See, Remember, Write

I grew up far from the ocean, but less than a mile away from the Cumberland River.  Muddy, brown, its banks thick with downed trees and ragged weeds, the Cumberland had a lot of barge traffic since it was a tributary of the Ohio River.  That meant catfish from the river tasted like diesel fuel.  But the river had a calm, deep presence.

Cumberland River
Cumberland River

I’m going to post some stories about fishing on the river and what it was like in those long, humid summer days with not much to do.  I thought a photo might be a good place to start.  Sometimes an image brings back clear memories of a time and place.  Sometimes a scent can resurrect a forgotten memory.  Even a sound–a mockingbird trilling a mashup of other bird’s songs, a dog barking in the far distance, just on the edge of hearing.

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About writinghersense

Marketer, memoir writer, cat lover, Tennessee native, now a NYer.
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