Memories and Wild Tales

[iboats.com]

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Several years ago in 2003 I visited my old stompin' grounds of Southern Pines and Pinehurst, NC. I walked around an elegant golf course and stopped at a water hazard - a spring fed, crystal clear, partially lily pad covered pond of about three acres. Sixty-five years ago it was an isolated woodland pond. I stood on the dam and watched a five pound bass cruise by. By the spillway a school of small bluegills hovered.

*BING!* It is 1943 again. Down the sandy path 1 came, with a willow pole over my shoulder (my big brother had cut and trimmed it for me), a roll of string, a safety pin and a slice of bread in the pocket of my overalls. The warm sand felt good on my bare feet and the fragrance of the blooming wisteria felt good in my nose. April is a wonderful time to be in the North Carolina sandhills country.

Carefully trying to duplicate the canepole stillfishing rig I had read about in Field and Stream, I rigged a string about the same length as my pole and tied the safety pin on the end. I then searched about and found a short piece of dry twig that I tied about 18" about my "hook". Next, a pinch of the Merita bread was moulded on the "hook". We only ate the Merita bread because that was what The Lone Ranger ate. Mom's bread was a lot better, but the Merita was soft and doughy and made good doughballs.

After a couple of tries I was able to deposit my bait near the spillway, where I could see a school of real, wild fish!! Oh!! The adrenaline was flowing and my little heart was racing.

Almost immediately the twig shot beneath the surface and I felt a jerk on my pole. I hauled back on the pole and the string, twig and "hook" flew over my head and into the honeysuckle thicket behind me. A small (it didn't seem that way at the time) bluegill popped out of the water, detached from the safety pin and fell back into the water.
I burst into tears. I had almost caught my first real fish and it got away!!! I carefully extracted my rig from the honeysuckle (it was full of bees) and applied a fresh bread ball. Now I was mad. Those danged fish aren't gonna get the best of me!

Well, those danged fish continued to get the best of me. After about an hour I was almost out of bread, when down the path came "Uncle" Jim. Jim Willis was not my uncle. He was a very elderly black man who lived in a renovated chicken house behind our home and did chores for my Mom for his rent. "Uncle" was a title of respect reserved for only the most loved old black men in those days. More about Jim Willis another time.

Uncle Jim had a long willow pole over his shoulder and carried a molasses bucket. Contemplating my tear streaked face, he said, "What's troubling you, Honey Chile?" He listened with his most serious, wrinkled expression (Uncle Jim had wrinkles in his wrinkles) as I explained, between sobs. He examined my tackle.
"Them brim are a sight smart," he said. "We need to get a bit fancier to fix 'em".
He dug into his bucket and brought out a spool of real fishing line and a real hook. He rerigged my tackle with these and added half of a wine cork. Then he frowned at my bread (only crust was left and it had gone stale and crumbly). After a few minutes he caught a small grasshopper and showed me how to put it on the hook.
"They's bigger brim over around that stob." he pointed at a stick protruding by some lily pads, "Try putting over there."

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A few minutes later a gigantic bluegill shot over my head into the honeysuckle. That thing must have been a good 7". I dove head first into the thicket and grabbed it. Oh, my!! What a glorious feeling! I was ecstatic. I gave Uncle Jim a big hug and raced home to show my trophy to my Mom...

*BING!* It is 2003 again. My reverie was interrupted by a distinctly New York accent. "Hey, grandpa, you dumb old fart, get the hell out of the fairway!!"

I moved aside and watched him hit a ball into MY pond. I smiled, walked back to my car, and left.