Memorial Weekend is a 3-day family event. It always involves fishing. In some years, and this was one of them, we are fortunate in that the weekend coincides with a full moon - the first big bluegill spawn of summer. A few cricket buckets nearly busting at the seams with chirping, 6-legged live baits, light line affixed with long shank hooks, a seat in the shade, family and the faintly-watermelon smell of spawning bluegills coming off the water on a warm, humidity-laden breeze: nothing else so perfectly inaugurates Summer.
Watching my children hoist hand-sized bluegills from the water on bent poles, with grins wider than their faces, reminds me of my own humble beginnings. The fishing was fast and furious. That is usually the case when you hit it just right. As quickly as the hook could be baited and dropped into the quiet, shallow water, the bobber would slowly disappear again. A 10-count between bites at most. Gulp, don't sip; else your pearly pops get hot during the interim. The 48-quart ice chest promptly filled. Another was soon deployed to accommodate the growing mess of fish. I reckon it's called a mess of fish because at some point in time they must be cleaned. Cleaning an ice chest or two of fish takes time. Not that I mind. That's part of it. Maybe even the best part. Plenty of time to think, to remember.
Fileting fish is my standard operating procedure. We even fillet good-sized bluegills, which yield sweet little popcorn filets that float quickly in hot grease. The boys are learning to use the electric fillet knife, slowly but ever surely. They usually scale and clean a dozen or so smaller bream for good measure, and oftentimes remove ribs from the fillets to hasten the process. But that was not always the case; when I was growing up we cleaned each and every fish - and for that matter dove, duck or quail - whole. My grandfather introduced me to fishing. I can remember catching my first bluegill in the old oxbow, Lake Ferguson, like it was yesterday.
Judging from the faded photograph gleaned from the old man's top desk drawer following his death, I was maybe 4 years old. A favorite memory began with a daylight walk to Grandfather Russell's home with my dad. The boat was hooked up and the old man's blueberry pancakes were coming off the griddle as we arrived. By lunch we'd driven to another Delta oxbow lake south of town, navigated a stretch of water that was rife with submerged timber, and returned with an ice chest containing a 3-man creel limit of 150 keeper bluegills. We scaled them all and later fried many in the black cast iron pot that was a permanent fixture on the stove-top. Every little boy should carry a pocket knife and know how to promptly clean their own mess of fish with it. That day is among my life's fondest memories.
Years later, I was recently married, working and living in the red clay hills of east Mississippi, which is about as far removed from the Delta as one can be within state boundaries. I was befriended by local old-timer, Mr. Bob. We had moved into the vacant family farmhouse while just getting started. Mr. Bob was born and raised in the county, lived his entire life within a few miles of his birthplace. A retired mechanic, he drove a blue, 60s-model Chevrolet he had bought new, wore denim coveralls everyday, raised a few head of cows and grew one of the best gardens I have ever seen.
In addition to the garden and cattle were chickens. I can remember he used to place quail eggs under a few banty hens he had around that would raise the hatched quail as their own, teaching them to scratch out their living until, to the bewilderment of the hens, they remembered they were quail and flew off in covey formation. With two rusty leghold traps he caught "coons and possums" year-round for sell to a few "rich city folks" that would come by and give $5 for their favorite dinner fodder, still alive of course. Or so said Mr. Bob. I used to wonder if it was really the five dollars or watching those little old ladies that came by after church scampering and shrieking when caught off guard by an angrily growling, thoroughly caged boar raccoon.
For our wedding gift, or maybe it was a welcoming gift, he drove his tractor over and plowed under an acre and a half garden area. The hoe he left behind was just a loaner until I had gotten my own.
Among my in-laws were 6 brothers, my wife's great uncles, that were raised on the same farm in which we resided. Four of the uncles had passed by the time I met my wife, but I came to greatly endear the remaing 2. Mr. Bob had grown up with them all.
Five enlisted during the second World War. The youngest was only 16 years old at the time. They each fought in some of Europe's bloodiest battles and returned home to live quiet, productive lives. The older of the two uncles never talked about it. At all. The youngest once elaborated with a single sentence to say only that he had learned to smoke, drink, play cards, and kill enemy soldiers that were probably pretty decent folks otherwise.
Mr. Bob called one Friday night to say that with family coming into town we should fry fish. He had permission to fish one of the best ponds in the county and would pick me up after breakfast. We would clean fish at his farm afterwards and be back to the house before lunch. I climbed in the truck the next morning with my pole, store-bought red wigglers, electric fillet knife. He had brought his pole, a 5-gallon bucket, 3 slices of white bread tucked into his bibs.
At the pond he proceeded to knead pieces of white bread onto the hook until it was a dough ball, refusing to use the store-bought worms. Probably because the fish were not biting the wigglers anyway. The bucket became nearly full and I realized he had caught all of them. Grinning, he tossed his last piece of white bread my way and I ended up catching a few after all. After awhile Mr. Bob said it no sense catching all of the man's fish just because they are biting.
