One autumn vacation when I was 8 years old, our family drove from the Eastern Townships of Quebec to Hyde Park, Vermont to visit Uncle Harry and Aunt Gladys. Their rambling clapboard house with cavernous rooms and a crumbling front veranda was nestled beneath a canopy of chestnut trees on the main street. Back then Hyde Park was a typical sleepy little New England town, although I'm sure it's changed quite a bit since then. 

 Most everyone knew each other in the town it seemed, their comings and goings, who did what to who, and when and where. Of course this wasn't always a good thing, but such is life in most small towns I expect. Anyway, Uncle Harry and Aunt Gladys had retired from the hectic life of the workaday world and were enjoying a life of leisure.  They had taken up hobbies to while away their time; Aunt Gladys started to raise English Bulldogs, the most notorious of which was a cantankerous old male named King who had some curious habits, not the least of which was a propensity for room-clearing flatulence. But that's another story. 

 Uncle Harry, well, he began to cultivate an appreciation of single malt scotch whiskey. He drank socially of course, though his private tippling of  the golden liquid seemed to be occurring with more frequency as far as Aunt Gladys was concerned. When scolded by her he would reply, his voice echoing from the emptied glass in a fine imitation of W.C. Fields, his nose looking warped and gigantic through the thick bottom, "Purely medicinal my dear, fortifies the constitution."

 One evening before dinner we all gathered around the kitchen table, as was the custom, to visit and talk about our day’s activities. Uncle Harry knew my father was a fisherman, and that’s all he needed for an excuse to plan an excursion to a local trout stream the following day. This was a surprise, for as far as I understood it, Uncle Harry rarely thought of fish, except maybe those placed in front of him on a dinner plate. But he did like spontaneous excursions whenever an opportunity arose, a walk to the drugstore, a drive to the dump, a hike in the woods, even a little fishing expedition.

 So the following morning, my brother and I, our cousin, my father, and Uncle Harry piled into his beat up Mercedes sedan and drove to the small stream a few miles out of town. We turned off the main road and bumped and bucked down a little used dirt track for a couple of miles, moving deeper into the forest. We finally parked the car in a small parking lot on the edge of the woods and after loading up our fishing tackle, knapsacks, and lunches, we made our way single file along a narrow winding path through a sea of wood ferns.

 We eventually came upon an old dirt logging road and continued along it. I straggled along behind, distracted by the glorious golden canopy of autumn leaves above me, the chirping birds and a chipmunk I had spotted scrounging around in some dry leaves. I glanced up to make sure the others were not too far away, and saw Uncle Harry, my brother and cousin walking ahead of my father. Uncle Harry was in story-telling mode, fully animated, his arms shooting here and there punctuating his sentences as the boys walked along beside him nodding their heads. Every few steps he would expel a great puff of cigar smoke reminding me of a train’s smokestack I once saw in a western movie.

 Then I noticed my father stop and look down curiously at a spot in the road. He lowered to his haunches and stared at the spot as if he had found a strange insect or maybe a diamond ring, for all I knew. He reached forward and touched the ground. Curious about what he had found I broke into a jog and approached him. "What is it dad? " He stood upright and hushed me, his index finger pressed to his lips. "Shhhh. Come here and bring the rod." I was excited by his mysterious tone and stepped closer, handing him the fishing rod that I had been carrying. Then I realized how odd this really was. He wanted the fishing rod in the middle of a forest on a dirt road, with not a drop of water in sight. But he didn't give me time to ponder the strange situation further.

 "Dig out that little gold spoon from the tackle box." he whispered, a hint of conspiracy in his voice. I opened up the box, found the spoon and handed it to him. He began to loop a knot onto the lure. "What is it dad? Watcha doin’? There isn't any stream here." My question was met with silence and a sly smile. He grasped the line and crouched down over the road, the lure dangling over a small hole I hadn’t noticed before. I looked up to see if the others were coming but they were out of sight beyond the curve of the road. I leaned over his shoulder and watched the spoon disappear into the hole. When it was about three feet down he stopped it and began a slow jigging motion.

 Then without warning, he jerked the line and began to pull it up. Out of the hole on the end if the line emerged a small wriggling fish, it's vibrant colors flashing in the dappled sunlight. I looked at my father and his eyes twinkled, reveling in the magic of the moment. We laughed and I shouted loud enough to bring the others scurrying back down the road toward us. "What is it! What is it!" yelled my brother. "Dad caught a fish in the road!" Jumping up and down I was unable to contain myself. My brother and my cousin slid to a halt in front of us and began to laugh at the brook trout squirming on the end of the line. Uncle Harry puffed up behind them gulping for air, stared at the fish, looked around and then looked at my father in disbelief. "Well that’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen!" he said breathlessly, "Catching a fish in a dirt road. Good lord what next! "He laughed and slapped my father on the shoulder.

 Even though it was revealed the hole through which the fish emerged was worn in a metal culvert that carried the stream under the road, it still hasn’t tarnished a treasured memory from those golden years.