He – – – whoever that “he” is,
can never forget the trips he has made,
with his sons to one fishing place or another.
Sometimes – – – like their “twelve year old trips,”
it was with a singular son – – – just the two of us,
at other times – – – it was all three – – – plus me,
to the series of chutes and pools at Chasm Falls.
And that is where we had “Bean Boats,”
which were no more than aluminum foil,
shaped like a boat – – with canned beans,
and brown sugar on top of the whole thing.
As the boats sat over a few twigs and branches,
getting heated up in the tiny fire that glowed,
in the evening after a long day of hard fishing,
we also placed the tins of baby white potatoes.
The beans and potatoes cooked while we,
inspected the lichen attached to nearby stones,
and the princess pine and other deep green flora,
while simultaneously discussing our day.
Those days are remembered on this Christmas day,
as well as other days fishing deep river pools,
between those cliffs of sandstone and granite,
the hummingbirds envying our honey sandwiches.
Remembering the “clay banks” and “salmon hole,”
Mrs. Jones’ cabins and those of the Half-Way house,
the Bender cabin where we were greeted by a mouse,
and kidding each other about a broken fishing pole.
Those days will not return but I have them cataloged,
in this weak and forgetful old mind that tends to lose,
most of the details of all those memorable old trips,
however, overall, and forever; I have them to cherish.
MERRY CHRISTMAS BOYS
© Copy written for what I will never know.