A Special Day With Ma

I have never been a fisherman.  There was a time when I wanted to be, but it never happened.  My Uncle Alvin was a fisherman.  He always caught fish; bass, bream, crappie or catfish. He caught ‘em all. He would tell me tales of waterhorses.  Those were big largemouth bass, big enough to put both your fists into their mouths. He would tell what it was like to watch them come up and strike a topwater lure. The still water would erupt as the fish would begin to fight. He would pull hard, taking yard after yard of fishing line off the reel. He would leave the water in great leaps.  But the most spectacular thing he would do was to leap to the surface of the water and then sort of  walk across the water on his tail. Sometimes with a violent jerk of his head the lure would fly right out of his mouth. My uncle had named some of these fish. But these really big fish, he never brought them home.  They lived only in his stories.

I well remember my first fishing trip.  It was the summer of my sixth year. I was to start to school in the fall. At that time my dad was a tenant farmer in the Piedmont area of South Carolina. We lived in a small three room house on a red dirt road. Summers were full of fun for a six-year-old boy. (I was too young to work in the fields.)There were butterflies to catch and maypops to pop. In the late evenings there were lightning bugs to catch, too. It was on one of these warm summer days that I had my first fishing adventure. My grandmother, Ma, lived about two miles away. She did not drive or have an automobile and would walk to our house.  Sometimes she would appear unannounced at our front door.  Of course she always appeared unannounced since it was before we got a telephone. I can see  her now with a kerchief on her head and wearing an old feed sack dress. She would have one of Pa’s old chambray shirts on and an apron tied around her waist.  I don’t ever remember seeing her without her eyeglasses. She spoke to Mama a few minutes. I heard Mama say, “That boy has been drivin’ me crazy to take him fishing. Jack doesn’t have time and I don’t know anything about fishing!”

“Well, I don’t know…,” Ma said.

“I sure would appreciate it if you could,” Mama pleaded.

“Awe right.  But  I didn’t bring no fishing stuff.”

“I don’t have anything and Jack doesn’t fish. But I’ll help if I can,”

Ma scratched her chin and said, “Maybe you could get me a couple of straight pins and a spool of heavy thread from your sewing basket…”

“Okay. Let me dry this last dish and I’ll get those things for you.”

Mama finished drying the plate and disappeared for a few minutes. She returned a few minutes later with the things Ma wanted.

“Got pliers?” Ma wanted to know.

“I think you’ll find a pair in that toolbox on the back porch by the kitchen door,” Mama said.  

I followed Ma to the back porch where she found the pliers. She used the pliers to shape the straight pins into two fish hooks. She then attached a length of heavy thread to each hook. I used my Hopalong Cassidy pocket knife to cut the thread.

Ma said, “Now you need to go and get us some fishing poles. Making ‘em about  this long.”

She held her hands about three feet apart.  I ran out the back of the house and found what I needed beside the barn. I was so excited that I ran back to the house where Ma quickly tied the fishing line to the poles.

“Don’t we need some bait, Ma?”

“We sure do.  Why don’t you go down by the barn and see if you can find some worms?”

I ran to the barn and got a garden trowel of Mama’s  from where the garden tools were kept.  I dug and dug and dug some more. But I did not find any worms. Frustrated I walked back to the house with my head hung low.

“I couldn’t find no worms!”

“Looks like you couldn’t wipe your feet either!” Mama scolded.

Still with my head hung low I went back out and wiped my feet. I heard Ma say, “Gimme a

li’l bit o’ flour amd I’ll make us some doughballs.”

When I got back inside, Ma said,  “Let’s go. I got  a li’l bit o’ flour from your mama. We can make doughballs for bait.”

We said goodbye to Mama. She wished us luck. We started walking down the dirt road toward the

branch.  I was feeling great. The warm sun was beaming down and the sky was that brilliant blue. There was a slight breeze. I could smell the pine trees that were on the right hand side of the road. We crossed the fence of rusty barbed wire into the pasture. “You ain’t seen that old male cow in here, have you?” Ma wanted to know.

“No, ma’am. I think he’s in one of the other pastures,” I said.

“That’s good. He might’ve chased you with that red shirt on.”

Soon we had crossed the pasture and were in a wooded area. After walking down a slight grade we were beside the branch in a grove of hardwood trees.  The branch to me was a place of adventure and mystery.   Who could tell what was under the water? What was hidden under the quartz bearing rocks?  Although it was only about three feet wide, it was a wild river to me.

“Gimme my fishin’ pole! I’m ready to fish!” I was excited.

“ Didn’t yo mama teach you how to say ‘please’?” said Ma.

“Yes, ma’am...please,” I answered.

“Here’s yo pole.”

“Where’s the bait?” I demanded.

“You just hold you hosses, young man! Come over here an’ I’ll show you how to make a doughball,” Ma said.

I walked over to where she was and watched as she spit in her hand. She added a Iittle bit of flour from a match box she had in her apron. Ma’s apron held many things. I once saw her pull a pair of scissors from her apron and stab a snapping turtle through the neck. But today she made  a small ball of dough with her thumb and pointer finger. She then put the tiny doughball on her fish hook.

“That’s how you do it,” she said.

I tried but couldn’t quite get it.  Ma made me a doughball from the last little bit of flour and put it on my hook.

Soon we both had our hooks in the water. I was disappointed. I did not catch a fish. I did not understand why not. I asked Ma.  She said that maybe it was because I did not spit on the bait once it was on the hook. I quickly pulled my hook from the water and spit on it twice. That did not seem to work either. I asked Ma what to do next. I simply had to catch a fish. She said,”You gotta hold your mouth right.”

I asked her to show me but she said it was different for everybody. I tried a frown. Then a scowl. I smiled. I tried facial expressions that don’t have a name. But nothing seemed to work. I was disheartened.  I believed I would never catch a fish. And then, after seemingly a millennium had passed, I felt a slight tug on my line. I had caught a fish!   It was the most beautiful fish I had ever seen. It had a brown back and a silver belly and all three inches were magnificent. I could not wait to get home and show it to Mama. Ma showed me how to make a stringer out of a small--very small stick.

When we got back to the house I told Mama we could have my fish for supper. She stared at Ma. I don’t know why.  Mama fried my fish for me. It was delicious. But I’m not sure whether I was tasting fish or just cornmeal breading.

And that was my first fishing adventure.

I would go fishing many more times with very little luck. In later years I have been invited to go fishing with friends. But they only invited me once. After careful analysis of the situation I found that when I went fishing with someone they would catch few fish if any. Yes I believe that I am bad luck for fishermen. I don’t just have bad luck, I share it!

Afterthought

My grandmother who was born in 1898 had a long life and happy life. At her funeral I mentioned to a cousin how she had made the fishing tackle and bait for my first fishing trip and how special it was to me. He said, “ Yeah, she did the same for me!”