In the woods behind the house there is an old alewife run. The waters of the very upper reaches of the Childs River no longer flow, and the alewife don’t run. Today, the river is little more than a dry ditch snaking through a cathedral-like white pine forest, but it was once an active alewife fishery that harvested upwards of 150 barrels of fish per year. The alewife run was a victim of industry - first mill works and later cranberry harvesting. But alewife runs can return. Throughout New England river passage is being restored through the removal of damns and culverts, and the restoration of river channels. Thanks to these efforts, river herring are returning to native watersheds. While herring runs are being restored all throughout New England, the restoration of the Childs River alewife run is complicated.

Fish. It is one of several four letter f-words that serves equally well as a noun or a verb. The verb only implies the pursuit of the noun - it says nothing of the result. If you spot me that definition, I can confidently say that I have fished. In almost every manner, I’ve fished. I’ve trawled, I’ve trolled, I’ve dipped, I’ve jigged, and I’ve casted. But that doesn’t mean I know how to fish. Believe you me, I am no fisherman.

“Waiter - I’ll have the baked scrod” And with those words uttered from restaurant to restaurant across the Commonwealth and beyond, the confusion began. Scrod isn’t a fish. Wait, what?

Well, it’s a fish - but it’s not a species of fish.