Spring song...

Although that's the name of a guitar piece written by a friend, we're not musical today, just a nostalgic look into past springs of me youth..

Although you will not (yet) see postings from the Bottom Feeder appear on Facebook (or tweeter, or linked up, or…) I do peruse the thing fairly often because like it or not, that’s where you find out what is happening. Especially for organizations, museums, venues, etc., who have “pages” that you can like and then keep up with their events or interesting articles.

One of the more interesting pages I stumbled (correct word) across was “Michigan’s Upper Peninsula”. Although not a “upper” (pronounced uuuu-per”) by birth, I am a Michigander and still have sentimental ties to the state. One of their posts contained a reference to Morel mushrooms, which are now appearing in the northern woods (spring up there) Here’s the link (if it’s still active). Flashback!

My mother’s sister, “Aunt Lee” to me, long had a linen store in Petosky, Michigan, on the upper left hand side of the lower peninsula. Loyal Feeder Reeders will remember I occasionally reminisce about my summers there. My parents also had some friends who originally lived across the street from us in East Lansing, the Alfreds. They had a summer gift shop kind of in the woods on the road Harbor Springs (now I’m misting up) where they sold little souvenirs to tourists, like cheesy little birch bark canoes, poor quality “Petosky Stones”, or key chains with “Harbor Springs, Michigan” fobs attached. Eventually they built a little log home next to the shop and moved up there permanently.

Okay, now I’m approaching the point… Sometimes in the spring I would be dropped off at their shop for a few days, while my mom and dad went and did things with Aunt Lee and Uncle Bill (a subject for multiple feeders sometime). While there I would get to do wonderful things. Like some nights Betty and Stan (Alfred) would get a call that the Smelt were running in so and so river. For the uninitiated, Smelt are little fresh water fish of the great lakes that take it into their head in the spring to go find some small stream to charge into for reasons of continuing the species, so to speak. Always at night, always with no moon. So after they got the word, we would jump in the car with nets, waders, wool jackets and drive to the mouth of so and so river where it flowed into Lake Michigan, usually identified by a pool of headlights. There would be any number of people almost bank to bank, up to their waists, dipping their nets into the icy water and coming up with a net full of shining, squirming, flopping fish. As I recall a six inch smelt would be large. Much fun and talk accompanying all this activity, and I have no doubt that beverages might have been a part. Like a flask of Brandy. Anyway, you would come home with a tub of the little guys, and if it wasn’t too late, gut and head them on the spot. Then you would roll them in flour (I don’t remember batter – maybe too small) and fry them in oil. Drain, and eat. Bones would melt and they were some of the most delicious fish I can remember. Wonder if they still do that. For kid’s sake, I hope so.

The other thing that we would do would be to troupe out into the woods looking for those elusive Morel’s, another springtime delicacy. Most of the local residents would have their secret special location where they would go every year, the whereabouts of which was kept as a family secret. Some would take devious routes to throw off anybody trying to poach “their” Morels. I think remember that the best ones were associated with ash trees. The same with the Alfreds, so we would pile in the car with them with one or both of their sons and drive some two lane dirt back roads into the woods, get out and head for the patch. Sometimes they were there, sometimes not. Along the way you would see Trailing Arbutus, Pink and White Trilliums, and other spring time flowers. You might find little wintergreen berry to chew on. If we were lucky enough to hit the right time you would harvest a basket full of the distinctive sponge like legumes and return home. Like the smelt, lightly dusted with flour, sautéed in butter, and another heavenly taste in your mouth. Earthy, pungent. I still remember those times. Don’t know where the car keys are, but can think of the taste of Morels over fifty years ago. Ties to Michigan.

The other ritual of spring involved my Dad. He was called just “Moody” or sometimes “Mose” I guess a contraction of Morris. Anyway, Dad was an ardent fly fisherman, reserved strictly for trout. He would spend the winter to tie his own flies, dress the fishing lines, lovingly take care of the rods, wind the reels just so, make sure the creel was not dried out, mend any patches in the waders, all in preparation for “opening day”. When it approached he would take us “up North” which was anyplace north of Grayling. But usually it was Grayling which was the target because of the legendary trout stream, the Au Sable River which flowed through there (site of Ray’s Canoe livery). Then on opening day (it HAD to be opening day) he would dress up in a starched white shirt, a black bow tie, I think a fedora of some sort, don the waders with black suspenders, and enter the water at some little landing. No canoes, you waded! Down the stream he’d go, flicking 30 feet of line in a graceful arc, placing the little fly right next to that downed tree, settling it lightly as the real thing on the water, and twitch it a bit. If there was no strike, re-cast maybe a little right or left until “Splash!” the silvery fish would leap out of the water and the battle ensued. Ultimately the fish would tire (or occasionally gain freedom), and slide into the waiting net which was attached to the waders, then slipped into the creel. Of course when I got old enough to participate he would (I suspect) suffer to take me along, which resulted in a lot of time spent un scrambling my reel, or trying to get the fly out of the trees. I also suspect he was proud. I hope so. Thanks dad.

So, anyway, a spring trip down memory lane, which journeys grow more dear as your own lengthen.

And see, they all ultimately involved food! No wonder I’m strange.

And of course Dad on opening day would be

DFF(ishing)