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"Knuckling the
sleep from my eyes, I had hurriedly dressed to load our eclectic
supplies. This was the rite of passage; my first real fishing trip."
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EDITOR'S NOTE: Several years ago in the course of his work with the
small town newspaper where he's employed, Far & Away publisher Roger
Stouff struck up a friendship with Frank Musso, thereafter known as the
Old Fella. It was one of those friendships that clicks into place as
neat and snug as if it had always been there. One spring, Stouff asked
the Old Fella for a very, very special favor. Here's the Old Fella's
recollection of that, and much more:
Uncle Joe and I loaded his rusty old black Chevrolet with bamboo fishing
poles, red water jugs, brown paper lunch bags, a dirt-encrusted tackle
box, dented minnow bucket and two tin cans of worms. At 4:30 AM the
heat, humidity and mosquitoes were unbearable on an early June,
Louisiana morning of 1949.
Short, pudgy and bald-headed Uncle Joe, chief food gatherer for our clan
and my favorite Uncle had awakened me earlier to help with loading the
supplies. Family tradition dictated that young males, upon attaining the
ripe old age of ten, be allowed to accompany older male food-gatherers
of our clan to the secret and sacred fishing grounds. Knuckling the
sleep from my eyes, I had hurriedly dressed to load our eclectic
supplies. This was the rite of passage; my first real fishing trip and I
was bursting with excitement.
In those days we didn't have the luxury of a boat. The rickety ride down
a deserted, narrow, bumpy blacktop road, lined with black-eyed Susans
and ragweed led us to an unpaved byway where we spun up a smoke screen
of dust. The tires of our car threw rocks and gravel unmercifully in all
directions. The noise was unbearable! It seemed loud enough to wake the
dead. The heat, humidity and mosquitoes were also unbearable in the
early summer mornings of Louisiana back in the '40's and '50's. Once the
crickets got loose in that old Chevy. We did some scrambling to round
them up. Unfortunately the ones that we couldn't gather up serenaded us
for weeks.
Finally we arrived at the 'secret and sacred' fishing grounds located
deep in the secluded woods of Washington Parish at Lock No. 3, a huge
pair of gray metal gates that controlled ship traffic on the Pearl
River. We unloaded our gear and began a sweaty fifteen minute trek to
the honey holes through the piney woods and thick under-brush of
southeast Louisiana. We carefully made our way along the red-yellow clay
banks of the beautiful clear waters of a majestic river. This was the
place where we caught many bass, bream, sac-a-lait, catfish and the
occasional choupique. I saw many a weathered bamboo pole give up the
ghost on the gargantuan inhabitants of the Pearl.
Being the youngest member of the group I was always elected to carry
tackle boxes, rods, bamboo poles, water jugs and breakfast bags. Once,
atop a levee and stepping on some loose dried pine needles, I tumbled
down the thirty or so feet to the bottom without letting go or losing
anything. Although I wasn't physically hurt, my pride was bruised a
little. We all had a good laugh.
The golden rays of dawn, framed on a background of blue sky, dancing
through the tall green pine trees, was as awe-inspiring as a deeply
moving religious experience. You could almost feel the presence of God
there. That serene memory would bring peace and consolation to me many
times in the coming years. My personal retreat from the everyday world.
I relished listening to all the stories and other lies of my
accompanying uncle and cousins.
The smell of the fresh clean air had the sweet fragrance of pine,
intermingled with wild honeysuckle. It was also resplendent with the
sounds of the litany of nature: the shrill, high-pitched buzzing of
cicadas, the humming of mosquitoes, the chirping of sparrows, and the
grunts of wild pigs. Reality was present in the form of brown wood ticks
and the ever-present black and brown water moccasins.
I remember the red, juicy wild grapes of Louisiana muscadines. We all
shared them whenever we could find them in season. Breakfast for Uncle
Joe consisted of one very raw, juicy and smelly yellow onion, consumed
with one can of aromatically pungent sardines. This is not exactly the
breakfast of champions! I learned quickly to always stay up-wind of
Uncle when he dined.
My breakfast consisted of a deliciously thick bologna sandwich (with a
touch of garlic), a vanilla-flavored moon pie, and the requisite ice
cold R.C. Cola. Southern gourmet eating at its best. To this day, the
very taste of any one of these items stills brings back those fond, long
ago memories.
There would be other trips in the coming years with Uncle Joe and a host
of other relatives and cousins, e.g., Camille, Johnson and Jack, but
that day with Uncle Joe would always be special. That was my very first:
my rite of passage.
Then one day out of the blue came the invitation: "Go fishing
with me this spring," Roger wrote in an e-mail.
Time had caught up with me though, and I am now paying the price of my
squandered youth. I was a two pack a day smoker for over forty years. My
constant companion these days, besides Mrs. Old Fella, is Brother
Emphysema. I take life one day at a time, but this time the temptation
proved to be too great to resist.
Being in the outdoors could possibly compromise my respiratory system.
Consequently, fishing was something that I had not attempted in over a
decade. This invitation came as quite a surprise and I really was
tempted.
"You're going to opened up Pandora's Box," I warned.
Regardless of the consequences, I gave in and accepted Roger's
invitation. So early one Saturday we headed out for a morning of
fishing. A cool front had moved in the night before and made the weather
exceptionally pleasant and almost fall-like, except it was August which
is extremely unheard of for this time of year in this part of Louisiana.
We fished a short canal most of that morning, trolling down one side and
then the other, repeating the process when we were done. Expertly the
young fella fished his fly rod. He is really good at raising cane! I
stayed with what I know best - drowning worms. We caught a few small
bream and a couple of catfish. I hung on to a six-pound cat, but lost it
at the boat. Roger was trying to pump me up by saying that it was about
eight pounds. He's that kind of guy. I appreciated the good thought. We
also caught our limit of tree-fish and stumps. But that is all in a days
fishing.
Along the high bank of that little canal, we came upon a thick tangle of
dark red juicy muscadines. We moved the boat in close and let it drift
aside the thicket of green canopy, and dined on muscadines for a time,
the fishing forgotten. They tasted as good and sweet to me now as they
had so many years and so many thousands of miles long past.
Some things never change. Sharing those wild grapes and just talking
about this and that brought back so many good memories about long-ago
fishing trips and missing relatives and friends that have gone on to
their eternal rewards. Those were thoughts that hadn't surfaced in over
fifty years. They somehow gave me a deep sense of loneliness, but
comfort at the same time. What a wonderful contradiction. That smell of
sardines and raw onions is one that still leaves a melancholy lump in my
throat. Hope you get your limit today Uncle Joe. Thanks Roger. I didn't
realize how much I really needed that trip and I hope it won't be our
last.
The world has been so caught up on materialism that it has forgotten the
most important facets of living - the immeasurable value of true
friendships. The story of Damon and Pythias, whose names have become
symbols for loyal friendship, is a reminder to us of that important
principle. The most important and valuable things in this world are not
things, but people! Whether you are swinging an expensive fly rod with
the world's cleverest fly, or still fishing with a bamboo pole with a
grimy old worm, there is more to fishing than fishing. Enjoy the
outdoors. Enjoy your life and share it with a very good friend.
It certainly was not the last time the Old Fella and Stouff boarded a
boat and motored into primordial swamps and expansive lakes along the
Louisiana landscape. It certainly won't be the last.
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About the Author:
Frank N. Musso
is a retired educator residing in Louisiana. |
