FALL 2003George A. Crispin
Woodbury MM
n the small hamlet of Harrisonville, N.J., where I live, everyone knows the significance of the first Saturday in April. There are no notices, no newspaper articles, no bulletin board displays. It is just known, by tradition. It is in the air. It is the opening of trout season.
Our community is blessed with a fair-sized lake. Geese land there on the way south in the fall. It freezes over in winter. Ducks swim in it in summer. Children pass by and throw stones as far out as they can, testing their arm for baseball. Couples stroll around it talking in low tones. The first Saturday in April is the only time it is crowded. Fishermen start arriving before the sun is up, finding their favorite spot, waiting for that magic hour when it is legal to fish. It is a perfect occasion for Ruritans to reach out to the community, and, also, make a little money.
So it is that on a prior day a group of us get the "Trout Wagon," parked on a neighboring farm, once a delivery truck, now made over for serving food from its sides, and haul it to the lakeside. It has no motor and no tags for running on the road. Thus it is towed.
Each year I volunteer for the six-to-nine morning shift. It is because I love the morning and delight to see the lake as the sun comes up, an accompanying beauty.
I am used to getting up early. Thus I shake the sleep from my bones, splash cold water on my face, start the woodstove and dress beside its warmth. Coffee is my breakfast on this occasion.
My truck takes several tries to start. It, too, protests the early hour. The headlights penetrate the darkness, the steam rises from the road. In the distance a farmer's barn is lighted. He has early rounds to make. The town is still asleep. A light shines in someone's bathroom.
Aside from the campers who spent the night, I am the first one there. I take pride in this, but it is a false pride. My Ruritan co-workers have already been at work loading the generator they bring in a truck. This will bring us light in the midst of the darkness.
The lake is quiet. Soft mist rises off the lake. Behind it the darkness amid the trees is beginning to soften to gray. There are bird sounds I have not heard all winter, birds that have returned now that it is spring. One round, hollow note pierces the darkness. Gradually the notes increase, come together, and form an orchestration of music.
My co-worker for this morning, Bob, arrives in his pickup. We unload the generator. He knows what to do. There is little talk. His motion is like a surgeon's. He knows from years of work what tool is needed. The silent work is done. There is light now, the stove is lit. A subtle warmth fills the truck. Signs are erected announcing the prices. Coffee fifty cents. Hot dogs a dollar. Gradually the bustle of work slows. Now I notice the sunlight streaming across the lake. It arose while we worked, unannounced. A golden shimmer glows from the lake. It becomes an accompanying beauty.
There is time for talk now. Our first customer arrives. "Coffee and a donut," he says. "Cream, no sugar." The talk is abbreviated at first. The sun's warmth drives back the chill. Conversation turns to the weather, politics, crop predictions. The fishermen increase in numbers, they arrive in small trucks and line the road with parked vehicles. Out they head, onto the lake, as on a voyage. It is relaxing and at the same time stimulating, an ironic mixture of two true, but opposite, qualities.
Thus, our Ruritan group engages in our yearly rendezvous, a red letter day on our calendar. We raise some money, but money does not come close to knowing its value. We reach out to the community, converse with dozens of people we may see only once a year, provide that cup of coffee when it is most needed, as on a fisherman's cold morning on the lake. We get to experience sunrise on the lake, hear the birds, feel the life-affirming presence of the morning chill. We bathe in the security of knowing that with all that life presents to us we are not alone. We experience an accompanying beauty.
[This article was first published in the fall issue of Ruritan, and is copyright © 2003 Ruritan National.]
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