June 2014 Newsletter

The beauty of mountain streams, from cool, trickling rivulets to strong, trout-filled rivers.

The breathtaking impact of a waterfall somewhere in the secret places of the Smokies. Whenever I gaze on one (usually with a fly rod in my hand) I’m reminded of the accuracy of a phrase an old-time poet in my hometown of Bryson City, NC used. He called the region “the backside of heaven.”

The thrills, spills, and often chills of riding an inner tube down Deep Creek. Of course there are countless other streams where you can do the same thing. It’s just that I cut my tubing teeth on Deep Creek.

Relaxing on a porch as the gloaming gives way to dark and watching lightning bugs throw yellow sparks in the air.

Recalling summer evenings as a boy when we would catch a whole bunch of fireflies, put them in a jar, and have our own version of nature’s flashlight.

Catching grasshoppers for fish bait in the cool dews of morning before they get frisky and evasive.

Frying a mess of fresh-caught trout, all dressed up in cornmeal dinner jackets, at streamside.

Wandering through fields and along wood edges as blackberries begin to ripen and offer their tasty bounty to anyone willing to brave briars, chiggers, and skeeters.

Checking to see if mulberry trees bore fruit. Never mind that every berry likely has a tiny worm in it, I’ve always found them passing tasty. Also, I know of nothing which is widely available in the wild berry line which is more frequently overlooked. They make fine pies and jam and can even be dried for use in pemmican if your inclinations lean in that direction.

Suckering tomatoes, tying them to stakes, maybe giving the vine a bit of a shake (yes, that actually helps in pollination), and trying my darndest to be patient until the first ones begin to ripen towards month’s end.

Beginning to enjoy the garden’s bounty in a serious way—the last of the year’s asparagus, early squash and zucchini, the first snap beans, and new potatoes.

Watching barefoot youngsters running through the grass and remembering those long ago days when I did the same thing. They are heedless of the painful results of an accidental bee stomping, just as I was, and more times than I really care to remember I paid the price for mashing a honey bee while running through a patching of clover.

Catching June bugs and tying a length of sewing thread to their legs in order to have my own insect helicopter. The only problem was that it soon ran out of gas and refused to fly.

Going “nightcrawlering” after a late afternoon or early evening rain brought these giants of the worm world out of their subterranean hideaways for a night of courtship. They brought a penny a crawler, which was serious money in the 1950s.

Taking all-day spring lizard catching expeditions (they were actually salamanders, but I never heard them called that until I was grown) with the idea of filling a bucket with them and selling the amphibians for fish bait. They brought three cents apiece for the common grey and brown kind and a big red one fetched a nickel. It was hard work, turning over rocks in spring branches and seeps then scrambling like crazy to catch any lizards which were revealed, but it was also great fun.

Watching corn tassel out and checking the silks on an almost daily basis, wondering whether there will be home-grown corn on the cob for the July 4 menu.

Stringing and breaking beans on the front porch with Momma and Daddy in rocking chairs and the rest of us hanging our legs off over the side of the porch. Momma always had a goal of putting up 200 quarts of beans over the course of the summer.

Enjoying the first store-bought watermelon of the season, usually in company with Grandpa Joe. That was back when watermelons came in proper dimensions (old-time cannonballs, Charleston Greys, or the striped “rattlesnake” variety) and had plenty of seeds. Today’s sissified melons don’t weigh more than ten pounds or so, lack any seeds, and in view are little more than pantywaist poseurs doing a poor job of trying to be the “real McCoy.”

Camping trips into the backcountry of the Smokies in company with a few buddies. We would fish all day; eat enormous quantities of potatoes, onions, dried fruit, and trout; and be carefree in the fashion only boys without a worry in the world can be. There have been similar trips in adulthood, and while some of the carefree outlook has vanished appetites remain mighty hearty.

Saturday afternoon matinees at the local theatre. For a dime (about the time I reach my teens inflation hit hard and the price of admission went up to 12 cents) you got a cartoon, the latest installment of a serial, and a cowboy movie featuring the likes of Roy Rogers, Lash LaRue, Johnny Mack Brown, or Gene Autry.

Watching old men play checkers, swap knives, and share tall tales at the area locally known as “Loafer’s Glory” (or more frequently and more pungently, as “Dead Pecker Corner”).

Enjoying a milkshake in one of the local drugstores after a long, hot day helping Daddy in the yard and garden.

Fried chicken for Sunday dinner. I never hear Bobby Bare’s great song, “Chicken Every Sunday” without thinking of Mom and her uncanny knack for frying chicken. I’ve never had better, and as Bare says in the song, “Our little home was blessed.” Incidentally, “dinner” at our house meant the mid-day meal. We ate supper at dusk. Dinner in the evening was something for pantywaist city folks. Also, during my boyhood, more often than not, the chicken was free-range straight from Grandpa’s tiny farm. If anyone ever tries to tell you the overly fat chicken you buy in today’s supermarkets tastes the same as true free-range chicken, you have my permission (and endorsement) to yell BS to the skies.

Car rides to the main ridgeline of the Smokies where it was possible to look down on the setting sun.

Cruising around town (it had only two real business streets where there were storefronts) trying to get the attention of girls who were doing the same thing.

Endless games of rolly-bat with three or four buddies.

Hoeing corn with Grandpa all the while knowing there would be some kind of tasty reward at the end of work.

Riding my one-speed bike back and forth across traffic counters hundreds of times. I have no idea whether or not that recorded on the counter, but if so the folks who studied the data must have been mightily perplexed as to how the dead-end road which ran by our house could get so much traffic.

Seining for minnows which could be sold to the local bait and tackle store.

Days of trout fishing alone. I’d leave home at daylight on foot, fish all day, and get back home at dusk. It was magical and I think offers as good an explanation as any of why I have always so cherished time spent alone in natural settings.

Thrilling to the beauty of hundreds of tiger swallowtail butterflies “puddling” along a trail.

The joys of the rare “see forever” day in the Smokies after a rain and the passage of a strong cold front. The skies took on a blue hue which grabbed the soul, temperatures were mild, humidity was low, and all the world seemed lovely.