Childhood memories
Toolbox
Published: April 25, 2009
Along the banks of the Connecticut River there was always time to go fishing. The neighborhood I grew up in was a typical middle-class suburb just outside of Springfield, Mass., named Chicopee.
My mom and dad divorced in 1991 when I was 17 years old and "sort of" enjoying my senior year of high school. But by most accounts, I had a pretty normal upbringing. In fact, for most of my younger years home was a place that was full of time and comfort. I couldn't imagine that there was more than home and the street I grew up on for the longest time. At least until I was old enough to go down to the river.
The river had a romantic air about it, and I was strictly forbidden to walk to the end of my street and throw rocks into it.
Mémére Dupont (my mom's mom) would tell me how bad people hung out there and how I could cut my feet on the rocks and bottles that people threw on the banks. Back in those days, replenishing the river's once-strong Atlantic Salmon run was a pipe dream. Massachusetts did try, though. I remember hearing stories of how "so and so" caught a 13-pound salmon and had to immediately call someone from the Fish and Game Department.
It was later I learned that after stocking thousands of salmon parr they had something like 13 fish return. The river was dirty, they said – polluted. Not safe to eat any fish from. I would sit on my bike atop the dyke and watch cars pass over the bridge that spanned it. The Massachusetts Turnpike was barely audible from the front yard, but down by the river I could hear the rumble of trucks and an occasional horn. I started spending more time there without my parents' knowledge.
About a mile downriver from the local boat ramp, the Chicopee River flows into the Connecticut River. During the spring the surrounding areas would become flooded with spring runoff, trapping carp in some of the backwaters. When it would dry out, we would race our bikes along the many dirt paths that criss-crossed the area. It was fun, and at times pretty painful. But once I started middle school it was fishing that started to draw me to the river more and more often.
I've always said that the Connecticut River is one of the most underutilized, overlooked and best fisheries in New England. In late April, American Shad run up the river and provide some of the finest sport-fishing I've ever done. As a teenager we would have races to see who could catch 10, 20 or 30 fish faster. Poor man's salmon we called them, at least for sporting purposes anyway. As table fare, I never cared to take the chance.
In May the water would drop low enough to walk the entire bank from the boat launch to "The Point" that the Chicopee River poured in from. I would start the day with one of my friends, walking and fishing the entire span. I learned which trees held pike near them, and which ones had bass. A lot of people overlooked the bass fishing, and I was one of the few who knew where I could get smallmouths, and then switch it up for a couple of largemouths. At every new laydown or brushpile I knew that floating a small jig underneath a bobber would produce black crappie. The size of some of those slabs amazes me even today. They were pan-sized fish. I knew how to find some of the biggest bluegills too. When we would catch eels, we'd put them in a bucket and they'd slime it all up. Then after a couple of days we would cut them up and use them as catfish bait.
We didn't have a disposable income, so we had to be resourceful. Sometimes we'd add a little stinky stuff to make it extra strong. Other times one of us would steal a couple of cans of corn from one of our parents' cupboards and go chum the water for carp. One can for chum, another to use as bait. We would pitch a tent in one of my friend's backyards, rise at dawn, walk to the river and fish all day. The days seemed to last forever and we never went skunked.
I go back now to visit my mom and things are different. The neighborhood still has some familiar faces but most of them have moved on in some way or another. My mom will be leaving soon too, finally agreeing to sell the house I grew up in and get on with her much-deserved retirement. Going home brings back a lot of good memories.
"Vacation's over and we're going home
But can we stop and see the town I roamed as a child just for a while
This used to be a place called a neighborhood
With picket fences made of wood
Tire swings and daydreams grew wild in the backyard
There used to be bells from an ice cream truck
And a tree house fortress built on luck
A friendly game of kick-the-can grew wild in the backyard"
(What a great song…if you know who Don Henry is)
I was fortunate to have some time recently to walk many of the same paths I'd walked years before – some of them 20 years or more. The old railroad bridge I remember is gone, as is the pumping station across from "The Point." We used to throw rocks across the river and try to hit the rats crawling on the rocks on the other side (They were big rats!). But the river still holds a place in my heart. No bad men are going to bother me down there now – it's me they should be worrying about. I'm told that while the shad run has slacked off in recent years, there is now a population of schoolie-sized striped bass that reside throughout the year. Never caught those back in the day. Might have to give it a shot, though.
One thing is sure, though – I'm not moving back. Waterbury, Vermont is my home base now.
It's been said that you have to bury a few generations here to be called a true Vermonter, and I'm OK with that. I've also heard people who've grown up in Colorado, Wyoming or Washington called "flatlanders" too. I guess if you've buried a few older relatives here, you've got a decent gripe. But right now Vermont represents much of what I remember as a child. I walk the banks of the Winooski River, and while it's decidedly smaller, I am still caught up in the romantic notions that its waters hold. The fish are there, and this time they're trout.
When I walk the banks or wade in, I feel the same as I did years ago: complete.
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