My Dad, who became a great father, grandfather and Christian later in life, was not any of those things in my younger years. But neither am I any of those things, so this is not a criticism, just a statement of fact. But despite his weaknesses and failures, he wanted to be a good man, and was most of the time. He just had some problems. Life was hard and it was especially hard on a father of five with a limited education, and whose only way to support his family (which he did without fail), was to drive an 18-wheeler and to be gone from his family from Sunday afternoon until Friday. Then, from Friday until Saturday night, he lived and played hard. Unfortunately, that involved consumption of enough alcohol to at least limit his good judgment. That is the backdrop for this story. I will share more about my dad at another time.
I don’t remember the year, but it was sometime in the early 1960’s, well over 50 years ago. I was probably about 10 years old. On this particular Saturday morning, my dad, my Uncle Sonny, and Leroy (my uncle’s brother-in-law) set out on Saturday morning to drive around (which usually meant finding something to drink and just hang out). At the time, there was much about these things that I did not understand. But, on this particular Saturday morning, my older brother and I asked if we could come along and were told that we could. So off we go, hanging out with the men. We had spent the night with some of my mother’s family in Rockwood, Alabama, so that was the starting point of our Saturday morning drive.
I don’t remember everything about that morning, but I do remember a lot of talk about fishing. My Dad loved to fish. Not tournament fishing, but catching crappie and catfish. And he was good at it. I’m pretty sure the conversation was about good fishing spots, including the Rock Pile, a nearby creek and other places that did not require a boat, since my dad did not own a boat.
Then one of the three brought up the old Rockwood limestone quarry and the pond or lake at the quarry. As you may know, most quarries have a lake or pond due to the digging of the stone below the water table, the capture of rainwater, and probably other reasons I don’t understand. But these ponds are often notorious for large fish. And when you mix three men and alcohol and the subject of fishing spots, you just know someone is going to bring up the lake at the quarry. And that quarry was only a mile or two up the road.
Now I have a strong suspicion that this lake was private property, and that fishing was not allowed, at least not to outsiders. But that was likely not a concern with this crew. There were stronger influences in play that morning than property rights. One thing led to another. Various ideas were considered. Finally, someone knew someone who knew someone who knew that there was either dynamite at the quarry or where to find dynamite. (Remember, this was the early 1960’s and the world was a little different back then. Please keep that in mind.) You know where this is leading. One of the three suggested that the best way to get a lot of fish was not angling, but blasting. Yep. Conversation went something like this. “Let’s get some dynamite and throw it in. The fish will float to the top and we’ll swim out and get them.” And, exercising at least some degree of wisdom, they decided this was no adventure for kids, so my brother and I are dropped off at my aunt’s house with instructions to keep quiet. Which we did. For a while.
Early that afternoon, my mom was pretty put out with Dad. (“Put out” is a southern expression that means she was exasperated.) She had a strong suspicion that my dad and his comrades were drinking. “Buddy, did your Dad say where they were going?” Silence. (Yes, my nickname was Buddy). “Son, if you know something, you better tell me right now!” I broke. I knew the hickory switch was coming if I lied, so I spilled my guts. “They’re going to get some dynamite and throw it in the lake at the quarry and get the fish when they float to the top!”
Even to me, it sounded a little far-fetched since none of them knew a thing about dynamite. But, Mom, knowing my dad better than anyone, was taking no chances. Nodding in the general direction of the quarry, she said, “Let’s go.” And off we traipsed, me, my brother, my mom, and my aunt. My Aunt Carolyn may have joined us. Not sure. But we’re on our way, strolling up the road toward the quarry.
I should add that no one believed they would really throw dynamite in the lake. More likely, they were sitting in the car drinking, and Mom was ready to get Dad and to go home. So, our trip is simply to fetch him. Such silly talk about dynamite. No one was buying that story.
Until… Until we heard the first blast. And then the second. And then the third. Our leisurely stroll turned to running, and probably praying. And then my memory gets a little fuzzy. I don’t remember the confrontation between Mom and Dad. But I do remember that before we got to the quarry, Uncle Sonny came flying around a curve in the car, screeching to a stop when he saw us. He was drenched from head to toe but grinning from ear to ear.
“Where are y’all headed?” he asked.
“Where do you think?”
“Well get in, and I’ll take you back. I gotta get some washtubs!”
“Washtubs?”
“Yeah, to put the fish in.”
“Where’s Onus?” (that’s my dad) “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. He’s helping Leroy get the fish. Come on. We need to hurry!”
So, we piled into the car and drove back to my aunt’s house. We get out and my uncle grabs two or three large washtubs from the laundry building out back. And off he goes.
Mom is still more than a little upset. She wanted to go to the quarry with my uncle, but he spun out of the driveway before she could get back in the car. By now, there is genuine fear that someone is going to get arrested, or worse drown in that lake.
But not to worry. A couple of hours later, the three “fishermen” return with three washtubs overflowing with catfish, bream, bass and who knows what other kinds of fish.
After a few discussions, and probably a few choice words, everyone’s mood lightened, not because of the fish, but because these three had returned safely. And were the fishermen ever in a good mood? A combination of alcohol and success “fishing” had them in rare form.
A fire was lit out back, a pot placed over the fire and fish fry to end all fish fries ensued. I’m sure we didn’t fry and eat all the fish. Some were probably frozen. But we ate a lot.
I should add that when it comes to frying fish and making hushpuppies, my dad had no equal. And he loved fish. So, he had a great day. Everyone ate to their fill and there was lots of laughter and storytelling. A typical family get-together for my family back in that time, (other than the dynamite).
Now before you think I am too flippant about what went on, I know that It’s not the recommended way to bring about a fish fry. There were a lot of things that went on that would be rightfully frowned on today and were even then. These included consumption of large amounts of alcohol, swimming while under the influence, and certainly driving. And let’s not leave out that little act of trespassing. So, I’m not justifying any of the behavior, but I’m glad that it ended well. And looking back, it’s one of those memories you can only laugh about. This was simply the unlikely, or not so unlikely story of three friends drinking, coming up with a crazy idea and carrying it out to the dismay of their wives and the amusement of their kids.
But the story ended well. And I’m thankful for that. And when I recall stories like this, it reminds me of where I came from and to some degree why I am the way that I am. I didn’t come from a perfect family. Most of us didn’t. And some of the things I saw, I would never do. Short-sighted and bad judgement? Without a doubt. But none of it was mean-spirited or intended to be harmful.
But it’s a story that happened over 50 years ago. Dad, my Uncle Sonny, and Leroy have left this world. And the statute of limitations has run out. I hope.
We’ll talk again soon.