Everyone has heard the old fishing adage: “Give a man a fish, and he can eat for a day; teach him to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime.” Jaybird, my boyhood mentor, taught me many things — especially how to fish, but on one occasion, our catch never made it to the skillet.
“De fish is bitin’ at Percy Blue Hole,” the old black man said, one fine spring morning. “Let’s catch a mess. I’ll fry ’em up for supper.” Then he showed me his prized new possession, for which he’d paid $15 — a fish basket.
In a flash I gathered up poles and cricket boxes, while Jay filled tin cans with night crawlers from his compost pile. One of us would start fishing with worms and the other with crickets; then we’d both change to whichever bait worked best. We shoved the johnboat in the back of his old pickup, grabbed our favorite fishing day lunch — sardines, onions, crackers, and RC Colas —and headed out.
Even after all these many years, I can still call to mind those fishing trips with my best friend … days when time stood still and all five senses were stimulated to full capacity.
I can still see the ancient cypress trees, with knees all around them like little children, shading the water, unchanged since dinosaur days; I can still hear the hypnotic symphony of insects and birds; I can still feel the gentle lap of water against the boat. But most of all, I still cherish the memory of absolute peace and security that I experienced on those days when I was with a man who loved me as if I were his own son.
Jaybird was so proud of his fish basket. Before, we’d used stringers, which were troublesome because they had to be untied from the boat before a fish could be strung. With the basket, all we had to do was push down the spring-loaded lid and drop in the fish.
At midday, we stopped to eat. After the meal, Jaybird pulled out his pouch of Bull Durham smoking tobacco and rolled a cigarette, and I stretched out for a nap.
About the time I nodded off, I heard a roar. “Well, I’ll be damned! Where in hell is the basket?” Apparently, the rope had come untied. We ate no crispy fried bream cooked in Jaybird’s big black skillet that night.
The next morning, we headed back to Percy. “Dem fish is dead and bloated, so de basket’ll be floatin’.”
Sure enough, the fish, belly up, had brought the basket to the surface. Jaybird dumped them out, shaking his head ruefully. “Lawd … look at all them fish we won’t eat.”
Then he noticed there were a few crickets and worms left, and our poles were still in the boat. “Shoot! We’s heah, Boss don’t need us to work today, and if dey bitin’, I’ll fry us up a mess tonight.
“Dey might bite today … dey sho’ bit yesdiddy.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
