and Old Spice. I could never fit the coat as it should be, just like I could
not fill the shoes of their owner. But one man filled it properly until it
was thread bare, then I wore it some. The memories surrounding it and its
scratchy wool lining will go with me to my grave when many times I can’t remember
to shave, take out the trash, or comb my hair. It must be near forty-five
years old now, maybe closer to fifty come to think of it. After all, I’m fifty-four
and I don’t ever remember my granddaddy without it.
The first time I can remember him wearing it was when he and mom took me bank
fishing at Arlington Lake in Fort Worth, Texas. He carried the worm box in
one of the large pockets and I caught the first fish that night. There were
many fishing trips. Worm dirt still stains its pockets. We sat quiet with
cane poles at our sides, watched our bobbers in the light of our foil-lined
Coleman lantern, and listened to granddaddy as he murmured calling fish. “Here
fishy-fishy. Here fishy-fishy.” I went through plenty of worms and minnows
in those years, and caught fish too when he wore that coat and called them
in. Then one time after running a trot line, he came home with a catfish that
seemed to fill the rear floorboard of his 1956 Chevrolet. We had a feast that
night. I thought that coat was so lucky.
He wore it again when I was eleven and he took me on my first squirrel hunt
in east Texas near his cabin. Shotgun shells were made of paper then. He put
a few 12-gauge shells in one side pocket and some smaller ones in the other.
Then we walked down the bank to a small Jon boat and pushed off into a body
of water that I no longer remember the name of. It was thin like a stream
where we were, with mossy Cypress tree branches overhanging the smooth surface.
A thin fog stretched from shore to shore. The water seemed still, but a flow
over rocks or downed trees could be heard off in the distance. After a slow
five-minute trip downstream with our quiet three-horse outboard motor we beached
on the opposite bank, disembarked and tied up. Then Granddaddy tossed a blanket
off two long gun cases, uncased one and handed me a new bolt action single
shot .410 along with one of the small shells from his pocket. I was so excited
I could hardly keep my feet on the ground! I had been raised around long guns
and taught firearm safety by mom and granddaddy, so nothing was said when
he handed it to me. We walked safely away from the Cypress banks and up a
small animal trail stomping leaves and small branches like two bull elephants
clearing a two lane highway and entered a section of Oak and Pine trees with
our weapons pointing in opposite directions. His cataracts had been removed
but I’m sure those thick glasses were hard to see out of, and I didn’t know
the first thing about hunting. Of course, the bright new shotgun that glared
in my eyes didn’t help me see anything.
We came home empty handed that day. I was so busy looking at the new gun I
didn’t see a single bird in that forest, much less a squirrel. And it was
ideal squirrel country. When we got back to our cabin, granddaddy said I should
shoot the little shotgun to know how it kicked because I hadn’t shot anything
larger than a .22-rifle. He stood me over by a tree, handed me a three-inch
shell and then had me point high across the water and pull the trigger. It
almost knocked me down! He and mom laughed at my reaction and we watched as
the number six pellets fell gently into the water.
The week did not leave us empty handed. A few days later we visited a relative
in the same area of east Texas. I shot my first squirrel on her property,
which went promptly into the same pocket the worm box would have been in had
we been fishing, and I’m sure other squirrels had been in it before. I’ll
never forget the smile on his face or the stifled “Tee-hee” laugh
as he lifted the fox-furred rodent from the ground. We brought in three squirrels
that morning and had squirrel “dumplin’s” for dinner, a real treat
for us in those days!
Granddaddy left us in 1969 to be with our Lord and Savior and I miss him dearly.
Although more than thirty-five years have passed, I know he has witnessed
many fishing and hunting trips throughout my life as I took all my firsts
in different game and fish species. I have felt his presence, his patience
and his love throughout each adventure. It has been a comfort to know he was
there with me, teaching life through the memory of his patience and understanding;
and of course, while I experienced the wonders of God’s outdoors. These memories
of growing up with granddaddy’s love hold firm, and although many times I
feel I’ve failed, I still struggle to be worthy of existing as a branch of
his tree.
Today, his threadbare coat, now barren of its wool lining, hangs on my closet
door embracing stains of past fishing and hunting triumphs, including faint
odors of forest, lake, and earth. But, if you were to look, if you were to
look real close, you too could see those banners of my youth; the trophies
of our memories, granddaddy’s and mine. You could also find some of the paper
shot shells in its pockets. You might even sense some of the love left behind
in what is normally viewed a useless garment, along with remnants of other
life memories and possessions passed on by Joseph “Willis” Day.
Administrative Services
TCU Police Department
3025 Lubbock
Fort Worth, TX 76109
817.257.5822
Many fishermen catch their fish by their tale.
~Kevin
Schifftner
Originally published October 12, 2009 on Fly Anglers Online by By Michael Hanvey.