The Old Fishing Hole

by Jack James


Small Town U.S.A. Population 1100. Three saloons. Five churches. A typical, all-white, farm community in the Midwest. It was the summer of 1943 and I was 5 years old. One day, my folks were talking about being at war with Germany and Japan. When I asked them about it, they told me that people who violently disagreed with you were enemies and sometimes you had to go to war with them. The "enemies" part I could figure out. But I really wasn't sure what they meant by war.

Later that week, my grandfather took me to his favorite fishing hole for the very first time, to help him catch a batch of fish for supper! Driving to the river, my
grandfather, or "Papa" as I called him, told me that people went fishing in the river all the time. After parking his old Model A, he led me down a twisting tree-lined path to the riverbank.

I clutched my pole and bait box, trying hard to follow in Papa's big steps. I couldn't wait to catch a fish, but I also wondered if we'd see any Germans and Japanese at the river. Of course I didn't know what they looked like , but figured they probably looked just like we did, so they must like to fish! Near the river, Papa stopped to show me a natural spring bubbling out of the rocks. Cupping his hands to hold the water, he smiled, tilted his head back and quickly poured the water in his mouth. With my little hands I had to do it a few times to swallow enough of that cool, sweet-tasting water.

Minutes later while trying to bait my hook, I saw a fish actually jump out of the water like it was trying to fly, before splashing back into the river! In no time at all, we had a mess of catfish and bullheads on our string. But we didn't run across any Germans or Japanese down by the river! Little did I know a few days later I would actually see a real German!

Late afternoons in the summer, most people in town gathered on their front porch or lawn, trying to cool off. To keep the air moving, my grandmother furiously fanned herself with a cardboard fan (imprinted with the name of the local undertaker). People walking by would stop and chat, there were on-going conversations between next door neighbors and everyone exchanged waves with the people driving by in cars.

And the day the Germans came to town was no exception. Rev. Lyons, on his way to the meat market, stopped to visit. Shortly afterwards, Dr. Schnell , going to yet another house call, drove by in his big shiny Packard. We all smiled and waved. Suddenly my Mother put her hand on my shoulder, pointed down the street towards the post office and whispered, "Here come the Germans!"

I quickly turned to see a large Army truck turning the corner onto Main Street. Followed by a second and then a third truck. In mere seconds the Germans would be right in front of me! Everyone silently watched the trucks come closer. When the first truck was in front of our house, I saw they did look just like us. I raised my hand to wave, but my Mother grabbed my arm.

About a dozen Germans were sitting down in the back of each truck. They too were silent, looking down at their feet and not at us. Two guards were standing at the rear of each truck, holding rifles that looked a whole lot bigger than Papa's old shotgun. They looked at the Germans like my Daddy looked at me when I had done something bad. The eerie silence was broken by the chugging sounds of the truck engines as they labored up the steep incline. A few moments more and the trucks slowly disappeared over the top of the hill. They had come and gone.

Being 5 years old, I naturally had questions. Where do those Germans live? Will I see them again? What do they do? Why are they so sad? My Dad told me they were captured in the war and lived at Camp Grant. They rode the trucks to the fields about once a week to pick peas and corn for the local cannery. And people who do bad things, like the Germans, are sad.

For me, the summer of 1943 was a time of discovery and awakening. Walking with Papa down the well-worn path to his fishing hole. The sounds of birds chirping in the trees, winds rustling through the leaves and the gentle lapping of water on the riverbank. The surprise of feeling a fish pull on my line. The excitement of drinking water from rocks, seeing jumping fish and truckloads of German prisoners. And in less than a month, I would start first grade. What a summer!

Sixty one years later, I still like to go fishing. But my fishing days might be numbered. A recent Associated Press article details the growing number of fish advisories due to contaminants, including mercury, dioxins, PCB's, pesticides and heavy metals.

Today, "Let's Go Fishing" takes on a whole new meaning:

* One of every three lakes, and nearly one-quarter of U.S. rivers contain enough pollution that people should limit or avoid eating fish caught there.

* The Food and Drug Administration warns...even if you catch fish not covered by an advisory...servings should be limited to one six-ounce portion a week!

* In August 2004, an environmental advocacy coalition released a report citing EPA figures that claimed 76% of fish samples collected from 260 bodies of water exceeded the agency's mercury exposure limits for children under 3.

* Carl Pope, the executive director of the Sierra Club, stated, "Our country's women and children are paying for the administration's procrastination."

Hold the tartar sauce. The old fishing hole sure ain't what it used to be!

So if my 7 year-old grandson and I went fishing today at Papa's old fishing hole, we wouldn't take a chance on drinking water bubbling from the rocks. And with or without an advisory, any fish we caught we'd throw back in. Today, terrorists have replaced the old enemies of my youth. And despite our ongoing Chicken Little, Color Alert Frenzy, it's doubtful we would run into any terrorists down by the river!

"Hey Grandpa, what does a terrorist look like?"
Whew...I guess there's no easy way to sugar coat the truth.

"Well Son, in my opinion, a terrorist looks just like George W. Bush!"