“I think so.”
“Then you don’t have to. Here, stand up and give me a shove.”
He made me push him until I nearly knocked him down. “See, you just have to give him an idea of how strong you are. What if you try that and see if he doesn’t back off?” I did, and it worked.
That was the kind of help I needed from Dad. But the summer I turned thirteen, he virtually disappeared from my life, and I didn’t know what to do.
So many people were sick, and Dad was gone most of the time seeing patients. He was also building a new office and trying to earn enough to pay for an X-ray machine. Often the phone rang while we were at supper and I’d hear him say, “Be right there.” Then Mom would cover his plate with a pie tin and put it in the oven to wait.
Many times he’d be gone for an hour or more. Then his car would crunch on the gravel drive, and I’d run downstairs to sit with him while he ate. He’d ask about my day and give me whatever advice I had to have about the farm. But that was about all he had energy for.
As that year went on, I worried about him, and I worried about me. I missed his help. I missed joking around and just being together. Maybe he doesn’t like me as much as he did, I thought. Maybe I’ve done some thing to disappoint him. He’d been helping me become a man, and I didn’t think I had a prayer of getting that done without his guidance.
The pond beyond the meadow was ringed with reeds and cattails. I liked to fish there. I’d never caught a big one, hooking only sunnies and a few catfish. But big fish were in there. I’d seen them jump, making a glistening turbulence in the mist of early morning. Sometimes the ripples would carry so far they’d reach the shore.
That summer I used to sit on my raft and think of ways to lure my father back. My mother wanted us to take a vacation, but he nixed that because he had so much work.
One day my mother and I stood in the kitchen and talked about him.
“See if you can get him to go fishing,” she finally said. “Even just one evening off will help.”
The next day I began my campaign to get Dad down to our pond. I planned to make a fire, roast ears of corn and fry up whatever we could catch. The problem was getting my father to change into old clothes and take off a few hours.
Finally, one Friday, I simply bullied him into it. I met his car when he came home and pulled him into the mudroom, where we changed our work clothes.
“We’re going fishing,” I said. “And that is that.”
And we did! As we stood on the pond’s edge casting into the fading sunlight, I was still amazed that I’d persuaded him to do it. Soon I went to gather wood for a fire. We hadn’t had any luck yet, but we could still roast the corn and talk.
While I worked, I watched him cast into a deep hole near a fallen red oak. “Please let him catch a fish,” I whispered to myself. “Any fish—just let him catch something.”
Almost as if my thought had raised the fish to the lure, a bass struck his line.
“Whoa, boss!” he yelled, and the moss-colored fish took to the air. It looked humongous and put up a good fight as Dad expertly reeled it into his net, then brought it to me by the fire.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. “How about that!”
He looked young, happy and proud. I dredged his fish in cornmeal and fried it over the fire. We sat on a stone eating our supper.
“That was some meal,” he said when finished. “I don’t know when I’ve liked anything more.”
My father made a pot of coffee while I went to the edge of the meadow where the briers were borne down with ripe blackberries. I picked our dessert and carried it back in my baseball cap. We had the berries with our coffee and watched the sun make dazzling colors in the western sky. My father ate slowly, one berry at a time, savoring each. Then out of the blue he began telling me how much he cared about me.
“You know, Son, you’re going to be a success in life,” he said. “I know that because I never have to ask you to do something twice. But more than that, you’re a good kid.”
The expression on his face was of such warmth and pride that I felt utterly blessed.
Times like this were all too rare as my father’s practice grew ever larger. But whenever I needed to, I’d reach back to that moment by the pond, remembering how good it felt when Dad was with me.
“Yes, sir,” Dan said, interrupting my memories. “Your father was some fine man. And his medicine wasn’t just pills and shots. He thought a lot about people. He could always understand what someone was going through.”
“Yes. Sometimes he did,” I said, looking momentarily away.
Then Dan said, “When I was at my worst, I said to him, ‘Doc, give me one reason to beat this depression.’ And do you know what he said?”
Dan stared across the table until I reestablished eye contact. “He said, ‘Blackberries. Think of a handful of blackberries and how wonderful that is. To pick a handful of blackberries, sit down with someone you love very much and eat them. Think of that and tell me life’s not worth the fight. You have a wonderful wife and three fine kids. Take some time with them. It’s family we live for— not just ourselves.’
“That’s what he said, and I’ve never forgotten it,” Dan finished. “I think it saved my life.”
My hands were quivering. All I could do was stare back at him. I felt so many emotions that I could muster not one word.
On the plane home, I closed my eyes and thought about me and my dad. I knew what that day by the pond had meant to me. But I had never known what it meant to him. Now, in my mind’s eye, I saw him standing at the edge of the water, the bass on his line, so full of joy. How
wide the ripples spread, I thought. How far they reach.
Suddenly I found myself staring out the airplane window, hoping that the flight would get in on time. I planned to be home before dark for a change—to play in the yard with my son in the fading light of day.
W. W. Meade
Reprinted by permission of Dave Carpenter. ©1998 Dave Carpenter.
