Gone Fishing

“Gone fishing, instead of just a-wishing;” everyone has experienced a song that stuck in their mind and thus blocked all incoming messages. With “Gone Fishing” flashing though my mind without warning, I remembered my days growing up on my grandfather’s farm. I grew up with the tune “Gone fishing;” it was the theme song of a local outdoorsman television show. My grandfather watched the show with a certain passion, believing that he could become a World Champion Bass Fisherman, if he ever found the proverbial “number 10 youcatchemforsure blue spinning feather lure” as advertised by the show’s host. Naturally, no sporting goods store this side of the Mason Dixon ever heard of a “number 10 youcatchemforsure blue spinning feather lure.” Indeed, about the only bait recommended by the local farm store and hunting/fishing emporium, was a bucket of minnows or worms. On a spring day after a hearty rain, a fisherman or woman could always get a coffee can full of giant night crawlers. Hence, gone fishing was not a wish for my grandfather, but a near vocation.

When my grandfather was not tromping across some neighbor’s field to find the perfect and secret bass pond, he could be found on the front row of a little out-of-the way country church. Such as it was, the small one room building served as the sanctuary, meeting hall, Sunday school building, community center, and office for most of my relatives and a few shirt-tail neighbors. My grandfather was the preacher, my aunt was the piano player – on an old upright piano that had been salvaged from a local brothel after a suspicious fire.

Although failing eyesight, my grandfather would sit at a table adjoining the front row of the little church, and pore over a pulpit Bible. After straining to read he often pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket and examined scripture with the care of a brain surgeon. I, on the other hand, found the church to be a place where I could press my starched white shirt into the back of a heavily shellacked-wooden-pew, then I would quickly lean forward, creating a loud tearing sound in the old church. My grandfather would look over the top of his thick glasses and smile at me. My uncles failed to see the amusement.

When not fishing or working at the church, we would be at home in our two-story rambling farmhouse; there, my grandfather would sit and continue to read his Bible. He would speak to people who visited, or move to deep prayer. There was only one channel on the television (only one we could receive), and as a youth, I believed that it only broadcasted news and fishing shows, and Lawrence Welk on Saturday night, otherwise the green screen was never illuminated; so, the only sounds of the living room, most of the time, would be the melodious deep voice of my grandfather praising the Lord.

Occasionally, a lost soul would step onto our old wooden porch, and I would hear my grandmother’s voice calling “Willie, there’s someone here.”

My grandfather would rise from his desk and prayerful thoughts, and with a Bible and a cane in-hand, he would walk out and sit on one of the rocking chairs that lined the veranda. Occasionally, I looked out the window at my grandfather and the stranger, and noted that every once-in-awhile, my grandfather would reach over and hold the hands of the other person on the porch.

When my grandfather would return to the house, and the stranger had left; he would sit back at his study desk. Sometimes, I would ask about the stranger, and the reply would always be the same; “We were talking about the fisherman,” he would say.

In later years I began to realize who the fisherman was, and I am pretty sure, that a “number 10 youcatchemforsure blue spinning feather lure” had little to do with the fishing.

“Gone fishing, instead of just a-wishing.”

The Old Crank Phone

It really does not seem like so many years ago I regularly visited my grandparents farm. While visiting my grandparents, the old crank phone often rang with two short rings and one long ring. The hardwood, crank-type phone hung on a hallway wall -- just at the foot of the stairs.

Truthfully, I never learned to use a crank phone. During the years my grandparents lived on the farm I simply never grew tall enough to reach the large rectangular phone box. Indeed, the first phone my parents allowed me to use had a dial in the base. But, the phone I always wanted to use was the one my grandmother regularly stood before. I always enjoyed watching her as she picked up the oddly shaped black hand-piece -- attached to the side of the rectangular wooden box -- stood on her tiptoes, and shouted into a long metal cone. The metal cone protruded from the face of the wooden box.

“Hello, yes, yes, this is Blanche. Cora, can you hear me?” Seemed to be the opening scenario of each phone conversation. If the call was for my grandmother it was usually from her sister - Cora.

Occasionally, she would interrupt her conversation and I would hear phrases like “Cora, someone just picked up...Wilma is that you?” Often it would be Wilma or one of many other neighbors. Usually, the conversation would continue, in an older version of a three party conference. This common practice never seemed to bother anyone. At least I never heard any of my rural relatives complain.

I surmise that there was an unwritten rule, which when someone really needed to use the phone for a private call, all they had to do was simply ask to use the line for a few minutes. Of course, if the request sounded urgent, then at least six other receivers would go off hook a minute after the caller had a chance to establish the call, or in terms of my Grandmother’s day, call “Central.” Notably, the rural party line was the fastest news media in the county.

The base of the old crank phone housed two batteries that seemed to wear out on a regular basis. I was always delighted when my grandmother changed the batteries. I always imaged all of the great things I could do with the giant cylinders -- if only my grandmother would allow me to add the batteries to my toy collection.

