Bertha Hayes, my grandmother on mom’s side, burst into the room and after a quick glance around, barked like an irate drill sergeant at my brother, Gary, and I. What exactly we had done to draw her ire escapes my memory but it must have been of some importance and hazardous as well, for she was a patient and long-suffering woman, very apt to overlook most sins with just a few corrective words, warning look and tolerant smile. She had a kind, loving and gentle authority, very effective for somehow, we sensed it’d be best not to push her further and true kindness has a power all its own

There was no love or kindness in those eyes now, but a fire seldom seen. We froze and Grandma seared us with that look for some time, never speaking a word. Finally, with some exasperation, she spoke, “You two act your age, stop trying to kill each other and clean up this mess, now.”

With the possibility of her ratting us out to grandpa or even worse yet, mom and dad, we cleaned, scrubbed and ceased whatever dangerous and possibly fatal activities we’d begun.

That’s the first time I remember being told to act your age. In retrospect it’s a pretty effective phrase indicating even your elders thought you had the intelligence to know better as well, hinting they thought you were more mature. It pricked your pride a little.

Being a strict Methodist was frustrating for Grandma for she had to put up with a hard drinking, irrelevant family. I often saw her just fairly bursting to speak out harshly, but with an effort she’d bite her lip and say nothing. I never forgot that and in later years that memory served me well and provided guidance when the time was right to change my life around.

In our later teens, our folks stopped telling us to act our age. As I look around me at the world today it seems of ever-increasing importance the entire world begins to do so. But I digress.

In the Golden Years, your body begins to break down. It’s now, one should struggle not to act your age. In this, my still often-immature self, has fortunately succeeded in.

This year, as the first day of New York trout season rolled around, I felt that old thrill of excitement growing yet again, just as it had when a boy. April 1 fell on a Monday and as the opener grew steadily nearer life took on a brighter promise. Yes, there was something to look forward to at last after the dreary months of January, February and March.

I found myself performing the age-old rituals performed from my earliest recollections. Check the rod guides, change the line, oil the reel and examine the waders for cracks. Next, survey my aged, venerable fishing vest. Often patched, most seams resewn, it’s been with me for decades — at least from the 1970’s.

It weighs over 10 pounds, the multitude of pockets crammed with every imaginable accessory or replacement. It’s an adventure checking out every one of those pockets for many contain items I’d forgotten were there and continue to forget are there year after year. But you never know, one day you may need them.

Next, a fishing partner that would ignore the weather no matter how nasty, arise at an unearthly hour, possibly fish for hours without a hit, yet still enjoy just being on the stream and remain in excellent humor no matter what the challenges. They grow steadily fewer as you age.

This year had the dark stains of tragedy about it. The Lings, Dave Sr. and Jr., who shared the first day with me for 40 years wouldn’t be home. Their wives had unbelievably scheduled a Southern vacation for that time.

Fortunately, forewarned of the catastrophe, I’d encouraged Scott Neely to purchase a New York license and he and I happily prepared. The NY season opens at midnight and there are those who begin at that unearthly hour. True, many smoke and drink heavily, are often found incapacitated by smoldering fires or asleep in vehicles, but they have a disturbing habit of taking up the best stream locations. You need to arise early in NY.

On April 1, Scott arrived at my house at 5:30 a.m.. The temperature hovered in the low 40’s, gray, sullen clouds scudded overhead, the damp air chilling. At 6:15 a.m., we arrived in the pitch black and already other fishermen were staking out their spots. At daylight we began. Fishing was slow at first, the fish wary. I landed a hefty big brown, then had to use a variety of spinners and small plastics to finally catch my limit. Scott was more fortunate, finding himself a honey hole where he caught his limit and was able to help a youngster land his. He truly enjoyed the experience. We met back at the car around 10, had breakfast in town and enjoyed a truly memorable morning.

I hope Grandma’s not offended, but please, don’t ask me to act my age.