Who’s to say if it’s in our genes or if it’s acquired. But when you wake up on a spring morning when the temperature is pleasant, the sun is shining, and none of your chores are urgent, what follows is that tug on your psyche that has lain dormant all winter and which now sends you to the storage shed where your tackle box and fishing rods are waiting. Just because my man-of-the-house is no longer here to set a fishing trip in motion doesn’t mean I wouldn’t tag along if an opportunity to go a-fishing were offered. On days like this, I find a bit of consolation in my fishing memories, and a ton of gratitude that I came to love fishing at an early age. While I might not now be physically able to reel in a fighting bass, keeper-size, that tug on the line causes a rush of adrenaline and I’m “hooked” along with the catch of the day, whatever it is. I credit my maternal grandmother with this particular gene. Today is her birthday, and I see her clearly in my mind’s eye … baggy pants, huge straw hat, carrying that cane pole, much like a soldier, off to battle, armed and determined. It was definitely in her blood. For all of her life, fishing was her favorite pastime. She was as serious as any male deer-hunting counterpart, and as competitive as any football player. There were ground rules. You only went fishing after all chores were finished. The day’s champion was the one who caught the most fish. If somebody caught only a four-pound catfish and someone else caught five fingerlings, that big number trumped the four-pounder. It was all about winning. Of course, we were all winners since we all got to enjoy eating the catfish. Bragging rights were meaningless at the supper table.
My early fishing “classroom” was on the banks of the Conasauga River, which was in not-so-easy walking distance of our home. (This spot on the river was near the location of my Baptist baptizing which would occur a few years later. Such was life in another century.) Our equipment consisted of cane poles, lines, sinkers, and bobbers and floats. There was always a stringer on which we could “string” the catch and allow it to remain in the water until time to go home. Bait consisted of wigglers and redworms we had dug in special spots in the back yard … almost as much fun as fishing! Papa (who did not have the gene) finally financed a fish pond at our home so Grandma could fish at her leisure, my first experience with paddling a boat.
Over the years, we went the way of modern technology. While fancy rods with reels, artificial bait, lakes and motorboats beckoned, the thrill of the catch was as exciting as ever.
It may not seem very romantic to folks who don’t fish, but I credit my husband’s love of fishing with his successful courtship in my regard. My grandmother put her stamp of approval on him immediately when he took her fishing … without me. For a time, when we were busy with work and family and “other lives,” we didn’t fish a lot. But with our move to Canton in the early 1960s, suddenly there was water, water, everywhere, and ample opportunity to enjoy it. We purchased our first fishing boat. Our girls learned to swim at Field’s Landing, where they also learned to fish. Relatives began to come out of the woodwork, seeing our home as a vacation spot. Thankfully, a move to west Georgia lasted for only two years, after which we found ourselves back in Cherokee County where fishing became an integral part of our daily lives. God is good.
My fishing memories are so precious. From those days on the muddy river bank to weeks of fishing from a Panama City Beach pier, it has been pure pleasure. We have camped on the banks of the Tennessee River, angled for redfish (“the reds are running”) in the flats at Apalachicola, and battled those hungry bass in the Logans’ fish pond in Plains, Georgia. We spent many happy hours at George Parr’s fish pond just south of Woodstock’s business district. When our bait ran low, I chased, and caught, grasshoppers, and the fish didn’t know the difference. Like many of Woodstock’s old-timers, we fished at the Rope Mill. There have been friends who allowed us to fish in their private ponds. Frank Smith’s fish were his pets, and he fed them at appointed times every day. There was little sport in catching them, but it was so much fun to watch their antics.
I learned recently about a Georgia Department of Natural Resources program for youth. Called “Fish n Learn,” it is designed for children age 8-15. While field trips are on hold due to the pandemic, there are various activities available in conjunction with the Charlie Elliott Wildlife Center in Mansfield and off-site. The Center is managed by the Department of Natural Resources. Normally the program would include lodging, guides, equipment, and food, and young people would learn more than I will ever know about fishing techniques, casting, biology, and habitat. These are enhancements, adding to that inherent joy when that little bream tugs on your line … and your very being. Thanks, Grandma. Happy Birthday.
Juanita Hughes is the City Historian of Woodstock and a regular columnist for the Cherokee Tribune. This column was originally published in the Cherokee Tribune.