A thunderstorm meant that even if the phone rang, no person in the house would go within ten feet of the rectangular box. The day after a thunderstorm the phone remained idle; it never rang, nor did anyone ever attempt to call out. The assumption was that the phone would not work -- I think my grandparents based this assumption on experience.

A crank phone was rural America’s link to the outside world. Today, the crank pone is found only in museums or in a personal collection. Occasionally, the beautiful wooden boxes are found as modified decorator telephones. In its most humiliating state, some individuals use the old crank phone as a flower pot.

The beautiful hardwood phones of my Grandmother’s era are just memories for most North Carolinians. Occasionally, there are reminders of their charm, reminders captured in Rockwell paintings or period movies.

My memories of the crank phone are more personal. These memories center around my grandmother--hair in a bun-- standing on her tip toes, one hand-- breaking beans--he other hand holding the black earpiece. Her voice is etched into my memory, “Well, Cora, I’ve got to let you go now, I see Willie coming up the road. See you Sunday. Bye, now,” and seven hanging-up clicks heard on the line.

Rhythm of the Rain

About 40 years ago, an American musical group named the Cascades recorded a song entitled "Rhythm of the Rain" (their only hit single). As a college student of that era, I frequented a rathskeller in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, where the Cascades often played. Each night, the group would announce their only gold record and play for the pizza eating crowd.

Rain has been a song theme for many generations. The tranquil beauty of falling rain during a gentle, summer storm, is in a way, God's own poetry. The Psalmist must have realized the nature of rain. There are at least seven references to rain in Psalms. In Psalm 135 the Psalmist describes in detail the formation of a storm.

Rain has rhythm, meter, it leads the listener along a path, deserts them, then lures them back with distant crescendo. It plays with all of the emotions. At times it is violent, other times peaceful. No master of printed verse was ever so great. Rain has no prejudice. It falls upon the rich and poor, the good and bad.

Adults hide from the rain, buy ridiculous coverings and run from place to place with heads down and ears tucked under collars. Often we adults sit around and complain about too much or too little rain. We make silly statements like "I hope it doesn't rain until I finish my golf round," then complain because the course has not been watered.

Rain changes our moods and habits. It causes us to change plans, yet few of us simply sit and enjoy the rain.

Has there ever been a child who was not perfectly happy splashing in the rain?

"Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain...."

Psalm 135:7 (RSV) He it is who makes the clouds rise/ at the end of the earth,/ who makes lightnings for the rain/ and brings for the wind from His/ storehouses.

The Storm

She put her hand on her hip and glared at the gangly young man chugging milk from a carton. “David, did you finish them chores? The wather’s gonna change an you ain’t gonna have a chance once the sky starts to fall.”

“Ah, maw,” he kicked the edge of the old oaken table, pieces of manure and mud fell from his shoes. “I gotta go clean over to Rachael Smiths before dinner. Cain’t Lucy do them chickens.”

“I swan David,” she wiped her hands on her apron, “ask you to do two things around the house and you act like I’m cuttin’ into your bank account.”

David swallowed the last of the carton contents and threw the container toward a waiting trash bin. A trail of milk remnants sailed with the box but instead landed on the swept linoleum. “I jes wanna get my homework done for a change, and Rachel says she can help me, canna I go Ma?”

“Be back before dark?”

“Promise, hope to die.”

“Git go’in, and if that storm comes up you come right home, hear. I’ll get them eggs, cause we don’t want that snake in the hen house again, but you git home fore them folks eat, cause I don’t want Smiths thinkn’ we cain’t feed our own.” She dropped down on one knee and began wiping the milk droplets from the floor with her apron.

“Okay maw, storm comes up I’m outa there, but no matter what I be home before dark.”

She pulled herself up to the table with one hand. “Long as yer goin’ drop this letter off in da mail box.”

“Sure thang, I’m outa here.” He grabbed the letter from her outstretched fingers and in one movement left the table and pushed open the screen door. Yard chickens scattered with his hurried approach.

Mercy Hoggins stood at the screen and watched her only son and only male in her life hop into his waiting jeep. The letter, stuck in his pocket, popped out when he sat down.
The big engine roared and David Hoggins flew out her yard and headed for the gravel road that connected her farm with the rest of the world.

As soon as the dust settled, Mercy, walked out to the yard and picked up the letter. “Guess that mailman won’t pick it up here.” Ten minutes later she returned from the mailbox and with one hand on a knee pushed herself up onto the porch and onto a waiting chair. “Oh, Lord, yeve given me a mantel.” She looked at the approaching dark clouds. “And, Lord bring that boy home if it gits to blow’n.” The chicken house loomed another fifty steps up the hill, Mercy looked at the weather vane blowing straight out, “Guess I better move. Lucy, close the windows whilest I git them eggs.” Mercy called into the house hoping her voice would be heard over the local television station’s cartoon show.

