From the age of four I incessantly asked my father to take me fishing. His answer was always the same—too young. When I turned six I again asked, “Dad, can I go fishing with you this summer?”
“Sure, you’re old enough now. Of course, you’ll need some stardust.”
“Stardust?”
“Yes, stardust. Everyone knows that if you have stardust on your fishing pole the first time you go fishing you’re guaranteed to catch the first fish of the day.”
“Do we have any?”
“Ah, well, Uncle Harrison knows all about stardust. You write him a letter, ask him for some, he’ll take care of you.”
Uncle Harrison lived in Vermont. When I was a boy my family spent every summer vacation in Vermont at Ma’s house, a large white wood-frame farmhouse—my mother’s childhood home. My mother was one of nine children. All nine married, all nine raised families, and every summer all nine returned, with their families, to Ma’s house. During those vacations my father and uncles went fishing, and this time I would get to go with them. With my mom’s help I wrote Uncle Harrison a letter asking for stardust, and I was clutching the letter that July afternoon as our 1949 Ford station wagon crunched up the long granite gravel driveway to Ma’s house. Uncle Harrison was in the side yard, mowing the lawn. I ran to hand deliver the letter to him. He stopped mowing and mopped his brow with a checkered handkerchief as I approached.
“Good to see you, Little Tony. How have you been?”
I held the letter up to him. “Hi, Uncle Harrison.”
“What’s this? A letter for me, well thank you very much. Yes, yes, you’ll be fishing with us, good, and of course you’ll need some stardust. Well, it just so happens that this is peak stardust season. I’ll make sure you have enough before we go fishing.”
“Thanks, Uncle Harrison.” I ran back to my parents to tell them the amazing news.
Two days later my father called me into the barn just before supper. “This is for you,” he said, handing me a yellow fiberglass fishing pole with an enclosed spin-cast reel. It was old and beat up, but it was mine, and it was beautiful. Dad showed me how to use it and said, “You have to go to bed early tonight because tomorrow morning I’m going to wake you up before dawn to go fishing. Now, when you go to bed tonight, be sure to put your fishing pole at the foot of the bed so Uncle Harrison can dust it with stardust while you sleep.”
I went to bed so early that it was still light outside and I could hear my sisters and cousins playing in the yard. But it was dark when I heard the solitary footsteps on the stairs; they continued along the hallway and paused at my door. I pretended to be asleep as I peeked while Uncle Harrison tiptoed to the foot of the bed. I could see his stocky silhouette against the moon-bright window as he sprinkled glittering stardust on the fishing pole and then silently slipped from the room.
Imagine how I felt—I was six years old, excited, thrilled, and I was happy. Before drifting off to sleep I heard a burst of laughter from the adults downstairs.
What seemed like a moment later I heard my Dad say, “Tony, wake up, we’re going fishing.” I jumped out of bed; he laughed to see that I had slept in my clothes, shoes and all. I wasn’t taking chances on being left behind for not being ready.
At the lake we launched the boat and lowered the outboard motor. The old Evinrude coughed to life with a puff of blue smoke and my father, uncles and I were gliding through the pre-dawn mists rising from the smooth black surface of the lake, and I was in love with fishing.
The engine slowed and sputtered to a stop. We drifted noiselessly for a few seconds and my father turned to me and said, “Tony, does this look like a good spot?”
“Yeah, Dad, it does.” I didn’t know, just wanted to fish.
“OK, then, let me bait your hook and we’ll you put your line in first.”
To this day I don’t know if they had caught a fish earlier and put it on my line, or if stardust really works. I do know as soon as my bobbin hit the water, it was yanked under the surface and my father and uncles urged me to reel in my first fish, a perch. A keeper.
When I recall my stardust fishing trip, I am in awe of my father and my uncles and the trouble they went through to create that memory. These were tough men with rough and calloused hands caused by a lifetime of hard work and struggle. They came of age during the Great Depression, left school to support their families, and as young men were called to fight a horrific war.
They led hard lives, but they were not hardened by life. They still appreciated the sparkle that a little stardust brings. They understood all too well that you can’t eliminate life’s sorrows. More importantly, they knew how to add joy.
Take a tip from my fishing buddies, my Dad and my uncles. Sparkle while you can. Make joyful memories. Be someone’s stardust.
