My first fishing pole was an aluminum can with the fishing line wrapped around the middle. It had a melodic sound releasing the line. I couldn’t throw the hook far, but this was okay. I was fishing in a small irrigation canal.
It would take a while to walk from my home in Somerton, Az, to this little favorite canal. I was poor, I didn’t know. I just knew that I could walk from my front yard to Somerton Ave, south, passing Joe Munoz Park. I had some bullies, but Somerton was somewhat safe growing up. There are some stories, but they’re once in a while.
I’d stroll on three agriculture field dirt roads to get to my zen place without knowing I had one. I’d stay there for a while, fishing carp, catfish, and sometimes crawdads