It was a beautiful spring Saturday morning. Thomas Brooks, his father and grandfather were sitting at the kitchen table of his grandparents’ house in East Atlanta. He was nine years old. His grandmother, Mema, had made breakfast for them. Thomas’s grandparents were from Auburn and Carl in East Georgia. Everything on the breakfast table was from the family farms there. Fresh eggs and cheese, sausage and bacon, freshly churned butter and homemade muscadine jelly.
There was a freezer on the back porch, and it was always full of fish. Thomas’s Pepa was a fisherman. Since retiring from the City of Atlanta Fire Department, he would go fishing four or five times a week. Beside the lakes on the relatives’ properties in the country, Pepa also had keys to the gates for private lakes from East Atlanta to Athens and beyond. He was not shy at all about pulling into the driveway of a house with a lake, knocking on the door, introducing himself and asking for permission to fish. At the end of the day he would give the owners a stringer of fish and thank them for their kindness. Eventually, they would give him a key to the gate.
Every time Thomas Brooks and his parents visited, Mema and Pepa would give them fish from the freezer, cleaned and scaled. Thomas grew up eating fish for supper at least once a week. His father would have a bass, his mother one bream. Thomas would eat at least two bream, usually three. They were small, but the meat was soft, flaky and very sweet. He thought that everyone had fresh fish for supper at least once or twice a week. He did not realize until he was grown just how lucky he had been.
On this particular spring Saturday morning, Mema had made bacon, eggs and coffee for his father and Pepa. She had made biscuits and gravy for him. Mema’s biscuits were light and fluffy, and the aroma of them as they floated from the oven to the plate in front of him was heavenly. She would cover them with sawmill gravy with sausage, and Thomas Brooks loved them.
They were going fishing at Uncle Ernest’s lake in Auburn. Uncle Ernest was Pepa’s brother. “Ernest and Cleo aren’t going to be there, but they know we’re coming,” Pepa said. “Are they going to be there later on?” asked his father. “I don’t know, I don’t think so,” said Pepa. “They’re going to visit Leonard and Sabra.” Uncle Leonard was also Pepa’s brother. Even though Uncle Leonard and Aunt Sabra lived two miles from Uncle Ernest and Aunt Cleo, it was the country and in the country, when you went to visit you stayed all day.
This was the first time Thomas Brooks had ever gone fishing. Earlier in the week he had gotten his first fishing rod from S&H Green Stamps. It was a white Rain Beau rod with black trim and lashings and had a black Zebco 202 closed faced reel.
“Well, we’d better get going,” said Pepa. “It’s eight o’clock now.” “Are we going to stop for bait?” asked his father. “Yeah,” said Pepa, “I’ll probably work two or three rods.” Mema had made them lunch. She packed a basket with homemade pimento cheese sandwiches, two thermoses, one containing coffee and the other sweet tea, cookies and three cans of Vienna sausages. “Can’t go fishing without Vienna sausages,” Mema smiled at Thomas. Thomas loved his Mema very much.
They loaded up Pepa’s white 1961 Ford Falcon and were soon headed east on Interstate 20. They got off at Scenic Highway and headed north. “Well, men, it’s a beautiful day for it,” said Pepa. “It really doesn’t get much better than this.” “No, it doesn’t,” replied his father, lighting up a Lucky Strike. “I just hope ol’ Tom doesn’t catch a boot and we wind up eating beans.” Pepa laughed. “What kind of new rod did you get, boy,” he asked. “A Rain Beau with a Zebco 202 reel,” Thomas replied proudly, “I got it with S&H Green Stamps.” “Green Stamps, eh? You know, if you save up enough books of those you can get a fishing boat.” “Yes, sir, I saw that in the catalog. It only takes fifteen hundred books.” “Fifteen hundred books, huh? Does that include the motor?” “No, sir, that’s another five hundred.” “How many books was it for your rod and reel?” “One,” answered Thomas. “One,” laughed Pepa. “Well, you got the most important piece of equipment for a beginner. Just keep eating those groceries and saving those Green Stamps.” “Look, Thomas, there’s Stone Mountain,” said his father. Off to the east, out the left window of the Falcon sat the huge chunk of granite. “Wow, it doesn’t look as big from here,” said Thomas. “How far away is it?” “About ten miles, as the crow flies,” answered his father. Thomas watched the big rock until it went out of view, obscured by trees.
They stopped at the store at the intersection of Scenic Highway and Lawrenceville Highway in Lawrenceville. His father and Pepa got packs of Lucky Strikes and Camels. Thomas got a Moon Pie. He walked out to the front porch and got a Coke out of the machine. The machine was the kind that you put your dime in the front, then opened up the top and slid your bottle through the rails and around the corners and then pulled it up at the gate that the dime had unlocked. The Little League games were all going on at the ballpark across the street. Thomas could hear the players chattering and the parents yelling and cheering. His team in Gresham Park, the Braves, had played Thursday night.
They went into the bait stand that was part of the store. Pepa got two containers of pink worms and one of chicken livers. “Are we going to get worms, Daddy?” Thomas asked his father. “No, we’re bass fishing today,” his father said. “We’re going to use spinning lures.” They got back in the Falcon and headed east on Lawrenceville Highway, through Dacula and toward Auburn. Once, on the way to a family reunion, Thomas had pronounced Dacula like “Dracula.” His parents laughed, and his mother explained that Dacula was prounounced with a long “u.” Still, every time they went through Dacula he thought of Dracula.
They turned left off of Lawrenceville Highway onto Etheridge Road. Uncle Ernest and Aunt Cleo lived about a half a mile up the road on the right. The lake on their property was about seven acres, and was located at the back behind the house. The house was about a quarter of a mile off of the road.
