Summer 2024
By Ken Cook
It was a typical Sunday get-to-gather at Grampa Mac’s house on “Mac Hill’, situated in the outskirts of Columbia, Mississippi. The women folk had been sequestered in the kitchen fixing dinner for a large group of kin folk and neighbors that almost always drifted in after church let out. No one could fail to sense the aroma of fried chicken from Gramps’ hen house, butter beans and fried okra from the garden, rice and gravy, Ice tea and sweet potato pie.
Grandpa Mac, the self-appointed host and elder, rocked slowly back and forth in his home-made wicker rocker on the front porch of his south Mississippi home place. His growing audience of men, mostly under 30, remained largely silent out of respect and unwritten order.
The men in attendance were workers of the soil, linemen, mechanics, loggers, shopkeepers, carpenters, and teachers. To a person, outside of their principal trades, their hobbies were hunting, fishing and outdoor pursuits. They also believed that they were christened to pass these hobbies and pursuits on to their kids and grandkids.
As the various and random conversations waned, Grandpa spoke up and said, “I’ve been wanting to ask a question to the men folk that’s been troubling me: Are we getting too big for our britches and spending far too much money on fishing tackle and gear when we don’t really have too?”
The front porch crowd grew silent and pretended not to understand the question or the intent of the question.
“Let me give you an example”, Gramps uttered. “Early last Thursday morning, as I was adjusting my suspenders and getting ready for the day’s chores, I saw Royce and his son Butch drive out of their work shop pulling a shiny bassboat and motor and head for the big highway.
Photo by Jimmy Jacobs.
“Have you forgotten the nights when we used to go frog gigging in my pasture pond below the house? Have you forgotten the 5-foot stringers of bluegills we used to take turns toting up the hill to my house for cleaning? Or stringing trot lines for mudcats across the Pearl River on holiday picnics? Or when squirrels weren’t active and we laid down our .22s and spent a few hours taking turns flipping Hawaiian Wigglers at hungry green trout in John’s Creek with my old trusty rod and reel? These were teachable moments, fun times, and the most we every spent was around $5.00 for a 10-foot cane pole, a 50-foot spool of Stren fishing line, some split shot sinkers, and a few Eagle Claw needle sharp hooks. For bait, we grunted red wigglers and picked, in season, catalpa worms, and strung our caught-fish on forked tree branches, abundant on the shady, sandy creek banks.
Photo by Jimmy Jacobs.
“We made an annual trip to Hardy’s Grocery and Meat Market, where all these supplies were purchased, including a tin of Prince Albert tobacco, which also served as a pocket-sized tackle box with a hinged top. If the young ones were helpful in locating supplies, they were treated to a Royal Crown Cola and a Moon Pie. And that’s the way it was in my younger days of fishing trips.
“And that’s the way it was when I announced that we are going fishing. Everybody in this big family eagerly responded: Where are we going; when do we leave; and can I take so and so? Do I need to buy anything?”
Grandpa finally stopped talking, exhaled softly, and waited for a response from someone seated on the porch. He didn’t have to wait long, because Butch, the eldest son of Royse raised his hand and firmly stated, “Grandpa, me and Daddy didn’t buy that aluminum fishing boat. We won it lock, stock and barrel in a catfishing tournament last weekend.
“You see, Daddy works for a man who owns a fish processing plant and he’s been urging Dad to enter me and him in ‘The Mr. Whiskers Catfish Tournament Circuit.’ Dad kept saying to his boss that we couldn’t join because we didn’t have a boat or the fishing gear. The boss’s response was, ‘well, what if I loan you one of my boats, spot you on all the gear you need, and cover your entry fees and time away from work?’ Dad and I huddled over the extremely generous offer and we agreed to accept it. No way to say no! And we shoved off the next Friday with green backs, personal gear and our registration number.
“We quickly learned that this challenge would be no walk to the hen coup. There were six tournaments scheduled in the annual circuit and four had already been completed. Me and Dad were getting sweat stains in the underarm’s of our tournament shirts because we ranked third in the standings and the championship was only two tournaments away. We really feared that if we didn’t win the championship, we would lose our jobs and embarrass our kinfolks.”
Photo courtesy of Polly Dean.
When the tournament concluded and the weigh-in was in progress, Royce and Butch were sweating bullets, the emcee finally and loudly announced that Royce and Butch had bested the tournament leaders by a slim 5.5 pounds and for cake icing they also won the heaviest cat boated during the tournament. When the press reporter asked how they felt holding up the trophies to the non-stop applause, Royse said, “This one is for our boss and Grandpa Mac. I think they will agree that we haven’t outgrown our britches after all.”
Ken Cook is a former editor of Fishing Tackle Retailer magazine, newspaper columnist and freelance writer, He also is a member of the Georgia Outdoor Writers Association. Ken makes his home in Athens and can be contacted at kenneth.cook1@gmail.com.