Of course, Shad Haulers take only Shad. The rest are returned to the river. One by one. Each with a shout of type for the record keeper. “Bass”, “Catfish”, “Sucker”, “carp”, “gizzard.” And then flung up through the air, to fly for the first time into the sunset, before splashing home once again. This is Finious’s time. His manner is studied. Perhaps a little rehearsed. As the fish move skyward: he barks. Almost sounding like a staccato: “Your fired!”
In Spring the sun gets hot. The shad run the Delaware and the fisherman, sports cars and the flowers come out. The order isn’t carved in stone.
In the evening sun, a young lady wearing a cloth World War 1 aviators flying cap with long blond hair trailing behind, drove an MG TD, its paint faded brown and probably dating from its manufacture in the early ’50’S , across the bridge proving nothing particular other than life goes on splendidly both on old rivers and old river’s bridges.