Memory Circa 1951

We were in the Laurentian mountains visiting my Uncle Harry and his family at their cottage. My cousin, who was a teenager at the time, had just caught a large fish. Everyone was applauding him and taking pictures of him proudly holding his catch. I stared at the fish. It was flapping furiously and gasping for breath. Poor, poor fish! I was eight years old and I decided that fishing was wrong.