Why Not?

This is another one of my fish tales. A memoir from my Junior High School days. This was written to a prompt titled “Why Not?”

Why Not

A Memoir

Ernie Stricsek©

It was early March 1967. My friends and I were champing at the bit to go fishing, but the opening day of trout season was still over a month away. The windows that ran the entire length of one wall of 7th grade classrooms at East Paterson Memorial Jr. & Sr. High School faced the Passaic River and after several days of temperatures in the low 40’s, we noticed the jagged line of winter ice flows jammed on the river’s banks were melting, exposing large swaths of shoreline. This observation made us more antsy to drop our lines.

   During lunch, my friend Gary rushed to our table in the cafeteria, boiling over with excitement. He glanced out of the window during his algebra class and immediately became engrossed with what was happening on the river versus what equations Mrs. Nanfeldt was reviewing on the blackboard. Gary had seen a car pull over on the shoulder of River Road, and two guys with fishing rods began casting their lines into the water along an ice-free stretch of shoreline. Another one of my friends, Mike, asked if he saw them catching anything. He didn’t, but only because he was caught gazing out the window and “Granny Fanbelt”, as we called her with great fondness, scolded him and closed the shades. But what Gary had observed was enough, and he was trying to convince the rest of us to go fishing in the Passaic. The Passaic River was not a very pristine body of water. Marcal Paper, the Forstmann and Botany 500 textile mills had pumped dyes and chemicals out into the river for decades. Carp, suckers, and, maybe a stray catfish, were the only fish anyone could catch in the near putrid waters. One stood more of a chance of catching a shopping cart or tire. 

   None of these facts seemed to faze Gary. He just wanted to fish. We tried to reason with him. The shoreline across from the high school was ice-free, but what was it like elsewhere? None of this deterred Gary. He was aiming for a closer spot to fish, near Pizza Town USA, where Route 46 passes over the river.

   Mike and some of my other friends weakened under Gary’s enthusiastic onslaught. I remained skeptical and didn’t think it was a good idea. A kid named Tommy D, who was not part of this circle of friends, was sitting nearby and had been listening to our conversation. He blurted out, “Why not?”. We turned to look at him. He repeated, “why not?” Tommy D had been in my Sunday School classes from First Communion through Confirmation. He had a know-it-all attitude and enjoyed poking fun at people. He said he lived near the area we were talking about, and it was clear of ice. Tommy claimed to have been fishing there for days now and had caught several big goldfish. In his typical Tommy way, he challenged our fishing skills, telling us we couldn’t catch a cold.

   Backing off a bit when we bristled at his jibes, he said he would lead us to this “hotspot”. The key word being lead, meaning he wanted to go with us. I was totally against this. Through those years of Sunday school, Tommy D would refer to me as ‘Tennessee Ernie Ford or Ernie Bilko. When he grew weary of those names, he’d call me Ernie ‘Swipestack’. You can imagine my hesitancy in making him part of our group. After a few more ‘Why nots’ and twisting of arms by Gary, Mike and other friends, I caved. Plans were made to go fishing after school the next afternoon.

    We met at Tommy D’s house the next afternoon, after I finished my paper route. The ground was still too hard to dig for worms, so we raided our family’s pantries for cans of corn to use for bait. Taking into consideration the cool weather, and the thawing ground might have muddy spots, my friends and I were dressed appropriately. However, Tommy was still wearing the clothes he had worn at school, which were a pair of copper-colored slacks, while beneath his jacket was a black sweater and cream-colored shirt. On his feet were a pair of black loafers. I never saw a fisherman dressed like that. Ever. Even to this day. Tommy led us off in a single file.

   Taking a dirt path off the shoulder of Route 46, we meandered through a narrow, wooded area and emerged to see a wide semi-circular plane of marsh grass and reeds. To our left, about 100 yards away, coursed the Passaic River. Between clumps of reeds and grass, we could see large patches of mud and standing water. It didn’t look good. Mike told Tommy he was full of garbage, there was no way he could have cut through this swamp to go fishing. Tommy’s face reddened, and he said, “I’ll show you,” and he took us onto a narrower path leading to the river. The path tilted slightly to the right as we walked past areas that ranged from dry to muddy to small mucky ponds.

   Suddenly Tommy shouted and disappeared from sight. The path tilted more sharply to the right and his smooth soled loafers failed him causing him to rocket off the trail into a watery morass. Initial surprise and anger turned to fear because he was stuck to the knee-deep in the muck beneath the water. Tommy panicked, believing he had fallen prey to the boogeyman of all children – quicksand! But he wasn’t sinking. He was stuck in the much.

   Tommy shivered. His copper pants provided no insulation. He was too far out in the bog to grab our outstretched hands. Mike’s brother slipped and slid along the trail back to the woods and returned with a length of tree branch we could extend out to Tommy. Acting like a tug-of-war team, my four friends and I dragged him from the bog, minus his shoes and socks.

   The late afternoon sun was setting and the temperature dropping. Tommy was wet, without shoes or socks, and his teeth were beginning to chatter. He had to get home and get warm. He could move fairly quickly along the dirt path in his bare feet. Once on the pavement, we took turns carrying him along the shoulder of Route 46 until we got to cleaner pavement, and Tommy resumed walking. When we got to his house, neither of his parents were home from work yet. He was grateful for us ‘saving his life’, and never ragged me again about my name after that ‘why not’ fishing adventure.