Fishing with Granddaddy
It’s five o’clock in the morning and he’s waking me up. But it’s hard. It’s summertime, I’m ten years old, and this is supposed to be vacation. The days of rest and relaxation. Then my eyes squint open. I can barely see his face, lined and ancient. But I’m happy. Very happy. Today my granddaddy and I are going fishing.
He creeps into the kitchen while I put on the clothes I selected the night before. Blue jeans, but not good ones; instead the jeans I hoped would later that day bear the mud stains and the fish smell. It almost seemed like a rule. The more disgusting the clothes, the better the day had been. If Mom made me undress on the porch before I even dared enter her clean house, I knew it had been a wonderful day indeed.
The shirt couldn’t be white. Granddaddy said it spooked the fish, so I’m wearing my old blue football jersey.
I find my way into the kitchen. He had made me a cup of coffee. Lots of sugar and lots of cream. I can’t imagine anyone drinking the stuff any other way. I be t none of my friends are d rinking coffee this morning. I bet they won’t drink coffee for another eight or ten years. I watch as he finishes loading up the cooler. There are no wasted movements. This is a task he has perfected over the years. You do something a million times, you learn to get it right.
The menu rarely changes. A thermos of ice water. Four Coca-Colas in the little bottles. A few packs of peanut butter crackers and two ham sandwiches. White bread. Mustard and mayonnaise.
He tells me to get my coat. It’s always cold before the sun comes up. Even in July. I grab my zip-up sweatshirt with the hood. I wish I had a jacket like his: a blue jean jacket with a red and black flannel lining. The jacket bears many miles, and they’re not highway miles. I’ve never seen another one quite like it. He and the jacket seem to belong together. They fit each other.
Granddaddy unlocks the camper top and slides the cooler into the back along with the rest of the gear we loaded the night before. Everything has its place. The
cooler goes in back of his tackle box, but in front of the trolling motor battery. I always insist on carrying the battery to prove I am a worthy fishing companion. Man, is it heavy! But I will never say so out loud even though I’m sure my labored stagger must give it away. I don’t think I’ve ever picked up that battery without a warning not to spill acid on myself. Through all the years I’ve never seen one drop of anything come out of that battery, but I fear it nonetheless. Granddaddy’s warning always makes it sound like the acid will burn a hole clear through my leg before I can even get my pants off. Very scary stuff.
He is a very methodical driver. I’m not sure of very many things in life, but I would be willing to bet everything I own, Ted Williams model baseball glove included, that he has never gotten a speeding ticket. Sometimes I have to glance down to make sure he’s actually mashing the gas. I assume that he is because the black work shoe is resting on the pedal. Black work shoes with white socks. If he has another combination, I’ve never seen it. Granddaddy is a man of few fashion surprises. I find the consistency to be comforting.
Our trips are never cluttered with chitchat. When he talks it is to brag about having the fastest radio in Georgia. He turns it on and off twice to back up his words. I’m confident that they don’t hold contests to determine such things, but I still can’t imagine anyone capable of proving him wrong.
I can’t remember riding with Granddaddy where he did not find at least one opportunity to pull the same corny joke on me. He points down the road and says, “There’s your name on a sign. ‘Old Stopper Head.’” Of course the sign really reads “Stop Ahead,” but it never fails to make the two of us laugh. It’s just one more reason I know the old man likes me.
We have a few regular fishing holes. Most of them are small ponds located on the property of different farmers he has met over the years. He always stops at the house to confirm that it is okay that we fish. I am required to go with him and to say “Thank you for letting us fish.” We are always extra careful to lock gates and never leave a mess.
When we reach our fishing spot, we unload the gear in the same fashion we loaded it: meticulously and painstakingly slow. But I’m always in a hurry. I worry that the fish will stop biting at any moment. Time is of the essence.
We always put the tackle boxes and the rods and reels into the boat last. Granddaddy’s tackle box is roughly the size of a small barn. I’m sure it carries one of everything ever designed to entice a fish. Sometimes when the fish aren’t biting I entertain myself just looking through it. I’m always asking what different things are, and he usually explains, and follows with a grand story of a fish that fell victim to its charm.
My tackle box, on the other hand, is about the size of a shoe box. I have painted my name and a picture of a bass jumping out of the water on top of it. It contains mostly the cherished discards from his box. There are a few lures I have bought myself—all replicas of the ones he holds in highest regard. Unfortunately, they never seem to catch nearly as many fish as his lures do.
I am always amazed at the ease and accuracy with which he casts. Granddaddy will always say something like, “Well, if I hadn’t of throwed right there I never would have caught this one.” Then with the flick of his wrist he sends his lure sailing through the air and it comes to rest inches from a semisubmerged log that should have a sign painted on it that reads “Home of a Monster Bass.” I try to emulate his technique, but I spend lots of my fishing time trying to pull my lure out of the limb in which it is firmly anchored.
He always catches more fish than I do. Usually about fifteen to my one. How can he be so lucky every single time ? When he hooks one, he really seems to enjoy reeling it in. As he cranks, he gives a play-by-play commentary complete with estimates about the fish’s size, where he hit it, and guesses about what the scoundrel might do to avoid eventually joining us in the boat.
