Summer mornings were always incredible back then, especially if you were up early enough to do things before the heat of the day made its visit. Granny arrived in her old green car and a fishing trip had been planned between us. We got an early start; her car belching acrid blue smoke, on a morning that I was sure would last forever.
Across the road from our house was a small, country lane that led deep into the woods. I would later spend a lot of time there as I grew older, fishing and hanging out with my friends, but this was long before that time and I was a mere boy of eight or so. Granny weaved her car down the small, rut-strewn road, oblivious to the sound of tree branches inducing a scree-ee-ee sound on the sides of her car and leaving indelible scratches in the paint. As we drove deeper into the dense brush, the road narrowed further still, and finally reached a point where we had to dismount and continue on foot.
“Watch around those logs.” She would say, as the trail carried us down into a dense, brush-filled hollow, “Prolly a moccasin or two laid up under there.” I would instantly become of aware of the danger, despite being encumbered with trying to keep my fishing rod from becoming entangled in the thick branches overhead. Granny never seemed to mind and if she worried about snarling her own rod, she never acted as if she did so. Completing the traverse of the hollow, we ascended the next hill, and she would remind me again to “Watch those logs, ‘cause this is rattler country.” I never encountered a rattlesnake in that area, and still have not today, but I believed her all the same. That path brought home to me the meaning to the words of the psalmist as he uttered, “Hold up my goings in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not.” Psalms 17:5
Gnats and horse-flies swarmed around my head, landing among the sweat drops that peppered my brow before buzzing off again, perturbed by my free hand that was constantly swatting at them. It was still early in the morning, but the heat was ramping up and the day promised to be a hot one. It is like that in the Deep South.
Finally, mercifully, the treacherous path opened onto the lake and our arrival at her fishing spot. The water was pristine, stilled as though a plate-glass covering had been placed upon it. With little or no fanfare we baited our hooks and began fishing. Granny cast out close to the bushes and remained stoic, almost taciturn as she watched her cork, never ceasing to amaze me with her uncanny ability to do so. Though I was young, I had learned not to test her patience by not providing at least a semblance of imitating her. Granny would not cotton to anyone casting bait next to her at more than a two to one ratio of her own casts. It scared the fish, she would explain. But she didn’t mind if you talked as long as it was in a low tone, and talk we did. I remember few if any of those conversations as that was a long time ago, but I am sure they were important - the things that we discussed.
I also remembered that if I strayed away from her a little, granny would hum or sing softly to herself. She never whistled tunes because that was unbecoming to a lady, and she reminded my sister on several occasions that ‘a whistling woman and a crowing hen, never did come to a very good end.’ But she would sing, and usually it was a hymn from church: Shall We Gather At The River or Count Your Many Blessings seemed to always be among her favorites.
It never took long to fill our strings with bass or bream because no catch was ever wasted with her. Fish I would be ashamed to admit I caught today were perfectly edible to her, and after all, that was what fishing was all about with granny. When the heat of the day came around, we would retrace our route up the worrisome path back to the car, and thence home to clean and cook our catch of the day.
Those were good times, the days I spent fishing with granny. Times that I muse about when today becomes hectic and my life becomes disheveled with adult problems and responsibilities. Maybe I could use a day in the deep woods, in an old car, following a delicate path that leads to a fishing hole as the preferred destination.
No comments:
Post a Comment