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Roscoe’s story began in a place far away from the Thousand Islands. His parents were not St Lawrence River fish at all. He was spawned in the pristine waters of the Willowemoc River in upper New York State, near Trout Town, USA . . .
My uncle John Keats, known to everyone as JK, came to tuck us in when the light faded from the River. His bedtime tales that silenced both flying balls and pillow fights were the ones about a fish named Roscoe.
Every morning, at dawn, as the sun’s first rays came streaking through the cool, green water above his cave beneath Pine Island, Roscoe Fish slid out of his cozy seaweed bed.