Grandpa Could Pull 'Em In Right and Left!

The Bassmaster Classic Tournament of 2016 brought world competition and fevered fishing excitement to our Sooner state. It seemed appropriate to post these vintage photos since March 13 is the birthday of my grandfather, Calvin Callcayah Smith.

Grandpa and Fishing and More

Angie proudly holding the reel Grandpa used to catch the
 wide-mouth bass he had caught on their fishing trip. She 
wasn't big enough to hold the bass or she would have!

                Grandpa loved the outdoors. Whether gathering wild fruit, fishing in a pond, hunting in the timber, or just relaxing under the Chinese elm tree in the yard of the our farmhouse, my grandpa, Calvin Callcayah Smith, preferred the peaceful serenity of the outdoors. The scent of the blossoms of the apricot trees in the spring, the delicious plum butter made from the tree plums gathered in the summer, or the splashing and thrashing sounds of a “nice size” fish trying to escape his fishing line appealed to his senses.
               Both of my grandmothers would choose a day of fishing over shopping any time. Grandma Smith relied heavily on the moon’s phases or “signs.” She based her angling on this information as it appeared in The Farmer’s Almanac. In contrast, no one ever knew what affected his fishing excursions, since Grandpa was a man who spoke few words.   

                Even though my parents, my sister, and I always lived in the same home with my maternal grandparents, a day could pass with hardly any words spoken between my grandpa and me. My cousin, Ron Bledsoe, related recently, “Oh yes, I remember Calvin. When I was a kid in the 1950s, your grandpa went coon hunting with us. He said very little, but when he said something - it was funny!”

                Grandpa was friends with the Jefferson family since he had leased for many years their land south across the road from our farm. Frequently, in the summer, I would glance out the window and catch a glimpse of Grandpa, with his fishing rod and small tackle box, walking through the Jefferson pasture to the secluded pond.

                Even though Grandpa milked the milk cow, fed and watered between 200-500 chickens, gathered the hen eggs, and stored them in the cellar until selling them to the hatchery, he took a little bit of time to relax. Soon he returned to work with my grandma in the enormous garden or cleared, by hand, the fence lines, repairing any breaches in the fence. My sister, and I never knew Grandpa kept the fences cleared until just months before our father suffered his first stroke, and we asked him how he managed to build houses and keep the fence lines from becoming overgrown. Dad replied, “Calvin kept them cleared.”      

                Yet Grandpa found time to fish. Angie went on more fishing jaunts with Grandpa than I did since she was five years younger than I was. While I was off to school, they had many trips to one of the three ponds on my parents’ farm. Angie, at a quite young age, could speak fluently, was focused, and obedient. (When I was in second grade, Angie, at age seven, memorized a poem I was learning for a school program and could recite it word perfect!). Her calm and compliant demeanor made her the perfect fishing partner even as a preschooler.

As much as Grandpa enjoyed fishing, he received much more joy at
seeing Angie's excitement over his catch. 

                Grandpa usually caught something worth keeping. My grandma, Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, intimated that Grandpa’s Cherokee DNA contributed to his understanding of everything from weather prediction to finding wild edibles to discerning  where and when the fish were biting.
                 Mother recalled her father's impeccable ability to cast precisely, with laser precision, wherever he aimed in the water. Grandpa never used a stringer. Instead he always had a "gunny sack", a burlap bag, to hold his caught fish. He had constructed his own fish-cleaning table that he placed north of the garage. Upon returning from an afternoon of fishing, he immediately began scaling and preparing the fish so Mother could freeze them.

                Mother recalled a time when Grandpa went fishing alone at the Community Lake near Ralston early one morning with the wind blowing from the north. He left before Mother and Grandma could get around to go.

                Grandpa returned soon with three large catfish. He told them excitedly, that just as soon as he got one off his hook and threw his line back into the water, another fish struck it again. Grandpa’s excitement prompted him to be more verbal than he usually was.

Mother passed on to us this little rhyme about fishing. That time the little rhyme about the wind direction and the predicted results didn’t work.

Wind from the east,

Fishing is least.

Wind from the west,

Fishing is best.

Wind from the north,

Fisherman, go not forth.

Wind from the south

Blows in the fish’s mouth.

                My father jokingly said that Grandpa would move fast if a fishing trip were on the horizon. Grandpa spent time preparing his tackle box, making and repairing his lures, and even creating his own. Grandpa found a sturdy limb and made it into a fishing “pole.” I always liked to use it, especially after his death, even though it required extra muscle to hold it. One could be sure no fish would break the pole!

                Grandpa loved to fish. I think a fisherman must be an optimist – he’ll reel in the next one. A committed fisher always expects the best – the next  big one won’t get away. A serious angler puts all his effort into achieving a goal – he will land the next fish that bites.

                Just weeks before Grandpa’s death, Harold and Gertrude Forbes Goad came to our home to visit Grandpa. He had faithfully taught the adult men’s Sunday School class at Ralston Baptist Church in the late 1970s. Harold commented that the class attendance had diminished and expressed some discouragement. Grandpa, in a weakened condition and dangerously thin, responded to Harold with conviction and optimism, “Harold, I’ll get back over there, and we’ll get it built back up.”

                Grandpa’s determination and commitment provides a model for carrying through a responsibility to the very end. May those of us who knew and loved him honor him on his birthday with our own pledge to live courageously, doing the right thing with an infectious spirit that impacts those around us for the good.          

For reading the post about Grandpa's World War I experience, click:

http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-spanish-flu-pandemic-of-1918.html

To access the blog posted on Grandpa's  birthday two years ago with a portrait of him in his youth, click:

http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-legacy.html