They drove the Falcon to the back of the property, and Pepa backed it in close to a large oak tree opposite the dam. Thomas and his father set up to fish under the tree. Pepa went off to fish on the open side of the lake to the right and along the dam. Pepa liked to fish alone.
“You’re using a number two Mepps,” said his father. “Here’s how you tie it. I’ll show you on my rod. Take your line and run it through the eyelet. Then twist the lure about five times. That will twist the line. Then run the end of your line back through the little loop above the eyelet and pull tight.” Thomas did it like he was shown on his own line and pulled it snug and tight onto the eyelet. It was a lesson he remembered the rest of his life. “Now, when you cast, just bend your elbow and cock your wrist,” said his father, “then go forward with your arm and release the button on your reel as you uncock your wrist. Don’t go back too far or release the button too soon. You’ll get caught in the tree limbs, and you’re not fishing for squirrels.” Thomas cast a few times and reeled back in the line. “There you go,” said his father. “Now, when you’re reeling in, turn it about three times and pop the end of the rod a little. Keep doing that and keep the line tight. When you feel a “bump, bump”, the fish is hitting it. Pull back on the rod quickly to set the hook. Don’t yank it, or you’ll snatch the lure out of the fish’s mouth. Then reel him in.” He cast a few more times and did as his father said, reel, reel, reel, pop, reel, reel, reel, pop. On about the third cast he felt a bump, bump after the second pop. He pulled back on the rod quickly and started reeling in. He could tell from the drag on the line and the way the rod was jumping that he had a fish. It was a largemouth bass, and his father slapped him on the shoulder, tousled his hair and congratulated him. Thomas wanted to know how much the fish weighed. His father pulled a small hand held scale from his tackle box and showed him how to hang the fish on it and read the weight. The fish weighed about a pound. Then his father showed him how to put the fish on the stringer and secure the stringer so the fish could not pull it out of the ground and swim away. Thomas Brooks was thrilled. It was the first fish he had ever caught.
His father caught one about the same size. Thomas caught one slightly smaller. His father showed him how to add the fish to the stringer. “Are you okay alone?” his father asked. “I’m going to move over here to the left and fish around those stumps out there.” “Yes, sir, I’m fine”, replied Thomas. He stayed under the tree. The fish were biting too good to move. He did not catch a fish every time he cast, but it sure seemed like it. He learned to reel faster as the lure came close to shore to keep it from dragging through the mud or the algae.
His father brought over a couple more bass and a few bream on another stringer. Pepa was working his way back from the dam towards them. “Boy, Daddy’s pulling ‘em out left and right over there,” said his father. Pepa had two rods on stands and one in his hand. He worked the three of them like a maestro, at one point reeling in two rods at once.
Pepa pulled his lines in and they stopped for lunch. They ate the pimento cheese sandwiches and Vienna sausages. Thomas proudly showed his grandfather his first fish. Then he had two of Mema’s oatmeal cookies, a cup of sweet tea and was ready to go again.
They fished into the afternoon. Around three o’clock, Pepa came back around and checked their stringers. “That’s a fine mess of fish you’ve got there, boy,” he said to Thomas, “We might just make a fisherman out of you yet.” “I think we’ve about caught our limit, Daddy,” said his father, “We’d better be heading back.” Pepa stayed for another half an hour or so. Thomas would learn over time that this was a rarity. Pepa would fish not only deep into the evening but into the darkness as well. He also was oblivious to driving rain. As long as the fish were biting, neither time nor the elements mattered.
They loaded up the cooler and headed back to Atlanta about four o’clock. Thomas had caught ten bass, five before lunch and five afterwards. His father caught eight bass and five bream. Pepa had ten bass, eight bream and two catfish. On the way home, Thomas recounted excitedly to his grandfather how he had learned to reel and pop and to feel the bump, bump when the fish hit the line. Pepa explained to him the best times of year and day to catch fish, and what type of weather was best for different kinds of fishing. “I’m just afraid he got spoiled,” chuckled his father, “It’s not going to be like that every time out. They were biting good today, and that’s the exception rather than the rule”.
They pulled into the gravel driveway and out behind his grandparents’ house. Pepa’s cleaning table was set up off of the back porch. Mema came out, and Thomas proudly showed her his two stringers of five bass each.
Pepa explained to him that the fish all had to be scaled and cleaned as soon as possible. He got out his filet knife and warned Thomas that it was very sharp. He then showed him how to clean the fish and how to remove the scales using the scaling tool. They started an assembly line, with Pepa cleaning, Thomas scaling and his father rinsing, drying and wrapping the fish in butcher paper that Pepa got from the A&P Store in East Atlanta. After his father had wrapped the fish that had been on the end of Thomas’s first stringer, Mema wrote his name on it and said, “You be sure your Momma cooks that for you for supper tonight.” Thomas loved his Mema very much. They kept a few more out, a bass for his father and a couple of bream for his mother. The rest went into the freezer. Pepa was going to clean the catfish for his and Mema’s supper.
Thomas and his father climbed in his father’s old brown Chevy Apache pickup and said goodbye to Mema and Pepa. Thomas asked if they could go fishing again next weekend. Pepa laughed and promised that they would go again soon, just maybe not next weekend.
After they got home, Thomas and his father washed up while his mother breaded the fish in flour and fried it in butter. He ate his fresh bass slowly, savoring every bite along with his hush puppies, homemade cole slaw and iced tea. It was the best fish dinner he ever had or ever would have.
That night, Thomas lay in bed thinking about the wonderful day he had spent with his father and grandfather. Before they had left East Atlanta, his Pepa had given him a rubber plug to tie on the end of his line and practice casting in the back yard. He could not wait until tomorrow to go out and practice. Like the bass that had bump, bumped the Mepps, Thomas Brooks was hooked.