Being Papa's Shadow
Toothless,
slick headed, barrel chested, illiterate and wearing faded denim Camel overalls,
these would not be the traits of a typical roll model. In the eyes of an only
grandson, perfection comes in all shapes and sizes and so did Papa.
John Bowie, born in the second month of 1900,
his age always coincided with the year. All I had to do was omit those first
two digits and like magic, his age materialized before my very eyes.
The year, 1959, me, a mere six year old, it
sure is funny how certain memories stick in my brain. My first fond
recollection of Papa had to be him taking me to his favorite dollar a day
fishing spot. That man loved to fish!
I remember spending the night so we could be
up at the break of dawn. After all, we had at least an hour drive on the back
roads of the South Carolina
The pine four room mill village house heated
by a cast iron pot bellied stove smelled of smoke, but was cozy and comfy just
the same. I remember they had an oil burning stove in the front room, what
uppity city folks called a living room, but they only fired it up for very
special occasions like Christmas or New Years. The room remained shut off the
remainder of the time.
Granny and Papa slept on their Mahogany bed
while I made mine on a make shift cot. Papa always slipped on his overalls
before dawn, taking the metal pale to retrieve a load of coal and some extra kindling.
I’d wake to him replenishing the stove and stoking the fire. Sometimes he would
let me accompany him and carry the kindling, the coal bucket still too heavy
for a scrawny six year old boy.
He had an old hickory stump in the backyard
for splitting the kindling. Hickory
That Papa smell, always of smoke and some
musty manly odor, comforted me when he gave me that morning hug. Granny would
be busy in the kitchen making cathead biscuits and brown sopping gravy for
breakfast. She would butter up extra biscuits and top them with melted cheese
for us to partake of by the fishing hole.
The Saturday morning would be crispy cold
when we started but would soon warm up making a glorious day for fishing. We
had one stop near the end of the back alley behind Papa’s house and that would
be to pick up his fishing buddy, Mister Jim Creswell. He too would be wearing
those trademark overalls. I would too if they had made them in my size.
In the cab of the truck, bookended by the two
elders in denim, I listened as they swapped yarns of fishing, hunting and
vegetable gardening. Soon we arrived at the Shoals Junction Fishing Ponds and
after paying the three dollar fee, Papa and Mister Jim strategically picked out
a prime spot.
Papa, equipped with a rod and reel, armed me
with a cane fishing pole, sensing me too young and uncoordinated for the art of
casting. The ten foot cane pole posed enough of a challenge for an undersized six
year old. What else could I possibly need? It had an affixed line, a sinker, a
cork and a hook. Add a red worm and I was fishing.
Sometimes waiting for a fish bite is worse
than watching paint dry. This was one of those mornings. While Papa and Mister Jim
towed in fish after fish, my cork remained idle on the water’s surface. Soon I
drifted into a boy’s la-la land bored with the aspect of landing the big one. I
had never caught a fish before so I didn’t share the thrill of the hunt with my
protégé’s.
My little cat nap, short lived; I was
awakened by the tug of something in the murky waters. My cork bobbed a couple
of times then submerged with vengeance. Realizing I was rapidly being
overpowered by what lied beneath, I yelled to Papa for help.
He just laughed, slapped his knee and told me
I was on my own. Unable to keep the pole erect with the added weight of the
whale on the other end, I quickly developed my own technique for landing my
quarry. Walking backwards I began my version of tug and war dragging the pole
and the line toward the bank. With as much exertion as a six year old can
muster, I finally pulled my very first fish onto land.
I now stood face to whiskers with a five
pound blue cat. It flopped and thrashed, mouth opening and closing making those
peculiar fish lip motions wondering where the water had gone. You should have
seen the pride on Papa’s face. I had just become a fisherman in his eyes. The
black and white photographs later would depict my manly hood unable to hold the
blue cat high enough to lift its tail off the ground.
Rewarding me, we ventured to the snack shack
where he allowed me my pick from the treats that waited in the little one room
tin building. I chose a Push-up, an orange sherbet captured in a cylindrical
chamber mounted on a stick. The trick, remove the cap from the cylinder and
push the ingredients toward your mouth with the wood plunging stick on the
other end. An uncle had nick named me Puss-up because with two missing front
teeth, it just didn’t quite come out right.
Papa and I topped off our snack shack visit
with a glass bottle of Coca Cola and pack of salted peanuts. An art, Papa had
taught me to take a swig of Coke first then pour the packet of peanuts into the
bottle. The salty and sweat mixture that tantalized the taste buds was
indescribable. With each gulp, the peanuts shared the liquid nectar and crunching
them was the nearest form of ecstasy for a young boy if I had known then the
meaning of ecstasy. Today’s plastic bottles just don’t do it justice.
I had earned my right of passage that day, a
fisherman among fishermen. If only I had had a pair of overalls, the circle
would have been complete. I recounted my story until I ran out people who were
interested.
Often when Papa and I ventured off for a day
of fishing or hunting, he would leave Granny a note to explain our
where-abouts. She still worked in the cotton mill and would arrive home from
her shift in the afternoons before we returned from our excursion.
Neither Papa nor Granny could read or write
which seemed strange to a grammar school scholar like me. Schooling during
their day wasn’t required, working and making a living was. I was probably
eight or nine years old when I started noticing these little notes they left
for each other.
Actually, there were very few words. They
communicated by drawing pictures. Papa would draw a clock with the time on the
face to indicate when he would be home. If he was going fishing, he’d draw a
fish. For hunting he would draw a shotgun.
Grocery list were a series of drawings of
bread, a milk carton, a can of lard or eggs. I thought their ability to get
their point across this way just way too funny but it worked. I now appreciate
how they overcame their handicap.
Once, during Wednesday night prayer meeting
services, the preacher told the congregation that they were going to go to Hell
if they didn’t read their bibles. Papa spoke up, “Then Preacher, I reckon I’m
heading for Hell because I can’t read.”
My parents both worked the second shift in
the same cotton mill as did Granny. Self employed, when Papa wasn’t painting
someone’s house or doing an odd job, I shadowed him and can say to this day, it
was my honor to do so. He passed on in 1990; I taught you how do the math.
I was his only grandchild and he was the only
Papa I ever knew. The life and times of Papa John live on forever in my heart
and in my mind. A true southerner, larger than life, I miss trailing in his
foot steps and being mesmerized by his story telling. I have many more stories
I could share with you about the shadow maker but I’ll save those for another
time.
