecha. I'm going swimming." Glen wore a great big smile while he laid his shorts on top of everything else before jumping into the pond, bare naked. Up he came, splashing the water with his hands. "Wheeee," Glen screamed, "the water's ice cold."
Paul and I started taking off our duds. "Last one in is a dumb ass," I yelled. I was already in the pond while Paul was neatly folding his T-shirt. He had yet to unfasten his belt buckle. He was as slow in undressing as he was eating a Hershey candy bar at a Saturday matinee.
It's outside this house that I get to do fun things and kind of forget what happens inside. Kind of. So, that's what I'm writing about today. It was about ten in the morning a couple of days ago when I heard knocks on the front door. Mother yelled, "Gordon, you still in your room?"
"Yeah," I answered. I was here in my bedroom, watching tropical fish swim in the large aquarium Mrs. Majewski, my piano teacher, gave me, along with a bunch of fish, including a Siamese fighter, four large angel fish, male and female orange swordtail, a bottom feeder, and a bunch of neon tetras and guppies along with containers of fish food.
"Paul's at the front door."
Sure enough, Paul was standing in front of the front door. After I opened it, I saw Glen down on the sidewalk, straddling his bike. One hand held a fishing pole that he laid across his bike's handlebars. The other hand held on to the handle of a newly painted but old steel tackle box.
"Wanna go fishing?" yelled Paul.
I turned to yell to Mother who stood at the kitchen sink. "Can I go fishing?"
"Why ask? You do whatever you want, anyway."
"I do not," I yelled back. I turned to Paul, "Sure," I told him.
"We got worms and everything," said Glen. "All you need is your rod and tackle box."
"Remember where that steel bridge is on that gravel road near Biron?" yelled Paul.
"Where we picked blueberries?"
"Yeah."
"That's a long ride and besides that water is as dark brown as our river."
"We think there might be some trout there, big ones, because it looks like nobody fishes there," said Glen.
"How do you know?" I asked.
Glenn shrugged. "We just know."
Biron's a small paper mill town, more than a few miles from Wisconsin Rapids. It has only one grocery store on its main street. The store has a couple of old faded and rusty gas pumps out front. Dad says, "Nobody fills his car there because the gas is more expensive than anywhere else on earth."
I don't know about that, but the store and a bunch of homes are on one side of the street. On the other side is a stone and mortar dike that runs the whole length of the town and beyond, built to keep the Wisconsin River from overflowing and drowning everyone in town during the spring thaw. At least, that's what our fifth-grade teacher at Howe School Annex said.
That day, it was hotter than blazes. When it gets that hot, we'd rather go fishing than pick blueberries or blackberries mainly because we sweat a lot, which causes a million mosquitoes to bzzzzz around our ears and land on our skin and steal our blood. We love berry pies our mothers bake for us and the rest of the family, but it isn't worth all the swatting and mosquito bites that itch into the next day, or two. "If it doesn't work out," Paul yelled, "we can go to Lake Wazeecha."
That didn't make a whole lot of sense to me. Lake Wazeecha is in the opposite direction. On Thirty-Second Street, we rode our bikes across Highway 54. That's where at least a dozen floppy eared brown and black coon dogs in the rear of the corner house howled and howled. "Why are you guys so loud? We're not raccoons," I yelled at them.
My pals laughed and so did I. Thankfully, those hounds were tied up and couldn't chase us, unlike a couple of German shepherds that had already forced us to pedal twice as fast as we normally do. We outran them. Thankfully.
When we finally made it to the bridge, we leaned our rods against the steel railing and put our tackle boxes right next to the rod handles. Next, we walked our bikes down and up a deep ditch and hid our bikes in the brush so no kids would hide them in another place while we were fishing.
The best place to fish under a hot sun is a shady spot. The bridge provided the best shade but we couldn't even get near it because of the steep banks. And we didn't want to look like big city boobs and fish from the bridge. So, we went down and up the ditch and started walking through the woods. Suddenly, the woods ended just like that and we faced a hayfield and a barbed wired fence. I was ready to push down on the middle wire, avoiding its barbs, and lift one leg over it. "Don't touch it," yelled Paul, "it's electric."
Slightly above the top barbed wire was stretched a smooth wire that if you looked left or right, which I did, you'd see it was attached to white insulators on each fence post. Those insulators are giveaways. So, I put my rod and the tackle box on the ground and like a soldier in combat, I shimmied under the bottom wire. "There," I said, kind of proud of myself as I got up on the side opposite the Petersons. "Give me the rods and tackle boxes," I told my pals.
Glen made his way under the fence. Paul, however, got one blue jeans' leg caught in the barbed wire. "Help," he yelled.
While Glen laughed and I chuckled a bit, I struggled with getting the barb out. Couldn't free it. Finally, I used my jackknife and made a little hole in Paul's pants leg. "My mother will patch it," he said. Finally, he made it to our side of the fence without getting caught again. After he stood and brushed off, he yelled, "Let's go."
"We were waiting for you," quipped his brother. We kept walking in that hayfield.
"Hear that?" yelled Paul.
"Sounds like a waterfall," said Glen.
"Sure does," I chimed in. As we continued walking, the noise of falling water got louder and louder.
And surprise of surprises, we came upon a good-sized pond. On its far end was a huge pipe about six feet up where water gushed out. If we could have, we would've been able to stand straight up in that pipe without hitting our heads. It was that big. Water was cascading out of it. "I know what this is," Paul yelled.
"What is it?" asked his brother.
"See on top of that berm?"
"What's a berm?" asked Glen.
"A small hill, you idiot," screamed Paul.
"Yeah," I said, "those are railroad tracks on top."
"That's right, said Paul, "and on the other side of that berm and those tracks are cranberry bogs."
"I don't think we'll catch any trout in here," I said. "It's a cranberry ditch."
"You're right," said Glen, who untied his Keds, took off his socks, removed his T-shirt and then lowered his jeans.
"What are you doing?" yelled his brother.
"There aren't any trout in here and I ain't about to bike out to Wazeecha. I'm going swimming." Glen wore a great big smile while he laid his shorts on top of everything else before jumping into the pond, bare naked. Up he came, splashing the water with his hands. "Wheeee," Glen screamed, "the water's ice cold."
Paul and I started taking off our duds. "Last one in is a dumb ass," I yelled. I was already in the pond while Paul was neatly folding his T-shirt. He had yet to unfasten his belt buckle. He was as slow in undressing as he was eating a Hershey candy bar at a Saturday matinee.
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