Fishing with Grandpa

A long time ago I was a boy and when I was a boy I used to fish with my Grandpa Clinton.  We would travel to Moss, Tennessee to visit him on his farm not far from his childhood home where earlier my mother had gone to visit her grandparents.  There was not much to Moss.  Not much has changed since.

The old tv didn’t get much in the way of reception so my brother and I were generally left to our own devices, hanging out, finding black widow spiders, climbing trees, playing with my grandfather’s dog Rusty, tossing the football or baseball around, lighting paper airplanes on fire and throwing them, playing crazy eights or solitaire, looking through the gun closet or nosing around in the basement.

There was a frigidaire down there (as my grandmother called all refrigerators regardless of brand) that wasn’t completely grounded and would give you a not unpleasant jolt if you grabbed the handle. You could also sit in a chair next to it and lie in wait for passers-by.  If they got within striking range you could lift your feet, grab the handle and give them an electric prod with the tip of your finger.  If you got them in the head, they’d see a blue flash.  Mostly though we just shocked ourselves.

In the evenings, the adults would play cards and I would watch them through the haze of my grandfather’s cigarettes or stare at the clock on the mantle that was backlit and had a moving water scene.  Like most boys I was inclined to admire the men in my life.  I knew my grandfather was the best fisherman on the planet.  I’m sure lots of boys feel this way about their grandfathers but in my case, I had proof.  On the mantle next to the clock sat a trophy with a fish leaping out of the water inscribed with the words:

1st 1964

Carp

Frank Clinton

It never occurred to me that carp don’t tailwalk and certainly I never considered this to be anything less than a great achievement.  Never once did I question the desirability of the carp as a quarry.  I still don’t.  A fisher will fish for those fish present.

My grandfather would always take us on a fish related excursion.  When we were too young to fish he would take us to the trout hatchery.  There is quite good trout fishing on the nearby Cumberland river.  But the following years were the best.  My grandfather, stepfather, brother and I would  wake up early and pile into the F-150 and head over to Thompson’s Creek, which was strangely enough, a lake.  There we’d drop in the little aluminium boat and pitch black or purple rubber worms toward the banks or near lily pads.  We’d always catch plenty of bass.  One memorable trip my grandfather had his hand in the water trying to undo a snag when his hand exploded out of the water in string of expletives.  Apparently, he had seen a gaping maw of a fish trying to make a meal of his hand.  Years later it occurred to me to ask my stepfather if grandpa had been playing a practical joke on us and was told that he wasn’t.

Of course those days ended too quickly.  My grandfather died of a heart attack when I was in seventh grade and I haven’t fished Thompson’s Creek since.  I remember my grandmother saying she knew my grandfather would die soon when he hadn’t gone out in the spring to plant the vegetable garden as he had done every year of their 49 years of marriage.  Grandma fell into herself a little bit and was never quite the same and our visits weren’t either.  There was still the frigidaire, the airplanes to burn, the footballs and baseballs and Rusty but there was no more fishing.  My brother does not fish anymore though he still loves the water and my stepfather is too far away to wet a line with on any kind of regular basis.

Grandma died during the nether time between winter and spring and I flew back to Tennessee to be with my family and see the old place for what might be the last time.  It had been several years since the last time I had been in that part of the world.  I had been a young man hadn’t noticed how kind people are in that area, instead focusing on how little there was in the way of nightlife, entertainment or economic opportunity.  I can appreciate it now though and I take exception when I hear people mocking Appalachia and its people.

The carp trophy came home to Oregon with me along with a quilt my grandmother had made and wanted me to have.  You know the type, the ones that go for hundreds of dollars for city dwellers to give their place or maybe their vacation home an authentic “country look.”  The carp trophy sits in a place of honor and I actually took it on a trout trip on the Mckenzie this past summer:

I caught 31 trout in an hour and a half.

Perhaps I am compelled to fish as much as it is a conscious choice.  By fishing, I embrace our shared past and take pride in who I am and what we were.  Then again, maybe I just like to feel the tug.  Who knows.