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195 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1967
I bent a pin and tied it onto a piece of white string.
And slept.
The next morning I got up early and ate my breakfast. I took a slice of white bread to use for bait. I planned on making doughballs from the soft center of the bread and putting them on my vaudevillean hook.
I left the place and walked down to the different street corner. How beautiful the field looked and the creek that came pouring down in a waterfall off the hill.
But as I got closer to the creek I could see that something was wrong. The creek did not act right. There was a strangeness to it. There was a thing about its motion that was wrong. Finally I got close enough to see what the trouble was.
The waterfall was just a flight of white wooden stairs leading up to a house in the trees.
I stood there for a long time, looking up and looking down, following the stairs with my eyes, having trouble believing.
Then I knocked on my creek and heard the sound of wood.
I ended up by being my own trout and eating the slice of bread myself.
The two graveyards were next to each other on small hills and between them flowed Graveyard Creek, a slow-moving, funeral-procession-on-a-hot-day creek with a lot of fine trout in it.
And the dead didn鈥檛 mind me fishing there at all.
鈥淗e created his own Kool Aid reality and was able to illuminate himself by it.鈥�
A little ways up from the shack was an outhouse with its door flung violently open. The inside of the outhouse was exposed like a human face and the outhouse seemed to say, 'The old guy who built me crapped in here 9,745 times and he's dead now and I don't want anyone else to touch me. He was a good guy. He bult me with loving care. Leave me alone. I'm a monument now to a good ass gone under. There's no mystery here. That's why the door's open. If you have to crap, go in the bushes like a deer."I read this gem of a novel in its entirety on the 4th of July, 2013. Something about reading this on America's day of fireworks and independence while bathing in the glorious embrace of a local breweries 6-pack delight has some abstract importance to me that would be bastardized by my attempts to excavate it into concrete language for examination. All I know is that my sun-soaked soon-to-be-hung-over soul soared on a cloud of beauty that drank in each wonderful word from the pages. Particularly the chapter The Hunchback Trout where the narrow creek in which he is fishing is described 'like 12,845 telephone booths in a row with high Victorian ceilings and all the doors taken off and all the backs of the booths knocked out,' transported me back to my teens when my dad would toss me into the car with his fishing gear and plant me into the Two Hearted River in Michigan's Upper Peninsula near where he was born and raised虏 Standing in the river with hand-me-down waiters that made me look like an overgrown and under-oranged oompa loompa, waiting for the appropriate time to go down stream and downwind so I could fail miserably at flyfishing while lighting up the secret rolled up treasures I'd brought for the weekend. I'm not much of a 'gamesman', but there was always something so empowering and surreal about being miles from civilization and feeling a part of the river and the trees that arched over my head (their spindly limbs being the landing place for many of my casts and causing me to spend half my time trying to get unstuck or untangled instead of actually fly-fishing). I would spend most of the day dreading actually catching a fish as it would mean having to touch it and unhook it and feel the shame and guilt and try not to show that I felt all weepy for hurting the fish in front of my father鈥攁 father who missed his calling by being placed into the early 2000's as a flesh-and-blood human instead of appearing as the t.v. father of a 50's sitcom that he really should have been (my friends used to refer to the Penkevich household as Mayberry)鈥攁s he beamed with pride and snapped a picture of me holding my catch. Somewhere exists one of these pictures snapped right at the moment that the current caught my legs out from under me and there I am disappearing into the stream with the fish held high above me. These moments are exactly what Trout Fishing in America means to me, and though this is not a novel I'd ever pass to my father, I like to associate the two in my mind and consider that as a sign of respect for a father that I truly appreciate and look up to even if we exist in such different worlds that bring about rifts between us. It is how to experience the idealized Americana moments with your father, even ones that never happened, as the novel reads much like a well-meaning father telling stories around a campfire at night with enough booze in his system to let loose all the sexual escapades and bawdy humor that is necessary for the story.
"Fuck you," I said to the outhouse. "All I want is a ride down the river."
The sheep lulled themselves into senseless sleep, one following another like the banners of a lost army.