What inaugurates Spring for me is seeing fishermen at the river. In winter, the Illinois’ River’s edge is empty of fishermen and of kids skipping stones across the flowing surface of the Illinois. When the weather warms and the days begin to lengthen, the fishermen appear.
Around here, they are all men for some reason. They fish. I guess that the women garden and trim around their flower plots at home. It is men that fish, at least here along the Illinois River, and today the full sun is making the ripples of the river shimmer like they were throwing off glittering diamonds.
On this north side of the river, I see six fishermen seated on aluminum lawn chairs, each with two or thee fishing rods poking out toward chosen spots in the river. The fishermen rest, staring at the water. They are positioned, backs to me, one every 150 – 200 feet, all gazing with lazy alert at the stuff that floats past them on the endless river.
It is quiet: no kids, no spouses and no fish either. Occasionally, one of the men reaches for a cup holder, lifts a Styrofoam cup and takes a sip of coffee (at least I think it’s coffee). A single white gull glides silently above them against the blue sky.
The fisherman are static and remind me of starlings that descend on telephone wires and position themselves a standard 12″ apart so that the birds look like black notes on a musical scale. The fishermen here are half-notes playing out their silent tune on the river bank, a middle “C” chord played on the staff of life.
“Any Luck? I say to the sturdy old African-American fisherman who passes by my picnic table where I come to sit and read. He’s done for the day and headed to the small parking lot behind me.
“No, not today, not even a nibble,” he says. Smiling from underneath his well-used tan cap, he left dangling the hope of better luck tomorrow. It’s about 3 PM and he’s ready to go home but the other five are still at their positions.
Something about
this scene is calming. The surface of the Illinois River is still sparkling like a Van Gough painting. The river current is slowly passing to the southwest moving toward the Mississippi River carrying away tree branches, floating mallards, and debris of all kinds. About once every two hours a tug boat advances slowly toward the granaries just outside of town. I recognize the creamy white tiny upper deck of the “Anabelle Lee,” one of the smaller tugs, on it’s way up-river for another load of grain.
I don’t fish anymore. It’s too much of a bother to scrape the scales off and gut fish, assuming I’d catch anything. No, I just wait for a friend to stop by my house with fresh crappie cleaned and ready for the frying pan.
I’m at the picnic bench, a stone’s throw from the anglers. People wander by and visit. An old Marine comes over to talk. He likes the park but doesn’t enjoy fishing, except for a receptive ear. He has a pocketful of stories about his combat time during the Vietnam War and he’s eager to tell you about a few of them –in detail.
He’s a chunky six-footer, bent over slightly, with a white goatee and knee replacements — and stories of resurrection. Divorced after many years. He says he was wounded five times, once in the head.
“The docs told me I’d need to carry O2 with me and that I wouldn’t be able to breathe without some help. I fooled ’em. No oxygen tank. I’m still here.”
He tells non-stop stories about neighborhood fights when he was a kid and how he didn’t want to fight but guys thought he was always looking for a fight. “I wasn’t –but they wouldn’t leave me alone.” He’s standing between me and the river, leaning forward and on his feet for the whole time. Eventually, he moves on but I know he is a seeker. He is fishing for something important to him.
The fishermen are static, sitting in their chairs — not moving– facing the river. Some artist should capture this. Nobody smokes, no loud music, either and no one moves much. They look like sculpted statues posted along the river. They seem mesmerized by it.
I wonder what they are thinking about. It must be important because they spend so much time at it. I’m reminded of –believe it or not — a Babylonian proverb: “God does not deduct from man’s allotted days on earth, the time he spends fishing.”
