Sorry, but the Lowry gang story will have to wait until my eye gets better and I can do more recollecting about what those boys got into.
In this week’s story I’m gonna talk about in-laws, not outlaws. I know sometimes people don’t get along with their in-laws but I had a good relationship with all of mine, especially with my wife’s grandparents. Mr. Hopie and Mrs. Gladys Rankin were good folks who made everyone feel welcome at their door and at their table.
Mr. Hopie had been a farmer all his life who also liked to deer hunt and train bird dogs. He also liked to fish for jackfish at the creek not far from his house called Naked Creek.
He would go out in the woods and cut himself several slender fishing poles along with some forked sticks to hold them up. He didn’t seem to like a rod and reel but preferred his poles that he had cut down himself. He’d string them up with some black nylon line, a big plastic cork and a large fish hook.
Many a time I would go over to his house for a visit. After a while I’d ask: “Do you want to go jack fishing?”
He’d say “Hope my die, Smit, I thought you’d never ask.”
Then we’d place two or three of those poles through the back window of his old ’59 Chevy car. We’d open the trunk; put in a tow sack, a rake and a five-gallon bucket. Then we’d head out to the little branch in front of Jones Springs Methodist Church to catch minnows.
Catching those minnows was just about as much fun as catching those jackfish. We’d cut a small sapling and make a bow to hold the sack open. Then I’d go down the branch a piece and hold the sack down in the water while Mr. Hopie took the rake and made his way down the branch toward me — heading the minnows into the sack. You’d be surprised at the size of the minnows we’d catch out of that little branch.
We’d put the minnows in the bucket and place them in the trunk of the car, place the tow sack over the bucket and head off to Naked Creek.
We’d park at the bridge, just off the road and unload our fishing stuff. Then we’d walk down to the foot of the bridge where there was a nice clean place to fish. Mr. Hopie always kept his fishing hole clean by taking a bush ax and clearing away all the undergrowth that was there.
With all the poles baited up with a nice fresh minnow, we’d toss ’em in the creek and then prop each of the poles up on one of the forked sticks. Then we’d sit back on a couple fishing stools — waiting for a jackfish to bite.
Sometimes it didn’t take long to get a bite but mostly we’d sit back and try to solve all the world’s problems. Mr. Hopie liked to reminisce about the past. He’d tell me how the Rankin clan moved down from Gaston County in 1910 and how they started farming cotton around the Derby area in Richmond County.
He said it won’t easy — following the back side of a mule all day, hoeing and picking all that cotton while just trying to make a living. Along with the cotton, they also raised corn and planted a large vegetable garden every year just to keep the family fed.
Mr. Hopie also told stories about how him and Ms. Gladys raised seven kids of their own, while his brothers (who lived within hollering distance) raised large families of their own. How late in the evening the brothers would sit under a shade tree and talk about their crops and each one had a way of saying. “Hope my die, Hopie, you’d argue with a sign post and take it home with you.” About how all of them made extra money in the wintertime by taking wealthy Northerners out on hunting trips in the local area.
He’s always tell about the time his brother Jessie shot a buck deer down and one of the Northerners wanted to take his picture with it. Jessie laid his gun down on the deer’s antlers and then leaned down and that’s when the deer jumped up and ran down through the woods with Jessie’s gun still on his antlers.
Mr. Hopie said if that wasn’t a sight for sore eyes, he’d never seen such. Said they all had a good laugh about it but that Jessie wasn’t laughing by the time he got his gun repaired.
Mr. Hopie would get so involved in the tale that we wouldn’t even notice he had a nice jackfish bending the end of his pole. Why, Mr. Hopie wouldn’t play around with that jackfish either, no-sirree. Why, he’d grab the pole and then sling it — fish and all — back over his head so the fish ended up in the woods behind us.
Sometimes the fish would weigh two or more pounds. We’d string them up on a heavy-duty stringer, put ‘em in the water and wait for another one to bite. Weren’t nothing for us to catch three or four.
As the sun was slowly going down, we’d load up the fish, all the fishing equipment and head on up the hill to the car. To get to Mr. Hopie’s house you had to drive down a long one-lane sandy dirt road. As we pulled into the yard, most of the time I could smell Ms. Gladys’ cooking before we even got out of the car.
Didn’t take us long to unload our fishing equipment, wash our hands and head on inside to eat supper. Lots of times, Ms. Gladys would have a frying pan full of venison covered in brown gravy, a bowl of homemade mashed potatoes, a quart of home-canned string beans and a pan of homemade biscuits. You talk about someone who really knew how to cook venison — she was the one!
After supper, we’d sit around the old wood heater and I’d hear some more good stories of times long since gone by. You know, I really miss those times I shared with Mr. Hopie and Ms. Gladys because they made me feel like family.
Hope you have some fond memories of your own like that too.
Young folks, take time to listen to the stories of your elders, because all too soon they’ll be gone!