June 20, 2015
Fishin’ Early with Aunt Avery written by Keith Jones
My grandmother died long before I was born, but her two sisters strove mightily to fill that place in our lives. They lived on “the Old Collins Place” where their Dad had farmed, kept store, and generally been the most progressive innovator in Choestoe Valley (Union County, GA.) He gave each of his children some land when they married, then left the homeplace to the last three single children, with instructions for them to write wills leaving the farm to the last survivor. Uncle Esley had a small bedroom just off the huge kitchen, and Aunt Avery and Aunt Ethel had bedrooms toward the back of the house. Uncle Esley died when I was a small boy, leaving just the two sisters to carry on.
Aunt Ethel was short, practical, and worked outside the home in the school cafeteria. Aunt Avery was beanpole tall and thin, tough, wiry, and worked as hard as any man ever thought about doing. She taught me to ‘cut tops and pull fodder,’ to pull peanuts up and dry them, to feed the chickens and gather eggs, and many other everyday farm skills. But Aunt Avery wasn’t all about work—she really knew how to have fun, too, and her favorite pastime was fishing.
Down behind the house was a shed absolutely filled up with cane poles. I don’t remember her ever telling me the night before that we would be going fishing. I’d just wake up from a snug sleep under quilts and hand-woven coverlets to her shaking my shoulder and saying, “Get up now, jump in your clothes, we’re going fishin’!” Outside, the gray light before dawn might reveal fog all along the creek, even far up the mountains, but she knew the rising sun would soon burn all that away. We’d stop by the shed and choose our poles for the day. She’d have me carrying an old bucket while she carried a shovel. On the way down to the creek, we’d stop near the barn and dig worms out of the black muck by the side of the building.
We’d walk across the pasture, past the fallen ruins of great-granddad’s sawmill, to Aunt Avery’s favorite bend in the creek. Sometimes we’d fish near the footlog that spanned the creek, linking with the trail that led over the mountain to my granddad Dyer’s home. But more often we were a few yards downstream from there, where the creek made a sharp turn that produced a whirlpool. That vortex was Aunt Avery’s secret honey hole for fish, and we seldom had to spend more than thirty or forty minutes before we had a stringer full of fat little sunfish. I suspect that Aunt Avery occasionally caught a native trout, since my most memorable outing was when a really large brownie took my hook, made an astonishing, twisting leap far into the air in front of my startled face and threw my hook and bait far up onto the bank.
Now the stream is stocked with rainbows. I’m sure anglers with thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment would love to range up that stream. But they could never match the excitement I had as a little boy hollering, “Aunt Avery! Aunt Avery! I got one!” And certainly no breakfast matched what we would have when we returned from these dawn expeditions—fried fish, grits AND country fried potatoes, homegrown sausage, streak-o-lean and yard eggs (Aunt Ethel had some hens famous for giving double-yolk eggs.) Hot biscuits, cornbread, all kinds of jellies and jams, and of course sorghum syrup.
I never really developed into a fisherman as a grownup. Maybe it’s because I don’t think anything could really match those days when I followed that bonneted awkward-graceful figure in her long plain cotton dress, as we walked through the dewy pasture to fish.
—Keith Jones – June 20, 2015
I love Keith’s memories as much today as I did back in 2015. Keith left this ole world suddenly and unexpectedly in 2017. If there’s fishing in heaven I know him and Aunt Avery are wearing them out.
Tipper
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My husband loves to fish. He catches those trout He will eat em but I don’t care for them. Too many bones.
Miss Tipper, I can relate to this lovely story by Mr Jones. I was a Jones, by the way, lol. I have experienced fishing in old farm ponds, with friend’s, cousins and other family members, swimming too. Grandma Had huge country breakfast, meager lunches, dinner and of course suppers. My grandparents were farmers. Their day’s started so early and ended so late, they needed to have at least 4 meals a day. They worked the land, that’s hard work, they had animals and sometimes worked outside the farm too. Grandpa’s family of sisters also cooked this way and many other members did too. I love those memories and Mr Jones is a beautiful writer. I enjoyed this story, almost with a couple tear drops to go along with it. Have a great week and love to all, especially Granny, Austin, Corie, Olive and that precious wee one coming very soon. Love, hug’s and prayers to all.
