My mother and father and I were all those left living in our family home by the time I was ten years old. My older siblings had moved out and onward to live their own lives. To lessen our dwelling on the obvious smaller group, my mother would design trips for just the three of us. One of those was a springtime road trip to Cape Cod. It was a good three hour drive from home, and we sang all the way there.
Once over the bridge so that we were officially on Cape Cod, we looked for some place to stop and stretch. We found a local shop and went in for a snack. We perused the shop’s bulletin board. There was a talent show that night in Cotuit. We had not been to that Cape Cod town yet. So off we went. It was a fun name and I just assumed we would have fun. All seemed promising; we managed to find the town and the talent show.
At the local hall, with a hundred others in the audience, we respectfully watched a parade of acts. There was such variety, we never knew what might be coming next. But the anticipation could only hold me for so long, and I was feeling sleepy in the second hour. I was fighting sleep when one gent was walking around the hall and singing “April in Paris.” I have never forgotten his act though; he sounded so wistful. Thus far, the talent show had been pleasant, if not exactly fun.
The next act was a game changer for me. Three women stepped onto the stage. They wore rolled up jeans and rolled up gingham shirts, and each carried a short fishing pole over her shoulder. The music started; thankfully it was a peppy number. I smiled in recognition. It was the song about the three little fish that swam all over the damn. I smiled all the way home. My fond memory of their song and dance has replayed on spring weekends throughout the years.
Springtime and fishing poles—an old-time favorite. Achoo!
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