Fred H. Tomkins
and his wife
Sara Elizabeth “Cy” Tomkins

Here are some poems
on what he thought about fishing and Kalkaska
from his book

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
and
A Collection of Poems
By Fred H. Tomkins

A special thank you to the Kalkaska Library
and Margaret Beebe for her assistance
in obtaining this information.

Kalkaska

When your toes begin to tickle,
When you get the wanderlust,
When you feel that without a change
There is something going to bust,
Just turn the old car Northward,
On old one thirty-one,
And when you come to Kasky
You’ll know your journey’s done.

Floating Down the Manistee

Some folks long to travel
To lands across the sea,
To flirt with Kings and Queens and Counts
And other royalty,
But me, I never cared for fame,
The joy for which I pine,
Is to float for days down the Manistee
With a fishing pal of mine.

You put your boat in the river
At the bridge on seventy-six
Loaded with tent and poles and grub,
And tools for "Fishin' Tricks."
You push away from the landing,
Hope in your heart runs high
To catch a wily rainbow,
On spinner and worm or a fly.

You drift along with the current,
Your boat swings around a bend,
A flock of mallards quickly rise
And start from the "River's End."
And suddenly in the water
Before your startled eyes,
A big buck deer starts for the bank
And snorts in his surprise.

The sun grows high in the Heavens,
Your belt regains some slack,
You beach the boat and climb the bank
To cook a fisherman's snack.
Potatoes cooked with the jackets on,
Coffee made in a pail,
A rainbow roasted in the coals,
And you eat him, head and tail.

Then, once more down the river,
You drift your time away
Till the sun is golden in the west,
The end of a perfect day.
You pitch your tent in an oaken grove,
Your bed is of boughs and fern,
You hear the call of the whip-poor-will
The while your mosquito bites burn.

Some folks love to travel
To cities across the sea,
To gaze in awe at cathedrals grand
And voice their ecstasy,
But me, I’m sure contented,
If in each summer time,
I can float down the Manistee
With a fishin' pal of mine.

On The Boardman

I sit by the side of my office desk
With papers around me strewn,
For inventory is over
And income tax comes soon.
I juggle elusive figures,
But what I would like the best,
Is to fish, once more, on the Boardman
When the wind is in the West.

I make deductions for taxes
And the dollar I gave to the church,
I charge off in red the account that is dead,
Of the fellow who gave me the lurch.
I figure insurance and taxes,
But what I would like to do
Is to fish, once more, on the Boardman
With a friend who is tried and true.

I wrestle with problems of stock control
And study profit and loss,
And sometimes I wish that the other guy
Was the one they call "The Boss."
I scratch my head in perplexity
And fancy that I can hear
The birds that sing on the Boardman,
When fishin' time is here.

The Parson that I used to fish with
Told of a Promised land,
With gates of pearl and streets of gold
Where some day we all must stand.
A land that never knows a night,
But this is what I fear,
That Heaven just won't be Heaven
Unless there's a Boardman near.

T

Copyright © 2008 National Trout Festival®