A Simpler Time
I found this story from an old file on a backup disk I had when one of my computers crashed. It is one of my favorites and one that the Lexington-Herald liked. A lady called me all the way from Kentucky to thank me for writing. I really appreciated it.
==================
Lately I have been reflecting on the joys and hardships of growing up in Appalachia. Perhaps it is all a subconscious effort to escape the insanity of the "political" obsessions. Perhaps it is simply a desire to return to a simpler time.
I remember exploring the mountains -- looking for whatever the world would offer -- knees on the damp ground, drinking from the mountain streams. Chewing on the tender tips of the young sassafras branches... Searching the shady mountainside for bloodroot, ginseng, branchmint, mountain tea, yellowroot, and other herbs... I recall the haunting sounds of the hoot owls breaking the silence of the nights.
After supper, the family would sit on the front porch and reminisce about the days events. I retain the memory of the lightshow before the symphony. As the evening shadows lengthened and the air cooled, the lightning bugs would rise slowly from the earth one at a time until there seemed to be as many fireflies as stars in the sky. Then the crickets, frogs, and other creatures would begin their meditative symphony.
And I remember going fishing with Mammaw. First, we would get the seasoned cane poles from above the porch rafters and check for hooks and sinkers and a good line. Then we would look for the ideal place to dig up some worms. Usually, it was off the side of the house where Mammaw would throw out her dish water. A little bit of dirt in a Clabber Girl baking powder can, and soon we had enough bait to fish all day. With our cane poles and a can of worms, we would trek across the pastures and meadows until we found a good fishing hole. I recall how Mammaw would take a dip of her Bruton snuff and spit on her hook just before she would throw some big lunker of a nightcrawler to his doom. She would set her line on the bottom with hopes of catching the biggest catfish on Greasy Creek. Usually, she was successful. She was the best fisherman I ever saw.
Sitting in silence and meditating on the water, sometimes it would seem that the land was moving and the creek was standing still. On those days when the sun was hot and the fishing was slow, we would walk up the creek to an old country store. There is no smell more memorable than the apples, peaches, bananas, and other fruits and vegetables in a country store. Before we would head back down to the creek, we would get a cold bottle of Pepsi~Cola. Surely there was nothing more refreshing on God's green earth.
After a full day's fishing, we would pull our stringer of fish out of water, roll up the line on our cane poles, and head home for supper. Sometimes, the stringer would be so heavy to a little cotton-headed fellow like myself, that the tails of some of the fish would be dragging the ground. Neighbors along the way would compliment us on our catch. Once home, the fish would be cleaned and fried golden brown in the old cast iron skillet. Along with fried potatoes and corn bread, we had our supper, of which we were very grateful.
kentuck
= new reply since forum marked as read
I spent all my summers as a child in Eastern Kentucky with my grandparents. Sometimes I can still smell the inside of an old country store, the coal stove in their living room, and too many other memories to mention. Thanks for posting this 
I feel like I was there with you.