On the other hand, when I get lucky enough to hook one, I retrieve it with all the calmness of Barney Fife making an arrest. There is no savoring the moment. I reel so fast and pull so hard that I have been known to make a fish go airborne. You should see the look on a fish’s face when he breaks the water, sails over the boat and resubmerges on the other side. “He looks like a pretty good one,” I hear my granddaddy chuckle. I ignore him, because this is no time for jokes. If I don’t get this thing into the boat, then I have no proof that I actually caught one. After all, who’s going to believe a fisherman?
It is then as I’m staring at him that I am always filled with a little pity for the fish. Not because he started the day in a cool lake playing fish games with his friends and will end it wearing a cornmeal jacket in the bottom of a frying pan. I feel pity because he fell to me instead of the old man.
We conclude much the way we started, only in reverse order. We are careful to leave the place as we found it. Granddaddy says, “That’s how you get to come back.” We pick up trash and lock gates. We always stop back by the house and thank the folks for letting us fish on their place. Granddaddy always offers them our fish, while I silently pray that if they do take some, mine won’t be in that number. Thankfully, that has never happened.
We return home to the ceremonial showing off of the catch. Granddaddy is much more low key and humble in his approach than I am in mine. By that I mean that he doesn’t leap from the truck, grab the stringer and go running through the house screaming, “Look what I caught! Look what I caught!” Of course he is also spared the lecture from my mom about how hard it is to get the smell of dripping fish out of the living-room rug.
Finally, I am required to help Granddaddy clean the fish, though it is a job I don’t mind. The combination of scales and entrails is enough to make the football jersey truly disgusting. I wear the mess like a medal. It is a proud moment.
Job complete, we head back into the house. Already I am growing excited and planning our next trip, the trip that may net one of us that fish of a lifetime. Granddaddy knows what I’m thinking. He musses my hair and smiles. I hope I can go fishing with him forever.
Jeff Foxworthy
The Button Jar
I wish I had known my grandparents when they were young. By the time I was old enough to be interested in them as people, they were very elderly. My grandfather always wore dark blue or brown overalls and was a tobacco farmer who also worked in the coal mines. My grandmother was a housewife and mother. Her daily chores included cooking, cleaning and feeding the farm hands, who consisted of many friends and cousins who helped my grandfather.
When I was a child, my parents would take my sister and me to my grandparents’ farm for the weekend. During one of these visits, we discovered the Button Jar. It was a typical winter day in Kentucky, cold and drizzling just enough rain that our mother wouldn’t let us go outside. We hadn’t brought any toys with us, thinking that we were going to explore the farm all weekend, and we were disgruntled and gloomy at the prospect of staying inside.
Trying to entertain ourselves, we picked at the leftover cornbread Mamaw had left on the kitchen table. In the back room, we spit on the little coal stove, watching the spittle bounce and spew until it evaporated. Bored, we lay down on the thick quilts on the iron bed where we slept, and imagined pictures out of the water spots on the sagging ceiling. We played Riddle-Mer-Riddle-Mer-Riddle-Merie until we couldn’t stand it anymore. I had that lonesome, empty feeling that often comes with childhood boredom, and I was determined that we do something.
My sister and I looked at each other and knowingly, without saying a word, decided to eavesdrop on the adults. We wandered into the living room and listened to the men sitting around the potbellied stove, telling hunting and fishing stories. Bored with that, we went into the kitchen to listen to the women talk about the task of raising children and what they were preparing for supper that night. This bored us too. Mamaw noticed we were fidgeting and said, “You girls come here a minute.”
She led us into her bedroom and reached for a large glass jar that sat on top of the old mahogany chifforo
be. The jar was full of every sort of button you could imagine!
Delighted, we climbed up onto her high four-poster bed and watched as she lovingly poured out all the red, blue, yellow and purple—every color—buttons onto the chenille bedspread. She smiled and said, “Maybe you’d like to play with these for a while.”
“Yes!” we cried in unison.
We began by trying to count the buttons, but there were hundreds and we always lost count. That’s when we actually looked closely at the buttons. At first glance, we thought that they were made of every color imaginable, but when we looked more closely, we realized what a real treasure we had. One that caught our eyes was a gold metal button, covered with sparkling rhinestones. We turned it over in our hands and marveled at its beauty, wondering how our plain country grandmother had ever come by such a valuable jewel. We carefully sorted out other unique buttons. There were silver buttons, shaped like tiny love knots and large gold buttons set with tiny red, blue, green and gold rhinestones. And although we had never seen silk before, we were quite sure that the fabric-covered buttons were made of silk. As we sorted the buttons, I noticed a tiny clipping of black velvet fabric and thread still attached to a glittering rhinestone button. I looked over at my sister in awe and whispered, “These buttons are off real clothes! Just imagine the kind of dress Mamaw must have had with this button!”
“I’ll bet it was a long black velvet dress that she wore to a big dance or party!” my sister said.
We imagined how Mamaw must have looked when she was the mayor’s daughter and clearly the prettiest girl in town. We saw before us the life of a popular young socialite who, at age fifteen, had traded that life for marriage.
Chicken Soup for the Country Soul Page 9