A Tale of two Fish
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Not many knew about Whippany’s Brickyard. It was pretty much our family secret in the 1950’s. You had to know someone who knew about it and where it was exactly, and those “someone’s” were scarce. My dad and some older cousins were among those “someone’s”. Today it is called “Bee Meadow Park” which is now accessible only to Hanover Township residents. The 89 acre site was born as a brick factory around the time of the revolutionary war and functioned as such until the three brick mine pits flooded after an underground spring was struck in the 1930’s. There is even a small locomotive engine rumored to be at the bottom of one of the ponds sleeping forever like a Spanish galleon at the bottom of the Sargasso Sea.
Our visits ritual worked like this: After bumping along a high-tension utility access trail in our old Chevy for a mile or so, we hoofed it for another half mile on a path through densely treed woods smelling of lush vegetation and decaying leaves that covered the forest floor. Up a slick, wet brick clay bank of “the third pond,” lugging beach chairs, lunch pails, and a jug of iced tea, and we were there. “There” was a sandy stretch of dry land that we used as a beach base camp. Dad would collect his fishing gear and bait pail and continue past the beach to one of his favorite spots, bait a hook, and cast his line into the murky water.
“Whoa! I’ve got something!” he yelled while reeling in the catch. It was big, for sure I ran over to him as he finished landing it and was removing the hook.
“What is it?”
“It’s a big-mouth bass, Joe. You don’t usually catch these so close to shore” dad explained.
I was impressed as hell and led the way back to the beach proudly lugging the bait pail containing our prize! We separated the pail, placing the perforated inner portion into the pond.
“It’s a big-mouth bass that you don’t usually catch those close to shore.” I parroted my dad’s explanation to my sisters as they cautiously squatted near the pail to glimpse the monster inside.
We soon resumed swimming and splashing while mom and dad sat in the beach chairs, mom sipping iced tea, dad a beer. Then, Clank! went the lid of the pail, followed by Kerrr-splash! And just like that, dad’s prized big mouth bass was gone! Escaped! I watched it knock open the lid and jump three feet up and over its perforated bait pail prison, with shiny white belly and beautifully iridescent green and rose striped flanks shimmering. I gasped. I couldn’t believe it just jumped and disappeared so quickly into the black water.. It was a large fish-- even giant to my eight-year-old eyes, and was the biggest fish I could remember dad ever caught. Mom and my sisters were amused and a little awed by the cleverness that fish displayed as I wished it well on its journey back into the mysterious deep waters of the pond.
“Let’s go swimming!” I yelled to my sisters. I needed a break from fishing and the warm August sun.
“No. You go, we’re staying here by mom.” Eileen yelled back to me.
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Sissies!
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The girls were still staring into the empty bait pail liner marveling at how smart our escapee was. I wanted to further test my developing swimming prowess, and waded out to the rim of the shallow area and jumped feet-first into the bottomless water of the pit mine. The girls stayed close to the shore area as I swam the darker, deeper water toward a small island in the middle of the pond.
“Don’t go out too far!” I heard mom yell through cupped hands.
Too late! I was already 20 yards away and feeling free as a bird or fish, a fish-bird?
Dad made his way to back to his favorite spot nearest the swimming area where he kept an eye on the girls as they splashed around near “the beach.”
Later, I toweled off and joined him with my rod and reel. He had released the live shiners after catching his bass and now tried is luck with various lures to catch whatever fish were biting. We baited grasshoppers or crickets, but worms were usually more appetizing to the pond denizens an our favorite choice—as long as you could find someone to put them on the hook!
“Eeewwww!” I don’t know exactly how many ways you could say that, but my sisters knew them all and I eventually inherited the honor of dutifully attending to their lines.
“Joey! There is something on your line!” dad suddenly called out to me.
There sure was! My pole was really bent! This wasn’t just a “sunny,” but something much bigger! My dad hurried over to where I was reeling in my fish. As he approached, my fish jumped out of the water high enough for us to determine that it was a catfish, a big shiny brown catfish with a while belly and very scary looking whiskers! Though not as big as the bass that got away, it was still a marvel to see!
“Whoa!” was all I could say. I’d never caught anything the big!
“I hate those!” I could imagine my mom hissing. “They’re so ugly!”
I landed the fish. I looked at my dad and, in an unspoken agreement, we unhooked it and released it back into the water, sparing mom the unpleasant task of cleaning and cooking it. Though dressing fish was usually dad’s chore, mom still had to cook the things and mom was more of a baker than a cook, so we all were spared the smell of overcooked fish that usually permeated the house for days afterward.
Two good catches, two successful escapes, an empty bait pail. All said, it was a good day’s adventure. As we rode back home, Mary and Eileen, wet, toweled, and tired from a day of splashing in the cold water, fell asleep across the back seat of the Chevy. I sat between mom and dad, comfortable with the ending to both fish stories!
