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Show Page 10 The Ogden Valley news Volume XIV Issue XIV April 15, 2007 By Drienie Hattingh The accent of one’s birthplace lingers in the mind and in the heart as it does in one’s speech. - De La Rochefoucauld I’m 10 years old and I’m fishing with my Father on a lovely autumn afternoon in March, on the banks of the Vaal River, in the old Transvaal in South Africa. I wiggle my toes in the mud that’s still pleasantly warm from the sun that heated our backs all day long. Pappie baits my hook again with pungent bait he made earlier that morning. Secret ingredients include curry powder and fish paste. Phew! Pappie expertly whips my fishing rod back and then forward, and the reel sings in the warm autumn afternoon and the bait plops down exactly where he wanted it to be. “Vrystaat!” Pappie yells into the silent day, to no one in particular. His voice echoes across the rushing Vaal River across to the Vrystaat side—a ¼ mile away. “Transvaal!” A Vrystater yells back and the two fishermen’s laughter bounces off the brown deep river, heavy with torrential rains. Pappie wades into the water and places a bobbin on my line. He walks back and winks at me with that crooked little smile. “You just wait and see Doll—that big one will nibble soon . . . .” Soon it will be Pappie’s birthday. These Vrystaat! few days of fishing with his family are one rod is a mere foot long, and there’s no castof my Father’s birthday treats. Mammie is ing involved. up in the rondawel fixing dinner and my I unwind the gut from the rod and let little sister and brother are having their the baited hook down into a hole in the afternoon nap. ice. When the And, me, I’m sinker hits botfishing with Pappie. tom, I wind the line back, two *********** turns, so that Many, many the bait is just years later I’m fishabove the boting again in early tom of the lake. March, but now I’m Then I sit down as old as my Father on my padded was when he left us bucket which is 25 years ago. Soon filled with fishit will be his birthing tackle and a day again, but it’s flask of coffee. not autumn here There’s a in America—it’s single line of spring. And my footsteps in the toes aren’t wiggling in warm mud— Drienie fishing on the banks of the Vaal River. fresh snow, leading from the steep they’re wiggling in bank, to where warm wool socks and heavy winter boots I’m sitting. I’m fishing alone today. The so they’ll stay warm. I’m standing on frofishing hole was left by a fisherman the zen Pineview Reservoir high up in a valley day before—I just had to remove the fresh between the Wasatch Mountains in Utah. snow and break the thin layer of ice that The fishing that I’m doing on this formed during the night. The spring sun beautiful icy-blue-sky Utah spring day is is lovely on my back and reminds me that very different from the fishing I did on that long ago beautiful sunny-blue-sky African soon the ice-fishing season will be over. In autumn day with my Father. My fishing a month, I’ll be fishing in the blue waters of Pineview with motor boats zipping by, and I’ll miss the solitude and quiet of this perfect spring day. While I wait for crappies, perch—or perhaps a musky—to nibble, I marvel at the frozen expanse and snow-covered mountains surrounding me. There’s quietness after a snow storm that you cannot describe—it leaves a serene contented feeling. Many years ago when we still lived in Minnesota, my Mother Ralie visited us and we spent a day ice fishing on the frozen Lake Pepin in the Mississippi River. We fished for hours in an ice fishing house located a mile from shore. There, we listened to the ice “talk.” We sipped our hot tea, enjoying the quiet togetherness—just like I did all those years ago with my father. Memories are made of stuff like this. Whether you are fishing through a hole in the ice in Utah or in a fast moving river in Africa, there is the same calming effect on your body and soul. You can let your thoughts walk on long forgotten paths and you remember . . . . I pour myself a steaming mug of coffee. My breath forms little clouds in the freezing spring air. I whisper a prayer thanking God for the wonderful father that Pappie was. And I thank God for memories such as the day when I stood next to my father and he yelled “Vrystaat!” into a clear, sunny autumn day. |