Root Beer Barrels, Lugies, and PaPaw

My PaPaw was the kind of man who could correct me, and the whole while make me feel as though I'd made a wonderful, new, and amazing discovery that no one else had ever come across.

I remember one time when he had taken me fishing at the old Butler's pond back where I grew up near Smithfield, Illinois. It was a tiny little farming town, population three hundred and fifty-four, with two churches, a hardware store, a post office, a little red brick schoolhouse, a gas station, and a grocery store. The town was surrounded by woods and cattle pastures and my fondest memories are of spending time, sometimes days, alone in the woods with nothing but the sky, the animals, the creeks, and the trees as my constant companions.

I grew up unlike most other children. My days were filled with hunting, fishing, trapping, gathering eggs, slaughtering chickens, rabbits, and hogs, and milking goats. Not that we were a backwoods family but rather we were a poor minister’s family that depended on the land for our food as well as the kindness of the parishioners of the church. I learned to clean fish before I was five and could field dress a deer by the time I was seven. I learned to brain tan a hide and make my own winter boots and how to plant corn or set chicken eggs by the phases of the moon.

Ironically, I didn’t know we were poor, I just thought it was the way things were for everyone. It was the only life I knew and to this day I despise the city and long for the quiet and serenity that the country never fails to provide.
While I have many fond memories of my childhood and growing up with the land as my playmate, it was a childhood filled with bitter and painful physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual neglect and abuse at the hands of my adoptive father Ron and his wife Betty.

The one saving grace in my life, other than the woods, was Ron’s father, my PaPaw. So anytime a fishing trip was in order, it was a special treat and this day would turn out to be one I would never forget. Of course Ron and his other kids were there too, but my PaPaw sat with me on the far end of the pond where no one would bother us and it would be our time.

I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, considering the constant chatter that I was putting forth, and my PaPaw, as always, just sat and listened, never saying a word. But of course, he was reeling in fish right and left and poor little me never caught a thing.

I finally asked him what made him such a great fisherman and he smiled his PaPaw smile that said I was in for a "reel" treat. First, he had me reach in his shirt pocket and take out a root beer barrel (this was our "ritual," so to speak; he always kept them there just for me) and as soon as I popped it in my mouth, he knew he had center stage with me. After all, one cannot correctly slurp their tongue around a juicy root beer barrel whilst talking, you see.

He gently reeled in both of our lines and had me bait mine and his both. As usual, the fish had sucked the bait right off mine. They do that you know, when you're not paying attention and just yakking your head off about whatever comes to mind. He took the old worm off of his hook, and when I think back now, I realize that it was a perfectly good worm. But at least the birds got a snack that day. I was a tomboy (still am), and had no qualms about skewering a worm onto my hook... skewer, wrap, skewer wrap, but leave enough of it dangling to entice the fish.

Then my PaPaw did something I'd never seen him do before. He popped a root beer barrel into his mouth! He swished and swirled it around and how he talked while doing this I'll never know. But he explained to me that fish just love a root beer barrel flavored worm.

Hey, I was a kid and PaPaw's word was law. After all, he was ancient and he knew everything! He lifted up his hook, with the still wiggling worm, and hocked the biggest lugie I'd ever seen right onto the worm. He grinned, then instructed me to follow suit. Now mind you, even as a major tomboy I was never allowed to spit. And here I was not only allowed to do so, but encouraged to spit like there was no tomorrow! And so I did. I hacked and I hocked and of course, dribbled most of it down my chin. And my PaPaw, being the outdoorsman and wonderful companion that he was, reached over, wiped my chin and flung it onto the worm. Gross, sure, but still a fond, warm memory that still brings a smile to my face.

We threw our lines into the water, and with my mouth full of root beer barrel saliva, I was finally quiet. Focused on my line, I watched and within minutes, my bobber jerked and suddenly submerged and I felt the pull on my line. PaPaw tossed his line down, and jumped behind me, making all the fuss in the world as I pulled and fought to reel in my catch. He put his arms around me holding my line with me, yelling and hollering about “what a whopper” I had and how if we weren't careful, it was going to pull us both in!!! I remember shouting out, "Help me, PaPaw, help me!" And he did.

Together, we reeled in the tiniest, most pitiful looking bluegill that might have weighed a quarter of a pound. But in his wisdom, my PaPaw fussed over it, saying it was the biggest fish he'd ever seen and what a great fisherman I was!

Then he peered closely at it, studied it, and examined it with great care and said, "Oh my, I can’t believe it! This will never do!"

Worried, I asked him what was wrong. Had I caught a bad fish? He smiled at me and told me that no, my fish was not bad, but rather I had caught the most wonderful fish in the world. In his great experience as a fisherman, he could tell that this fish was very, very special. It was a teacher fish, and God had put it in the water to teach the other fish how to swim and eat and avoid great fisherman such as his Granddaughter.

He showed me little markings on the fish that he explained were “fisherman marks,” where this little fish had been caught time and time again, so he could teach the other fish how not to be caught. He explained that we must throw it back in, lest the other fish never have the chance to learn the important lessons of fish life and how to grow up to be happy, healthy pond fish.

Of course I believed him and, of course, it wasn't true. He had protected me from realizing at the time that I had caught a baby fish and that it was too small to keep. But in the event, had also made me feel like I was the greatest fisherman on the face of the earth because I had caught the one and only teacher fish in the whole pond!

We spent the rest of the day eating root beer barrels and hocking lugies onto worms. I didn't catch another fish, but I got to listen to my PaPaw tell me wonderful stories about nature and listen to him singing old time hymns and children's songs.

I also learned the beauty of keeping quiet and listening not only to my PaPaw, but hearing all of God's creation around me. He would point out the sounds that the quail made and the grasshoppers as they jumped from grass blade to grass blade spewing their disgusting tobacco juice through the air. We would listen quietly and could hear the snakes slithering and sliding into the water and quickly ducking under the waves looking for food. We could hear the flutter of bird's wings flying over us, and the nestlings chirping in anticipation of their mothers returning with their lunch.

After awhile, we put our poles down and he would point out different clouds, explaining what they meant for the upcoming weather (and he was never wrong). He taught me to tell time by the position of the sun and how to recognize the smell of rain in the air.

Days like that were few and far between, but my Grandfather taught me so much about life in those simplest of times and situations. His favorite saying was, “Don’t let a little life get in the way of living.” I’ve lived by that statement for as long as I can remember. No matter what has happened in life and no matter what choices I have made, I’ve learned from them and have used his teachings in every aspect that I can think of. He taught me to love life and to look at things in a different, logical, yet simple manner, and see things for what they are, not for what I’d like them to be.

I could go on and on about my PaPaw. I sincerely believe if it weren't for him, I would be so bitter and angry with Christianity and with those who profess to be
Christians. But he was a true Christian, one who took the message of Jesus to heart. And he didn't just talk the talk. He walked the walk. When he died, I wasn’t able to go to his funeral and it took me nearly twelve years to finally visit his grave.

He always called me “My girl.” I don't remember him ever calling me by my name; it was always "My Girl." And in a world full of pain and uncertainly, filled with abuse and neglect, he made me feel as though I was the only girl in the world and that as long as I believed in myself, I could do anything and be anything.

He was right. And he did it all with a simple root beer barrel and a mouthful of spit.

Good job