The early days of spring are very special. The lingering snow in the mountains begin to melt in earnest and an occasional attempt by Old Man Winter to keep the chill, howls through the crisp air.
Growing up in rural Pennsylvania, fishing season usually began about the second week in April. Our home sat on a three acre plot, that ran right down to the West Branch of the Susquehanna River, and to an amazing fishing hole.
Usually Dad would plow the garden with his old Farmall Tractor the week before fishing season began, and I would follow behind, plucking the generous bounty of crawlers and red-worms revealed by the plow. I can still smell the fresh dirt!
Quite often, the river behind our house would be a little too swift on the first day of fishing season, due to the spring rains and the run-off from the mountains. Dad had a plan though; he would toss together a few sandwiches, a coupe of candy bars and drinks; pack it all up along with our essential fishing gear and head out.
There was plenty of bank fishing, and the dam was well stocked with trout; we almost always came home with enough trout for dinner.
Oh the sweet memories that springtime brings; a reminder that the cold clutches of winter always give way to an explosion of beauty.
I hope you take time to go out and smell the fresh turned dirt, drink in the fragrance of the blossoming trees and early flowers, and if you can, go find a young kid, and take them fishing; it might just be what you need!
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