For a five-year-old sharecropper’s son, every season is like a new life. The passage of time does not seem to register. All I knew was that the weather started warming up and Daddy started plowing the fields and planting the cotton. The bare-limbed trees in the forest that surrounded our house began to turn green. The grass in the front yard started growing again. Soon Daddy would be out there on Saturday mornings with a sling blade, mumbling words I was not supposed to repeat. The tall weeds and bushes on the side of the house, out past the clothesline, sometimes produced baby bunnies that would sleepily sun themselves, just this side of the tall weeds … until I tried to run and catch one.
The farm was isolated out in the country. Only one other house was in view, out by the paved road. A black boy a year younger than me live there with an old man, probably his grandfather. We sometimes played together but most the time I was by myself. There was an old, abandoned house at the end of the dirt road we lived on, but I was strictly forbidden to ever go there.
On this morning I had helped Mama gather the eggs. Then she went back inside, reminding me to not go far from the house. Along with those words, came the implication that, if I did not mind her, she would go out in the yard, cut hickory stick, and tan my hide.
I headed down toward the barn, but not before stopping by the chicken coop once more, just to see the mama hen sitting on a whole bunch of eggs that would soon be baby chicks. I tried to lift her up to take a peek. She didn’t appreciate that. I kept learning that lesson over and over before those chicks were hatched; got pecked a couple of times.
A few minutes later, in my clean multicolored t-shirt and not-too-dirty blue jeans and my ancient hand-me-down shoes, I was on my way to my favorite little spot out in the woods, quite a ways beyond Mama’s “don’t go far from the house” instructions. (Let’s just keep that part to ourselves.)
In one hand I had my 6-foot cane fishing pole, gently slung over my shoulder, complete with line and hook and a red-and-white bobber. In my other hand I carried a can that once held pork and beans, but now was filled with wiggly red worms, ignorant of their fate.
Mama and Daddy were back at the farm, doing daily chores. My only chore was to be back home at our little three-room house before the sandwiches were made for lunch. I could almost smell the bread baking in the oven of Mama’s wood stove and see those big juicy red tomatoes she had gathered from the garden, freshly washed and placed upon that little round wooden table, ready for slicing.
But for that moment, the thing that mattered was what lay before me.
I had come a long way, deep into the woods. But I knew my way back. I had been here before, with my father. I sat in the sun beside the dark waters of a lazy stream, threaded a wiggly worm onto my hook, set my bobber so that the worm would only be a few inches underwater, and swung it out into that lazy stream.
The grass was damp. The dirt underneath was soft, almost mushy. I stabbed my cane pole into the soft dirt and sat down in the damp grass under the tree, leaning back. The sun was warm across my face. I felt the peace of innocence, the joy of not knowing the future or even understanding the present, the pleasure of being young and filled with energy and hope ... and excitement.
Whenever my father came along and after the poles were set, he would always lean up against that tree, roll a cigarette, smoke it, and take a nap. I thought about taking a nap myself, like my father did, but I didn’t get the chance.
I heard a sound in the water. I sat up. The bobber was gone. The line was straight. My cane pole was being pulled out of the ground. I grab for it, standing up, my right foot stepping into the wet mud at the edge of the stream. I stepped back, holding the cane pole with both hands as something big and wild pulled against the line. For a second it rose to the surface and jumped out of the water, making an enormous splash. I never caught anything larger than a big brim. I had no idea what was at the end of my line now.
The fish began to head upstream. I followed, occasionally stepping into the water and not even noticing, holding onto the cane pole, as though for dear life. Suddenly, the big fish changed his mind, turned around and headed back downstream. The line drew slack, then tightened quickly. It jerked me into the water, up to my knees. And then, with a whack, the line broke, causing me to fall back, partially in the water and partially in the damp grass at the water’s edge.
I climbed back up on the bank and stood there, shaking. Daddy had often told me the story of a giant fish in those waters. Although I wanted to, I never believed him; Mama always said he was prone to exaggeration when telling his stories (although she never used those exact words).
In a few minutes I would be back home, muddy and wet, with a broken fishing line, and a story to tell over those sandwiches.
I wondered if Daddy would believe me. But more importantly, I wondered if telling that story would cause Mama to go cut a hickory stick. Maybe I’d just wait until Daddy was sitting out on the porch in his rocking chair, smoking a Prince Albert roll-your-own cigarette. After all, Mama didn’t care nothing about no fish story.