
My grandfather,
before I was school aged,
would take me tromping
through the woods.
I’d carry
a short fishing rod
and a kreel.
When we reached
the crik, a tiny stream
even then I could jump
in places,
onto the hook
he would place
a kernel of corn,
then proceed
to show me
where to drop the line
so the bait would be pulled
to where he suspected
a trout lay in wait.
To lift a brookie!
a tiny trout, no more
than seven inches,
bounty from the stream.
With six small fish
added to the kreel,
our lunch secured,
we’d head deeper
into the woods
to the remnants
of abandoned homesteads,
the stone foundations
all that remained.
We’d turn the soil
with a hand shovel.
until a bottle or tin can
from the previous century
emerged.
When we meet again
the first thing I’ll ask:
Grandpa, when can we
go pirating again?
Such a sweet story, Richard. I did something similar with my grandpa. Sweet memories. 🙏🏻
Glad it brought back some memories John.
Yep, thanks. ☺️
Sweet story. 🎣
Thanks Michele.
You’re welcome.
Love the poem. 😊
That was a fine poetical memory and really well balanced written piece too. As a Grancha with 7 grandchildren it would be nice to believe that their ‘Welsh’ visits, the beach, the VeeDub experiences and outdoor activities had similar impact. All the best.
Thank you. The Welsh visits sound magical.
I love your great story!
Thanks!
Very nice.
Thanks.
That’s a good name for it!
Thanks!
Very nice. 🙂
Thank you.
Beautiful image and accompanying words….
Thank you
What a lovely word – pirating. Your beautiful poem and the equally beautiful photo really conjured up vivid images in my mind. I really liked this piece.
So glad to hear.
How beautifuly you write this cherished memory, Richard! <3
Heartfelt and lovely Richard! ❣️
Thanks Cindy!
💗❤️