Tipper – what a beautiful, ‘filled-with-warm-memories’ story you shared via Keith, today. I loved it and could almost ‘picture’ being right there beside them all. Thank you.
I hope there is fishin in heaven! I’ve thought about that quite a bit…not fishin in particular but just what will we be doin up there? Ya know other than being perfect with Jesus of course. I hope there’s all kinds of animals. How could a soul as pure as their’s not be there? I think I’ll go study on that a while. Hope y’all are having a great day!
What a wonderful story and thank you for sharing it. I always loved to get the chance to go cane pole fishing when I was young. Catching a fish was so exciting to me. It didn’t matter about the size of the fish, it was just always so much fun! Those were the good ole days.
I remember fishing with my Granny and using cane poles. She would take my brother and I too the pond behind her house. The funny thing is she loved fishing, but we had to bait her hook and take the fish she caught off for her.
I had the good fortune to be born and raised in the beautiful Choestoe Valley. My grandparents lived up on a ridge not far from us. In fact, you could see their house from ours. There was a slick little path between our houses … and a creek! Stink Creek, to be exact! We had to cross the footlog over the creek to get to their house. Oh, if only that creek could talk! It would tell of happy summer days fishing, swimming and wading in the creek, especially the days fishing with my grandfather. I spent more time sitting beside my grandfather on the creek bank, weaving pine needles into bracelets and necklaces than I spent fishing, but oh what a joy it was just to be with Grandpa.
Betty, you saying if the creek could talk, there is a bridge that crosses the creek I mentioned in my earlier comment near me. Right above this bridge is a waterfall, in the past before the bridge was built, the cars, wagons or whatever “forded” the creek right above the waterfall. This area around the waterfall and the ford has always been a playground for many of the neighborhood kids of the past. The people that now own the property keep it clean and even have a picnic table and grill set up so people can bring their children and still enjoy the creek. Not many kids play there now, too many other things for them to do. The stories us native kids and the creek could tell about us playin, wading, fishing, and the older people driving their cars into the creek and washing them could fill a library with books. I happy to say even in today’s world no “meanness “ goes on at this place.
Randy, yes, how blessed we were to live near a creek. It was some of the happiest days of my childhood. My father was born in 1914 near the headwaters of the Nottely River. He told me of happy days during his childhood when the boys would gather after a hard day’s work and go swimming in the buff in the Blue Hole, a ten-feet-deep swimming hole in the river. No girls allowed! LOL!!! Not promoting my book, but I have written a chapter in a book to be released soon about the Saxons and their life “up on the river” (Nottely) … “Saxon Fields: Lost in Time.” You might enjoy it. If you will send me your address, I will send you a complimentary copy. Rivers and creeks are a great metaphor for life.
It’s hard to believe Keith didn’t develop into a fisherman as a grown-up. I wish I could have grown up with Aunt Avery in my life. I often wonder where I learned to tie sewing thread on a stick and use a safety pin for a hook before I headed out to the small creek to fish. Without a TV or fishing relatives, I must have learned from reading Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Minnows never touched my bait but I thought it was because they were baby fish that didn’t like biscuits. I was a teenager before I saw a fish bigger than the minnows that entertained me for many hours as a child. After I caught my first bass in Lake Michigan I was hooked for life.
Loved reading that story. Love hearing those tough and graceful ladies. That inspires me to get up take my little boy fishing.
I love the memories of fishing with my own Daddy. He would tell stories of tying a string with hooks and a sinker to his big toe when he was a boy, lying back and waiting for the big one to tug his toe! What fun! On a different note, here’s some words of wisdom I used to tell my 4 children when they had thoughts of being naughty. I would tell them that when they had the idea of doing something questionable they should ask themselves 3 questions. 1) Would my parents want me to do this? 2) Would my teachers want me to do this? and 3) Would God want me to do this? Then I told them if you answer “no” to anyone of these, then probably it’s no a good idea. I think it mostly worked. I was super glad to see the video of Granny the other day. Thank you and Granny for sharing.
Such a wonderfully descriptive read. I could just see it all in my mind. What beautiful memories Keith must have had!
I, like Keith didn’t know any of my grandparents (they all died beforeIwastwo), and my Aunts and Uncles were my grandparents. They didn’t take me fishing, but I remember spending the night or even a week with one of them and my cousins.
