Until recently, what l knew about shad could fit on a dinner plate with a wedge of lemon. Our friend Pete Grenfell, however, told a tale around the breakfast table on a recent visit to our riverside abode, a tale I thought spoke volumes not only about the mighty shad, but about the vibrant humanity of our small community. There is a brotherhood fishermen and women belong to, that most of us would do well to live by. I asked Pete to write the tale for us. This is his story:

I got there first, armed with the conviction that the shad would already be upstream and the intention of fishing with spinners from my wee kayak. Kristi drove me over to the launch. As I was searching through my vest pockets for something or other, another angler showed up. "Just startin' out?" "Yup," I replied. "Any shad?" "I figure they're past," I ventured. "I heard they got some down by Lackawaxen. Should be some goin' by," the master countered.

Five casts later, a serious rod-bender belied my initial opinion. "They're here!" "Ah, jeez, I didn't even bring shad darts," I lamented. Having just landed a four-pound silver buck, the generous soul pulled out a multi-colored bagful and said, "Help yourself." I took him up on his offer, enviously copying his successful color. Kristi returned to find me bouncing the little leadhead along the bottom. My benefactor caught another shad. "When should I come back and pick you up?" asked my wife. "Gimme three hours."

I proceeded to catch my specialty: granite. Wasn't long until I'd exhausted my purloined darts. Another chap had showed up, saw the action, started casting, hooked a fish and handed his rod to his female companion. I was delighted. I continued casting.

An older gent showed up and went to work. Within two minutes, he was into a shad. He landed it, flicked his dart back out there, a twitch, another, and a few casts later, number two. He popped a wooden matchstick 'twixt his teeth and kept hookin' 'em. Right from the spots I'd been in, same size and color dart!

I hooked a few more rocks with increasing discouragement. My dart benefactor expressed admiration for the old-timer's prowess. I hopped in my boat and paddled up-river. After about half an hour, I saw the shad action still going on and realized I better get back there. The best fishing on the river seemed to be at that spot.

When I got there, Pops was leaving. The guy who got there after us was still at it. "How many did he get?" I dared to ask. "Over a dozen. And this'll really make you sick. He got 'em all on the same dart."

Throwing shame to the wind, I said, "Can I bum a couple more darts?" "Sure," he replied, and I was back at it. One of fishing's thrills for me is... "Oh, Q#$%^&*, stuck on another %^&''#x rock..." and then the rock starts moving. Yes, the tip of my rod is bouncing around 'cause it's connected to something powerful, and it's moving!

And so, through the generosity of one fisherman and a first-hand look at the skill of another, Pete is into his first shad. Upon landing the high-class herring, I showed it to my new-found mentor, beaming, and put it back into the river with pride. "That was my first shad," I offered. "Today?" he queried. "No, ever." "No kidding, that's great." And we shook hands.

Pete's experience on the river is not unlike ones we find every day in rural life, but so unlike the experience of living in the city, too close together, in too little space, with too much distraction. Where we are more like the shad than the fisherman. We have been fortunate to live in a real neighborhood in Manhattan, a smallish one, due to its previously rustic environment. But, now, with property values increasing and living space dwindling the sense of neighborhood is fading. I guess that, more than the river, even, is what we sought when we came to Narrowsburg last autumn. Someday, we may be the old fisherman, sharing darts with the new comer.