Memory Stream

Pallas brook was what we called that secret, hidden little stream, We were very young boys living on and working the farm back then, Grab some spare time, dig some worms and "go fishin" was the dream, Get the poles in the hay barn, extra hooks and head for the bend. We loved that sparkling branch canopy covered little brook, About a mile down the wagon trail and then through the brush, until you could hear the falls splashing was the trail we took. My brothers and I crashed through the last in an excited rush! Remember grabbing a wiggling worm from a dirt and leaf filled soup can, hanging off our skinny waists from make shift baler twine belts, Sucking the worm slime and blood from the rusty hook prick on my hand, Spitting it out, "sterilized", never stopping in the excitement I felt. Quickly dipping our lines in our favorite pools and fast water ripples, Anticipating a bite, watching the water fall polishing it's precious stones, Splashing out a fine mist wetting the moss clinging to it's rocky riffles, Pools reflecting boys saving dreams and muse for their men now grown. Between chores, school,and church, we never really fished all that much. Memory fodder was what that special little brook made and we caught, My brothers and I, on our short trips, fishing adventures and such. Until we, then six children, moved to a new farm our parents bought.