Mercy’s return from the hen house was hastened by following rain. Once inside the house she busied herself closing windows and doors. The television station suddenly beeped a storm warning. “Oh, precious Lord, do help us.” Her prayer was quickly said as she watched the crawl across the bottom of the screen. “We gotta get to the cellar,” she rushed around the room picking up the transistor radio and a blanket. “Lucy, look out the door and see if you see David coming.”

The rain pelted Mercy and her daughter as they rounded the corner of the house. With all of her might she pulled the heavy cellar door open against the wind. “Get in there Lucy.” She couldn’t budge the door to re-close it so she and her daughter felt their way to the bowels of the cave like cellar. “Don’t ya mind them slugs, they just as skired as we are. Lord, where is David?” She looked at the roof of the cellar. Enough late afternoon light still filtered in to give the room an eerie blue haze.

Suddenly the cellar door slammed shut and a six foot young man tumbled into the shelter. “David,” she screamed while grabbing him around the neck and shoulders.”

“Ah, maw, I told you I’d be back.”

“Thank you Jesus.”

Reflections

We watched, Trish and I, as the gentle rain glued itself to the frame of the bay window. The droplets formed trails in the accumulated dust on the window sill. That window had guarded so many years of life from the willful spirit of nature. It was not long ago that the eyes, which peered through the lowest pane, belonged to a cherry-cheeked male child -- a child with eyes so dark, yet piercing, that birds feigned to roost upon the rail that encircled our porch. No birds gathered today, and the piercing eyes that drove birds away were only reflections in the rain.

Trish touched my hand and moved closer to my side. The big house on the river that always greeted us with open arms -- that had been home to six generations of my name; that welcomed newest generations to our family; that held the souls of my mother and father, my grandparents, and their grandparents -- the big house on the river that hosted countless birthday parties; that sustained all night parties of teenagers; that celebrated elaborate wedding parties -- the big house on the river that gray clad soldiers once recognized; that colorfully dressed tourists once sought -- the big old house on the river that had withstood over 150 years of boys and girls, men and women, cats and dogs, all seeking shelter from the rain -- was feeling its last human contact. Even as we remained within the circumference of its walls I could feel the house weeping, weeping as I wept, weeping as Trish wept. We sensed an eerie sound of the old structure, a squeak and a creak -- the cry of the aged. The sounds, we used to regard as the normal noise of our home, were now only the sounds of its death toll.

We moved through the house like thieves, suffering the fumes of rotting wood and paper; our flashlights scanning every corner. A curious reddish brown ring, carelessly applied chest-high, throughout the house interior belied a decorator’s brush. We walked around memories and on top of memories--wretched, mud soaked papers and furniture. Just a week earlier we had taken out of the house only what we could carry: the pickup-bed full of clothes (appropriately tucked into garbage bags), the picture albums, the family Bible, the old blue file box, and Trish’s pillow. Our reasoning was sound; it was a routine we had been through before. Life on the river often meant moving to higher ground--just in case.

The river rarely passed over our boat docks, and only once (so my grandfather told me) did the river ever reach the house -- that was in 1933. Usually, when the river got high, I sent Trish to her sister’s home in New Bern; during those times I would stay behind to watch and check on our property. This year was different -- the river had detected our lingering, and had forced us to wade from house to truck and back wetting our feet in muddy water. By the time Trish and I had departed the old house, the hungry river had begun flowing under our small truck and nibbling at the hubcaps.

Our later return to the house was more deliberate.

“Do you think even God cares about this place now?” asked Trish with a scornful tone as she stared at our trash covered refrigerator -- the river had opened doors and deposited limbs and debris -- piled now in and around the stained, steel-box.

“It can be replaced,” I could offer only a monotone answer.

“Snake,” said Trish without emotion. She weakly raised a hand and pointed her flashlight at the coiled black reptile in a corner next to the refrigerator.

The light of her flashlight reflected off the dark serpent as a quick shiver shook my body.

I started toward the door. “I’ll get the gun.”

“Don’t bother,” Trish was still spotlighting the snake; “it all belongs to him now.”

Moments later we were in the cab of our pickup, leaving the old house on the river - by the same route my family had exited the property for 154 years. Trish said nothing, the dried stains of tears on her face looked like the traces of raindrops we had seen in the bay windows, only moments earlier. She barely glanced at the fallen pine tree near our lane; she stared straight ahead. Trish’s dark eyes pierced the droplet- covered windshield -- as if to scare away the rain. Only the tires of my truck chattered a farewell to the big old house on the river; I did not bother looking in the rear-view-mirror.

Our pastor read, “My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and the portion for ever, ” Psalm 73:26. Trish and I sat in our familiar seats staring at the huge iron cross hung over the chancel.

“You know,” she whispered, “where would we be if Jesus didn’t care?”