On the Creek
The year was 1929. Our family moved out of Rochester, Minn., to a small farm in Haverhill Township. The farm had a small creek running through it. I was 7 years old at this time. One day my dad and his fishing buddy decided to go fishing in our creek, but I couldn't go along and I really threw a fit. So my dear mother said, "Don't mind, I will take you fishing tomorrow." And she did.
When we got to the creek, she cut a willow stick, tied some white package string on one end and an open safety pin on the other, put on a small angleworm, and—bingo—I caught my first fish, a 3-inch creek chub. I was really hooked for life.
The next day Dad took me fishing on our creek, and I caught nine chubs and two suckers. We lived only 10 miles from Lake Zumbro, and when I was older I went crappie fishing on the lake every chance I got. Minnows cost 25 cents a dozen, and the minnow man made sure you got just 12 minnows.
I am now 82 years old, and I may die with a fishing pole in my hand.
Herbert Fellows Lewiston