Nailing their heads first to a stump, we skinned them whole; he'd have it no other way. We feasted later that evening on deep-fried, cornmeal battered catfish, as well as fresh okra and sliced green tomatoes from Mr. Bob's garden. My wife and I moved soon thereafter; that day was probably the last time Mr. Bob and I ever fished and drove those dusty back roads together.
Took a couple hours to clean our Memorial weekend catch this year. Teh moon was full and the bream were bedding. The children caught so many we soon ran out of crickets. An cooler space. We cleaned them as a family and enjoyed the summer's first fry. I guess its not entirely about the fish. For them or me.
Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com
Fileting fish is my standard operating procedure. We even fillet good-sized bluegills, which yield sweet little popcorn filets that float quickly in hot grease. The boys are learning to use the electric fillet knife, slowly but ever surely. They usually scale and clean a dozen or so smaller bream for good measure, and oftentimes remove ribs from the fillets to hasten the process. But that was not always the case; when I was growing up we cleaned each and every fish - and for that matter dove, duck or quail - whole. My grandfather introduced me to fishing. I can remember catching my first bluegill in the old oxbow, Lake Ferguson, like it was yesterday.
Judging from the faded photograph gleaned from the old man's top desk drawer following his death, I was maybe 4 years old. A favorite memory began with a daylight walk to Grandfather Russell's home with my dad. The boat was hooked up and the old man's blueberry pancakes were coming off the griddle as we arrived. By lunch we'd driven to another Delta oxbow lake south of town, navigated a stretch of water that was rife with submerged timber, and returned with an ice chest containing a 3-man creel limit of 150 keeper bluegills. We scaled them all and later fried many in the black cast iron pot that was a permanent fixture on the stove-top. Every little boy should carry a pocket knife and know how to promptly clean their own mess of fish with it. That day is among my life's fondest memories.
Years later, I was recently married, working and living in the red clay hills of east Mississippi, which is about as far removed from the Delta as one can be within state boundaries. I was befriended by local old-timer, Mr. Bob. We had moved into the vacant family farmhouse while just getting started. Mr. Bob was born and raised in the county, lived his entire life within a few miles of his birthplace. A retired mechanic, he drove a blue, 60s-model Chevrolet he had bought new, wore denim coveralls everyday, raised a few head of cows and grew one of the best gardens I have ever seen.
In addition to the garden and cattle were chickens. I can remember he used to place quail eggs under a few banty hens he had around that would raise the hatched quail as their own, teaching them to scratch out their living until, to the bewilderment of the hens, they remembered they were quail and flew off in covey formation. With two rusty leghold traps he caught "coons and possums" year-round for sell to a few "rich city folks" that would come by and give $5 for their favorite dinner fodder, still alive of course. Or so said Mr. Bob. I used to wonder if it was really the five dollars or watching those little old ladies that came by after church scampering and shrieking when caught off guard by an angrily growling, thoroughly caged boar raccoon.
For our wedding gift, or maybe it was a welcoming gift, he drove his tractor over and plowed under an acre and a half garden area. The hoe he left behind was just a loaner until I had gotten my own.
Among my in-laws were 6 brothers, my wife's great uncles, that were raised on the same farm in which we resided. Four of the uncles had passed by the time I met my wife, but I came to greatly endear the remaing 2. Mr. Bob had grown up with them all.
Five enlisted during the second World War. The youngest was only 16 years old at the time. They each fought in some of Europe's bloodiest battles and returned home to live quiet, productive lives. The older of the two uncles never talked about it. At all. The youngest once elaborated with a single sentence to say only that he had learned to smoke, drink, play cards, and kill enemy soldiers that were probably pretty decent folks otherwise.
Mr. Bob called one Friday night to say that with family coming into town we should fry fish. He had permission to fish one of the best ponds in the county and would pick me up after breakfast. We would clean fish at his farm afterwards and be back to the house before lunch. I climbed in the truck the next morning with my pole, store-bought red wigglers, electric fillet knife. He had brought his pole, a 5-gallon bucket, 3 slices of white bread tucked into his bibs.
At the pond he proceeded to knead pieces of white bread onto the hook until it was a dough ball, refusing to use the store-bought worms. Probably because the fish were not biting the wigglers anyway. The bucket became nearly full and I realized he had caught all of them. Grinning, he tossed his last piece of white bread my way and I ended up catching a few after all. After awhile Mr. Bob said it no sense catching all of the man's fish just because they are biting.
Nailing their heads first to a stump, we skinned them whole; he'd have it no other way. We feasted later that evening on deep-fried, cornmeal battered catfish, as well as fresh okra and sliced green tomatoes from Mr. Bob's garden. My wife and I moved soon thereafter; that day was probably the last time Mr. Bob and I ever fished and drove those dusty back roads together.
Took a couple hours to clean our Memorial weekend catch this year. Teh moon was full and the bream were bedding. The children caught so many we soon ran out of crickets. An cooler space. We cleaned them as a family and enjoyed the summer's first fry. I guess its not entirely about the fish. For them or me.
Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com
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