August was my chugbug time. My parents had a house on a lake in the Pocono Mountains of Pa. Pre-eutropic, the pristine lake; spring fed.I'm going back to the 1950s, before the blood-sucking home developers and real estate vermin turned the Poconos into crowded cardboard homes with quarter-acre lots perfumed with "turkey mound" cesspools, and the monotonous, drab reefs of commercial strip malls, not to forget the fading resort industry with their Honeymoon palaces featuring champagne tubs for two, three or four.
Back in the 50s, coming up from the big city where I worked in Wall Street, I couldn't wait for Friday night and the silky night air of the Poconos. We had a deck. I'd walk out on it with my casting rod and the bugs would be waltzing across the tea table top lake to the staccato pops of small-mouth bass, perch and pickerel. You could always tell when a bass would strike. You could hear the pop all the way across the lake. They fought you with everything they had, and then some. More than one round, too. I was glad when I'd lose one. But the real epiphany came at twilight in August when you hooked a bass and that brief splash/slash of white silver as the bass showed off its belly before going straight down to give you one Hell of a run for your money which was pure gold, of course, not just another greenback.
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