Nothing more exciting to a child than a creek!
Love that “awkward-graceful” description! I can so picture what he meant; awkward I looking but graceful in motion, muscles well trained by constant use and not an extra pound. And I think Aunt Avery firmly caught a little boy’s heart with love (which needs no hook) as bait.
I could just picture that all. What a great memory. I always loved cane pole fishing better than any other.
Thank you, Tipper, for sharing this.
What a lovely story and great descriptions. I can just imagine the excitement of waking up to go fishing with Aunt Avery. Every child such be a lucky has he to have someone like that in their life.
What vivid childhood memories! Keith had a gift for writing—I could have read an entire book about he and his Aunts. Thank you for sharing Tipper.
I loved this story and imagined the whole scene perfectly in my mind! Oh how I wish I’d have had a childhood like that one! It’s a beautiful memory indeed. Now about fishing in heaven. Murrman said in a dream he was barefoot on rocks by the pond and that he knew and could feel these rocks LOVED him. (He hates being barefoot.) He said his grandpa was fishing nearby with the most beautiful black shiny pole with gold inlay. He said the fish loved him, the water loved him, and the place was perfect in every way but especially the loving he felt like never in his life. He asked if it was real to which his pawpaw replied it was real indeed and he could never tell him-it had to be shown. Since that dream, Murrman insists it’s true and some how it changed him to not fear death at all. Just like I saw mommy with children (mostly dark hair) in a circle entrusted to her until “such time as they should leave the circle and come to earth” is the way she put it and told me the future of my daughters which has all come to pass…
I live in Choestoe..
This was such a great piece to read. Keith is a lot like you, Tipper/ fortunate for having such rich memories and specially gifted at putting them into words to share with others.
Wonderful read, I really enjoy the ‘olden’ days. Thanks. Prayers for Granny, she is lookin’ spiffy. God’s Blessings on you guys.
I love that story. My two grandmother’s died when I wad a small child. Only knew one grandfather, and I would say as a small girl that if there were fish in a mud hole, he’d catch them. I love to fish. Now, whether to hang a horseshoe up or down? up to catch blessings.
I fished in farm ponds when I was growing up with my Mother and Grandaddy, Daddy couldn’t go because of working. For many years we fished with bamboo canes. I remember how happy I was when I got my first rod and reel, a Zebco 202, I was so proud of it. I still have several of the older 202’s and what I thought was the cream of the crop Zebco 33’s. I have bamboo canes on my property and have thought about cutting and drying some out and taking my boys fishing with them just for old time sakes. I spent many happy hours of my youth fishing in a creek on our property with a 4 ft. pole catching horny head minnows. I also remember pulling up peanuts, drying them and then pulling them off the vines. I hated doing this, but dearly loved laying in the floor beside my Daddy later on in the winter in front of the fireplace eating these roasted/parched peanuts. We would rather lay on the the floor than sit in a chair. I sure wish I could go back and relive these times.
My first “real” reel was a Johnson Century 100-B (I’m not sure of that model #) I bought in the late 1960s or early 1970s. I loaned it to my brother in the late 80s and somebody stole it, or so he said.
Before that it was a long straight skinny sapling with a string tied on the end (no access to bamboo) or a rabbit cane pole with homemade eyes tied on it in one hand and a coil of line in the other kinda like fly fishermen do.
Papaw, that could very well be the model number, it may have been an earlier model 100 than the “B.” I didn’t say this in my comment but for a lot us, our first reels were either a Zebco 202 or Johnson Century reel. I think the Century may have been a better reel more in line with the Zebco 33. The crown jewel for me as a older teenager was a Garcia Mitchell 300. I still have this reel (55 years). It would still be my go to reel if I was to go fishing today. I’m stretching the truth but I would swear I could fill the bed of a pickup truck up with the fish caught with this reel. Doesn’t God forgive a fisherman for stretching the truth? I guess it may have something to do with being 70 years old, I still like using older things to show although old we can still “get it done.”
There has always been a patch of bamboos growing on my property, so getting canes to fish with was no problem. I would use a short 4ft little finger size cane to fish for the minnows in the creek and have made my hooks out of safety pins.