Memories are almost magical in the way the allow us to return to certain events and relive them like they were just yesterday. Certain events, especially special ones are forever frozen in time like videos in our mind eye. I'm sure everyone can recall where they were when President Kennedy was shot. Or what they were doing when they watched the moon landing. For fishermen an everlasting special event would be their first fishing expedition. More than most would involve our Fathers or family relative. Those from my generation would also probably be set near a country stream or pond down on the farm. This new Pepsi generation doesn't realize how fortunate they are to actually have a motor powered boat. Filled with state of the art electronic fishing technology to help put them on the fish. That combined with the help of past generation forethought in fish management and park development. Have left many a majestic and pristine place to wet a hook across this great nation of ours, be it fresh or salt water.
But this article is not about the great job that our government is doing to bring our waters back to its' once greatness. Or about how our effort of practicing catch and release can help in ensure future generations, the wonders of the sport of fishing. Ways of fishing, which I whole-heartily agree with and practice on those rare occasions I, do catch fish. No, this article came to me during a recent vacation while revisiting my family roots back in Missouri. When I was fortunate enough to slip away from the endless family gatherings and bar-b-cues to do a little fishing.
It had been 15 plus years since I last visited the little towns in southern Missouri where I spent many a summer of my youth. Towns name Marble Hills, Lutesville, Grassy, Dongola, Zalma and Advance. The latter had once been featured on Hee-Haw's cornfield salute to small town America, a very prestigious honor at the time.
We spent the better portion of the afternoon visiting the old familiar sites of my youth, which had long since changed hands from my late grandpa. Some landmarks had passed onto immediate family member, other into distant cousins. The old station between Advance and Lutesville with the pond up on the hill, had remained in the family, mostly for sentimentally reason was still there. The thousands of pop-top lids that once covered the gravel parking lot where long gone. The old tree behind the building was still standing, where farmers would sit under and play checker with those same soda tops, and catch up on the local gossip or invent their own. The trailer where my Grandma once lived is still there, now my Uncle Bob keeps the yard mowed up to the pond's hill. The pond, was full of lily pads and overgrown weed banks. Still holds lots of bluegill and bass just itching for a chance to eat nice fat juicy grasshopper thrown their way. The task of catching grasshoppers for bait was usually mine, a task that I am proud say became very good at!!! Walking through the tall weeds I could almost see my Grandpa sitting on his fishing chair under the willow tree near the bank. Throwing back those pesky bluegill that constantly stole his hopper before it had a chance to entice a strike from the sought after bass that thrived in this small farm pond.
Further down road some 20 miles toward the small town of Grassy was my destination though. At a place referred to as twin bridges, cause there were two bridges that span the Castor River, landmarks in this region were usually pretty self-explanatory. This was one of my favorite haunts of my summer youth, where one could always count on the water to be cold and clear. With the bottom of the river being covered with thousand of perfectly formed rocks, perfect for skipping for those unbelievable 5 to 6 count throws. And water so clear you can watch the fish take your bait before setting the hook.
As we turned into fishing hole the surroundings where unfamiliar. The two bridges had been replaced by more modern structures. The old ones had been damaged in the floods of 93 and were recently down. The new bridges had taken on their own characteristics though. As hundreds of swallow had made mud nest under it's beams and where never-ending in their bat-like antics of foraging the river for mosquito’s and other insects before returning to their nest. A new image that would be imbedded in my boy's mind's eye now, much like the old bridges with their rustic looks had been in mine.
The river on the other hand was much as I had left it some 30 years ago when I was last here. It winded through the farming countryside. It banks full of throwing rocks, and wide long beaches perfect for a family picnic and swim. The water was clear and as I soon found out, was still cold as it rippled its way along the rocky bottom. From the shore you could see the always-faithful nickel-bugs as they danced across the surface of the water. A name they derived from our Grandma giving us a nickel for everyone we could catch back in the old days. And silhouettes of bass and perch along the banks as they waited for a minnow to swim by before darting out from their hiding place to gobble up a cheap meal. With this site it wasn't long before we had set up camp and gone over our plan of attack for our unsuspecting quarry.
Armed with the ultra-modern bait casting technology of Japanese reels, and sensitive graphite rods that would twitch if a dragonfly would land on its tip. We waded up stream in search of trophy small mouths. With pocketsize tackle boxes loaded with the newest and brightest colors of lures guaranteed to attract even the finicky of bass. Selling for 19.95 on cable channels fishing shows, there was little doubt we would be staying up late to-night cleaning a mess of something!!!!
It was then we first discovered our real competition, a local man and his son about 50 yard up river from us near the next bend of the river. Looking not much different from us, except they were under-equipped, armed with only Zebco's and a minnow bucket they were no match for our superior firepower. A wise man once said those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it. We would soon learn when in Rome do as the Romans do!!! As we watched these defenseless anglers catch 5 bass to our 1 during a two-hour course. The only thing stopping the biggest massacre since Little Big Horn, were the man and his son running out of minnows. After releasing the few bass we had caught back to the waters to fight another day. We waded down stream to our camp, with our rods dangling in the water. Leaving our opponents in our wake as they struggled with their stringers of fish.
Although it wasn't the day I had dream of the night before. The river still was able to console me with its unchangeable ability to still power my inner tube through the rapids of my childhood memories. Only this time there we a few times I drug bottom and was force to evacuate my tubes to drag it to deeper water. This factor I believe was caused from the river being down and not my added weight of my present self. Although I must admit my children managed the rapids fairly easily???
On the way home we stop at the town cemetery where my most of my relative are buried. Looking at the head stones I traced my roots back to the early 1800's when my ancestor came to Missouri from Pennsylvania. I showed my offspring their Grandma and Grandpa graves that they were not fortunate enough to have known. And as we read the other markers of great aunts, uncles, first, second and third cousins. And listens to stories that my Uncle told us of people who we never knew but shared a common bound through our bloodlines. With as little as names and dates on the headstones we could tell so much about some of the heartaches that my past generation had to endure was remarkable. We could see how my immediate family had been reduced from 13 to 11 by the death of two siblings. One at childbirth and one at the young age of fourteen, by blood poisoning from a rusty nail that had been stepped on. And as my Uncle filled in the blanks about my distant relatives with some of the stories about their lives. I could see the feeling of belonging that was emerging in my children as they listened to my Uncle. Even when he told them of how my Great-Great Grandpa was killed over a livestock trade gone badly, the same night his wife was giving birth to my Great Grandpa. It helps to translate that these were more than name on headstones but actual people with problems like themselves.
As we left the cemetery I place some wild flowers on my Grandparent markers. And said a silent prayer of thanks to my first fishing partner for taking the time to fish with his Grandson. How armed with only a canepole and a coffee can full of worms, could make such a lasting impression on a young mind. And realize that the bounds that really binds a family together aren't found in the modern mall of this Pepsi generation, but along the water ways across America in the simple art of fishing. Although fishing equipment for the sport has changed quite drastically over the years. The participants are the same, kids are just as impressionable, and fish just as feisty. A little blue-gill dangling off the end of the pole with a grasshopper in it's mouth. Is just as exciting to a youngster today as it was back then. That is one lesson my Grandpa taught me about life and the art of fishing that I will always remember. Hopefully I can do as good a job of teaching my offspring as he did his. Thanks again Grandpa!!!!