This fisherman’s fairytale is far from folklore… A true story of giants, fairies, heroism and romance stay alive in an old man’s memories.

Once upon a time long ago and far, far away, there was a boy. “Wait,” someone will shout. “That sounds like an elementary opening to a fairytale. Can’t you write a better lead than that?” Perhaps, but I hold to the one offered above. There are indeed fairies and giants and heroes involved; still, the following story is unlike others we have heard or read in that genre. It falls short of the common definition with which we are familiar because it is true.

This boy in question lived on a poor-dirt farm. Other than Sunday church, Vacation Bible School and the annual practice of week-long revival services, he had little exposure during summers to the world outside those 80 acres. Farm work began early on for him, milder duties for the most part initially, but these morphed with years into more detailed and complex chores. Preparing for and planting crops, maintenance of those crops and harvesting them became common. So did tinkering with equipment to keep it serviceable.

Equipment in those days was most rudimentary. A too-small tractor and disk the primary tools. And there was a stalk cutter made from cast-off road grader blades welded to a steel pipe which, in theory anyway, chopped along the Pearl are as enchanting today as they were to that boy decades earlier. The residue of corn and cotton after gathering. Planting of said crops, though done mechanically, was accomplished one row at a time. Plowing, too. But life was good. Everything was not hot and dirty work.

Portions of a day or two per week involved walking to the creek less than a mile away, cane pole and can of worms accompanying the boy. Most of these adventures were reserved for late afternoons, with redbellies the preferred specimen. But the occasional catfish or bass came. That latter was colloquially known as trout back then. Exotic, but this boy’s family preferred the taste of redbellies. He would take the catch home threaded onto a spindly green limb as shadows lengthened and quickly prepare and present the entire package to his mama. She never failed to congratulate, and would more times than not fry the fresh catch for supper. This exercise was usually in August, cotton picking or corn pulling not yet underway.

And there were other August days when the boy went with his daddy to the Pearl River, a far more adventurous journey than that one to the creek. The boy’s daddy liked to fish, and August generally initiated a season that worked well for spotted cats, Daddy’s favorite. The man knew how to catch spotted cats.

August, for the most part, saw waters low, currents gentle and sandbars embracing edges all along the river’s course. The older of the duet understood that spotted cats would be there, cloistered in holes along steep banks or tucked snugly in debris of downed trees that eroding currents had unearthed from those banks. He would dangle limb hooks there, a basic regimen of a hook, weight and line tied to a green limb of some tree that had recently succumbed to the river’s whims. Baited with a hand-sized perch, he did. It was glorious.

One particular day of intrigue grabbed the boy’s attention, immersed him in new world of enchantment. He and his dad hauled a cumbersome wooden boat in a battered pickup to a put-in point at Caldwell’s Camp. They would float the river to the Jennings Hole and walk a woods road back to the truck after that soon-to-be erudite fishing excursion was complete. The explosion of ecstasy would begin around the first bend.

Lobutcha Creek. A name the boy had heard and attempted to envision in that young mind which was already showing a keen propensity for romanticism and unexperienced experiences. Just that name – Lobutcha – was romance aplenty at the moment. Then it appeared.

The Colossus of Rhodes stood sentinel, but not in bronze or stone. It stood in the form of two cypresses, one on either side of that stream with the romantic name, terminating in the Pearl at this very spot he had heard so much about. The Colossus dictated entry to a cathedral – more cypress and oaks and willows and mulberries, caressing serpentine shores and guarding against irreverent intrusion. The boy was transfixed.

Tannic water that showed no particular rush to lose its individuality by blending with the downstream river flow. Near-water banks of sand in this spot and slippery mud with the pungent smell of decaying leaves in another spot. Mud that oozed between bare toes with such delight that the boy determined he had committed a crime, that he had been a participant in some nefarious dealings for which he would face legal retribution. So enthralled was he by this squishing mud that he planned, even in this moment of immediate and admitted guilt, to do it all again should the opportunity present.

Soon the boy and his daddy moved on. The Old Camp – over there on the right-hand bank. A gradual left and the Old Straight stretched before them. The boy had heard of this place as well. While she likely would not have encountered the Cheshire Cat, Alice would have much enjoyed and been enlightened by this Wonderland. More cypress; tall, intentional banks that kept the river unwavering from its set path for a quarter mile; sloughs just over those banks, with wood ducks squealing and flitting upward from the brief disturbance of the boat and restrained conversation of its occupants. All grand.

One cypress, resting in the water, caught the boy’s eye. Its base was surrounded by knees, cryptic in form and intent. The boy tossed a hook and worm within the confines of those knees. An impressive bluegill, tugging and protesting and eventually coming over the gunwale. The boy was content.

When I think about the entire matter more, this story definitely has a fairy-tale flavor. There was that once-upon-a-time and long ago thing, mid 1950s or so. There was that far, far away element.  Today, however, that is more accurately measured by chronology than geography. And there definitely was a boy; I knew him.

There were fairies, seen by the boy in sunlight glittering on the surface of placid water, dragonflies sitting on cattail stalks, green herons fishing the shallows. There were giants, too. Some were only perceived, like an owl hooting in the distance. But there was a real giant out there; his name was Fear, Failure his portentous accomplice. And there was heroism, this displayed not so much in the boy as it was in his parents. Often times, heroism required nothing more from them than to just be there. That, the boy later realized, was a feat demanding the strength of Atlas.

I haven’t seen the boy in nigh on 60 years. I hear, however, that he is doing well. Since he is my age, that doing well is quite the accomplishment. I hear that he has experienced pain and pleasure, sorrow and joy, failure and success. He has stood nose-to-nose with that giant. I am told he credits his resolve and endurance to that upbringing of hard work and proper teaching. He kept his eyes, now failing him, on the goal. And a key component in all this, he has said, were those youthful days at that little church down the road from where he grew up.

This, as it turns out, is a genuine fairy tale after all.

 

Note: Photos by Tony Kinton