Nobody believed they were poor, growing up in Union Beach
We didn’t hunch over screens, or belong to fancy clubs
Went swimming or fishing with friends.
Fat-tire bikes whirring down Front Street, streamers fluttering in the wind, as we raced over to Mattie’s Creek
Hot stuff, balloons vibrating against spokes on our conjured Harleys.
Homemade fishing poles with a hook and line dangling from a twig
We’d pluck mussels from the briny bank for bait, then
Crack pearl-black shells to bare the soft bellies inside.
Trophy fishing? No. just kellies … bait-sized minnows that sucked on those mussels
Rarely took the hook though, mostly inhaled the yellow flesh
Couldn’t see very deep into the brackish water, so we worked from “feel” on the line
A tug, then up and out of the pond quick, before they dropped off.
Warriors stalking wild game like the Lenape Indians centuries before
Nick Della Volpe, Knoxville, Tennessee, at ndellavolpe@bellsouth.net