Spring Rains

So spring finally arrives here on the island. Warm south winds bring the delayed spring here north and far east of my ancestral home. It always seems the seasons are a month off here. The cool returns in late August and Spring on or about May 1 at this latitude. Its really the icy waters that control the weather. Its been warmer on the mainland. Here, it will take several months for the increasing sun to really warm to a moderate temperature.

I hope to get out this weekend to chase some sea-trout up west. "Up west" means the Acadien part of this island, that begins a few miles from here. There, French is widely spoken and the streams are cleaner, wilder.Its not that critical that I fish immediately, as I have all season to pursue the brook trout that has been at sea as they return to spawn. The sad part is that so many streams here are silt-chocked due to agricultural run-off. That combined with the not rare enough ignorant release of chemicals from careless farmers fields has hurt both the commercial and sport fisheries. This saddens me as I imagine what a paradise this place must have been before settlement and deforestation long ago.

More trees need to be planted and stricter rules enforced. But the economy is poor here and farmers rule. Soon the "tourist" season will begin. Each year it seems that fewer people visit the island. The obnoxious bridge has removed some of the mystery associated with a visit here. Upon our first arrival in the early 90's, a ferry was required to reach this shore. The isolation, although subtle created a unique language and genealogy here that I am just beginning to figure out. My lady Mary is such an example. Often I still don't know what she is talking about. Yes, these folks are separated from the Yanks by a common language.

We go out on weekends dancing. I challenged Mary to identify anyone in any of the clubs who doesn't have a blood relative in the room. She balked, but when we asked about it, everyone had kinfolk in the place. Mary's cousins are always there. Another sensitive point is the large number of physically or mentally challenged people I see everyday. I was told this is because in Canada, the folks are more integrated and accepted. In fact, my theory is that the reduced gene pool is the root cause. This would sure to yield harsh words, or a punch in the nose should I openly disclose it. Much like the isolated valleys of the mountains to the south, this place and its culture was born in the harsh reality of rural life. This includes poverty and inbreeding among the families here.

I know many people who have never been off the island and only rarely go to Charlottetown, the provincial capital about an hour away.

My friend Manny Gallant came by. He asked me to put some of his driftwood sculpture on EBay. I have done so, but I am dubious of the outcome. He makes items from big old Malpeque Bay oysters and driftwood he collects at Holman's island. Pronounced "Mawl-Peck", from this bay come the finest oysters in the world.

Like many lifetime fisherman here, he is nearly illiterate. I find this charming and at times envy him, as I have written before. He explains he has been in a boat nearly since he could walk, and had little time for schooling. The usual harsh childhood, similar to Mary's and many other shaping an island stoicism that is tough for a soft educated spoiled Yankee to grasp. Alcoholism and brutality shaped many a childhood here. This is shown by the angst of failed lives and relationships, broken angry families, and an unearned ignorant pride that it creates in a soul. Some of this is evidenced in my own family. My first wife's mother was raised in such an environment on Newfoundland. The transfer of her pain effected the mother of my children, and even flavours some of their attitudes and fears.

But I love this place. Carefully backing-off on my Yankee attitude and my own ignorance, I have been slowly accepted as an "islander". But with my unique surname here, and without kin, I remain separate.

But I sure look forward to the trout and the beach. In fact this is one place that I can live in a "resort" and be able to live a normal life on my pension. I still struggle with a possible return to the states and a job. Mary would be crushed should I make that choice. It seems my children do OK without me, perhaps thrive without the fear that their mother would go mad if I was nearby. But I may try again.

Its that or make a life here for the time being. Its not so bad. I fear "island fever", which is one reason I decided not to settle on Kauai for a bit. I have to take my own advice, as I gave to my son, "one day at a time, and enjoy life as it come". As my much missed mother had advised.

Trout Season on Prince Edward Island

Many years have past since I actually went out on a cold spring morning to observe this rite of spring. In fact, I cannot remember the last time. Year after year I had planned this event with my son in Pennsylvania. I think we last came close in the spring of 2007 at Clark's Creek just before my ever-predictable return to this island.

I attended a friends funeral here on the Tuesday before our fishing season started. My friend Lloyd from our local legion was 74, and a well know local fiddler. We would sit and chat about mostly religion among the artifacts of war drinking draft Canadian beer. While Mary and I were in church on maundy Thursday, Lloyds wife Shirley waited and Lloyd never came to church where she was to meet him. She found him dead on the living room sofa, after returning home concerned. Lloyd was never late for mass at St. Paul's.

The funeral was the Catholic rite of internment and a high mass. It was nice to attend the sacraments again, but I will miss my friend. The tears welled with memories of past losses of all kinds, and thoughts of the future losses to come. Now I feel part of the town. I had been to such events before, but not for someone that I knew well. The funeral included fiddling and I felt close to home, somewhere west of Harrisburg, in a mountain halla or maybe at the Oriental Hotel in Juniata county.

Those events set the stage for trout season here. The dark calm morning was icy cold with some snow on the ground and calm winds. I left at 5 AM as the season begins at 6:00. The selected spot a few miles East of Summerside on the upper Wilmot River, near an place called Marshbank's pond. The Wilmont empties into the sea about 4 miles below my spot and is straight and wild as it mixes into the salt of Summerside harbour. I could barely see, but parked by a bridge and walked down to the small stream. It was clear with a brownish bottom and some debris. The spot reminds me of the Yellow Breeches near New Cumberland. It isn't all that wild at that point, there are summer cabins and trailers, reminiscent of the rest of Appalachia.

