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 country side at speeds toping forty five miles an hour, before arriving at our final destination.

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 when aged is almost impossible to split so it makes the perfect anvil for splitting wood with an ax. He used this same stump and ax to hack off the heads of hens from his little chicken yard for the main course for Sunday dinner. I left that chore to him.   

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.