It’s no fun spending holidays alone.

Old memories appear unbidden, and it’s bad enough without your wife as it is. Quiet times are dangerous, for then events from the past creep up on you and the bitter and the sweet merge and wage war, often unto tears.

So, it was with some relief when my daughter, Julie, called and invited me to spend Easter with the family in Rhode Island. Alright, now I have something to look forward to, the future has brightened and life is sweeter, perhaps a small resurrection in itself, as is appropriate this holiday.

I like to leave at 5 a.m.; the drive takes eight hours. This time of year, it’s black as coal at that hour, the air, hard, sharp and chill.

Waiting for the heater to warm, I shivered. North from Route 219 to 86, then East.

After an hour, the sky imperceptibly lightened, then the hard, knife-edged shapes of the ridges become visible against a smeared, almost invisible, grainy, gray sky, for its cloudy and no color brightens the coming dawn.

But, dawn it is, and no human soul cannot help but feel a quickening of the spirit as night flees and a new day is born. Through some trick of the senses, it always appears to me as if the time spent driving in darkness is erased at daylight, as if it wasn’t real and the trip is indeed just beginning.

Now, the increasing light reveals indistinct smears of fields to the sides. Hillsides and valleys become vaguely visible and gradually finer, and finer details become discernible until suddenly, with a snap, it’s daylight. This dreary morning no birds flew until 7 a.m., well after full light.

It’s three hours to Binghamton, my traditional first break. Fill the tank, hit the restroom, two egg and sausage sandwiches and a large Coke icee, my sacrifice to healthy dietary habits.

The caffeine helps, for the early rising and tedium of the road have combined to make me pretty groggy at this stage, but it’s three-to-four times less than a cup of coffee. Thus refreshed, the journey continues.

I arrived at 1:38 p.m. and my grandson Nate was home. Today was an online school session, so he was free to finish his schoolwork at his leisure.

After unloading, we sat outside, reveling in the 70-degree temperatures and bright sunshine. Suddenly, Nate said; “Papa, it’s just too nice to sit here, let’s go fishing!”

It’s unnecessary to ask me twice.

Loading the canoe would take too much ambition, so we grabbed our gear and drove to a little reservoir some two miles from the house. Walking out on the breast of the dam, we sat down and geared up.

Supposedly, the reservoir had been stocked with trout, but no one we spoke with had caught or seen a rainbow, and an hour of soaking power bait was fruitless. I don’t believe the stocking ever took place, or it was with a small number of trout.

I managed to catch a crappie under a bobber with a worm — the hits were so gentle I missed him four or five times, the worm coming back in its entirety after each strike. That’s a light hit, I can tell you.

Finally, Nate put on a worm and cast it out. He was messing with his second pole when I saw his rod tip dip.

“Nate, you have a hit!” I hollered. Jerking his head up, he grabbed the pole and set the hook, but felt only a steady, unmoving weight, like a clump of weeds.

Then, his rod began to dance and, soon, a bright yellow side flashed — a beautiful, big perch. I scooped him in and we marveled at his size, for this perch was 11 inches long. A surprisingly respectable fish.

Immediately, the bobbers vanished, the power bait disappeared and all four rods were immediately rigged with size eight hooks, sinkers and worms. The perch were deep; it took a long cast to reach them.

Using eighth-ounce slip sinkers solved that problem. All rods baited and out we settled down to wait.

After some 20 minutes, I felt a thrill of excitement when my line suddenly twitched. Gingerly picking up my pole, I waited until the line began moving out, tightened up until I felt the fish and set the hook.

Again, the first impression was that of an unmoving weight. About halfway, in the fish came to life and began fighting. The water was still very cold, the perch sluggish.

The first glimpse of that wide yellow side was beautiful to behold, and soon, an oversized, 12-inch perch slipped into the net. Perch this size seemed too good to be true.

Then, Nate excitedly grabbed his pole, landing another 11-inch perch. He turned to me with a huge smile on his face.

We landed seven perch before Nate, glancing at his watch, had to return home to finish his school work. Unfortunately, we wasted the first hour fishing for trout or we’d caught more.

Perhaps the best part of the day was those fresh fried fillets we enjoyed for dinner. Unbelievably delicious.