A few cold bodies waited nearby as the crescent moon dropped lower opposite the planet Mercury in a bright frigid azure sky, Mercury shining as the morning star afore the rising sun. The folks spoke in muffled tones of how good the river is, and how they had caught big sea-run trout here over the years. We all cast (all 4 of us) at 6 AM and waited as the sun stubbornly climbed and our toes numbed. The young fellow with his brother and grandma across from me caught a small trout about 6:15. Ice formed on my rod tippet as the line was retrieved. I cast and drifted bait for 2 hours and with no fish, then sat in the Blazer and recorded in my audio diary.

The water is simply too cold, and most trout arrive here later in the spring. Later, I fished the nearby pond with no results. I don't feel too bad-that one trout was the only one caught that I witnessed.

One thing I found odd was that the island has no "non-resident" fishing licence. We all pay 30 bucks, unless we want to fish for salmon and pay an extra fee. All salmon fishing here is catch and release.

I also realized in my hasty departure from Pennsylvania, I left my small lure box in my son's car. I also have his rod and vest. So I will probably move from bait fishing to fly-rod as the weather warms, unless I get a few spinning lures here.

This day after the season opener is cold and breezy and bright. The air will remain cool another month or longer until the surrounding icy sea warms from the strengthening spring sunshine. I have many other streams here and ponds to explore. But it just isn't home nor the same without my boy along. I just have to pretend that I am that teenager that I was with my first car, before my first girl was in my life-driving around with my rod looking for meaning in a stream or on the rural roads.

I admit to being a bit homesick at this time of year. But I will probably remain on the island a
while this time. Life is easier to deal with here for me. But I miss my family and the pain remains vivid of yet another futile attempt to be with family and haunts. So as the lonely roving fisherman of the Pennsylvania back-roads found in the 1970's, I will find here places that can fill the void, maybe catch a fish and kiss a girl-attend the mass, and try to make sense of the issues of the day, both mine and the desperate pursuits that drive the people in the real world-far from this place. Far from my island. The rite of spring, a rite of life.

Transition Day on Prince Edward Island

So today begins the second day of the first full month of spring. Three weeks have past since my return to my adopted home. Mary has been a gracious host but as we spend more time together I see more clearly how our different paths in life have made us so different. I realize also at this point in my life she is a great friend and in reality has probably saved me from some difficulties now thwarted. My old truck was moisture sensitive this morning as an unforecast and therefore unexpected icy- cold damp north wind driven drizzle prevented ignition this morning. Mary bundled up like an Eskimo and has gone to walk up to her work today on Victoria road.

Tomorrow I hope the truck will start or I can get some wire drier and get it running. A trip to Carl's to get those ignition parts put on and an oil change is now imperative. Also tomorrow I am to pay Allan Brown for my rental on Convent street. I am really looking forward to finally unloading and organizing my "kit" and having some alone time. Not only to catch up on the writings but to reflect on the time with Mary, and my recent winter in Pennsylvania with family.

I have been struggling to a conclusion for my writing. Now I feel that I have to make one. But conclusion means where I draw the line-to what end. I mean to stay here, take another stab at PA, or go radical and try and make it back to Arizona at some point. I have decided April is the month of rest-some sea-trout fishing here on the island, and contemplating the summers. In fact, I really have to decide in May where I shall remain.

I had an email from Joey today and he seems OK, and he wants me to call tomorrow around noon his time. Then of course it will be dancing at the "Wing" with Mary and since its a popular band, "Misty Waters", maybe the "Rock and Roll Girls" will reassemble again. Since Mary and I paired off, the old group has been no more. I saw Judy and Joan at different times around town. They seemed ill and bloated and sad. Great sadness here. Great poverty and tragedy hidden in semi-superficial Canadian bliss.

The loonie remains under 80 cents giving my American pension a nice boost. In fact living here gives me a 20% pension increase at the moment. The American car companies move relentlessly to bankruptcy, unemployment soars, and foreclosures continue. The vast American economy in its illness sickens the tiny dependant Canadian economy as when in a siege, ancient armies threw rotten carcasses into a city to sicken and kill the inhabitants. Not that any of this was really intentional (?), but it was avoidable.

For me, on a fixed livable income, depression and deflation are welcome. Poverty causes price reduction, improving my standard of living. If the loonie crashes against the greenback, I win. Sad, but true. Yankee in paradise. I just hope my truck starts and I can catch a few sea run brook trout.

I have heard from my absent and remote "wife". She is still in Charlottetown carless. She has asked me to to find a small book of quotes she had by Norman Vincent Peale. It was always in our bathroom on Central Street. It was a gift to Shel from her friend Tracy. She somehow thinks that I have it. I will look through my stuff, but I am almost sure she took it during her move-out period or it is still in the bookcase at 67 Central Street. I will look. But I told her that I may be able to get another one on Amazon. But she wants that book. I asked why the sudden wave of nostalgia and had no response. We have both lost so many material things of sentimental value. Shel makes me very sad. The awful fact is I am still in love with her, even after this terror, and I find it hard to give Mary 100%.

What a winter!