Testimony for Tomorrow: The True Story of Nelson Doyle 2

Sitting here at the moment and staring at the bright glare of the computer screen preparing to write this testimony I cannot stop thinking about just how profoundly my late grandparents truly have affected my life. I spent much of my free time riding or sleeping in the backseat of my grandmother's rustic brown station wagon traveling the forty-miles to her house in Mississippi only about an hour away from Memphis, Tennessee where I lived. Much of those long, boring car trips were late at night after my grandmother had got off of work, so other than dark featureless landscape there wasn't much of anything to occupy oneself while speeding down the highway.

Usually, we would pull up in her driveway around midnight and once I had the chance to give my granddad a great big hug it wasn't long before I turned in for the rest of the night. They lived on a lake and my routine was to wake up at the crack of dawn. Eat a heaping hot plate of scrabbled eggs, bacon, sausage and homemade buttermilk biscuits made from scratch. A couple of gulps of chocolate milk washed down the meal nicely.

After the dirty dishes had been collected from the table and washed in the sink, I slipped on my boots and put on my hat as exited out through the side door leading to the sundeck. From the sundeck you could take in all of the sights and sounds and smells of the country setting that they lived in. The lake would be as still as glass with a rolling mist hovering above its surface. It was beautiful and new every morning and it never got old to see.

Off somewhere in the distance the sharp piercing whistling of the Bobwhite Quail filled the airwaves. Finches, Blue Jays and Mocking Birds would just whistle and sing the morning away. Occasionally, the rare Turkey would gobble or the rapid hammering of a Woodpecker rung out. It was like nature's email only in a language that we cannot begin to understand. The real worldwide webs are the sounds, sights and smells that nature delivers us everyday.

Grabbing my favorite fishing rod and tackle box I walked down to the lake sat the tackle box on the concrete bench that was shaded by the thin, wavy branches a willow tree. Usually, the rod already had a plastic worm or some other kind of artificial bait attached to the fishing line, so generally the first cast of the day was right away.

On a good morning of fishing the average catch might consist of a couple of dozen gigantic bluegill bream and largemouth bass. It was always a challenge to catch the first fish of the day, if it was one of those dreaded slow fish biting mornings. Nothing excited the lazy fish to bite. Nothing with the exception of live bait and that was just a maybe at best.

Sometimes my granddad would come down to the lake and show me how it was done. He had no interest in using artificial lures or plastic worms to catch fish. All he ever needed was a sharp hook, small lead weight and a tiny pinch of plain white bread that he rolled into a ball and secured on his hook. There was nothing that he could not catch using only plain white bread.

Often, I would mosey around the bank of the lake and cast for largemouth bass using whatever I had until I figured out what they would attack, bite or destroy when the lure invades their turf. I'd cover the entire perimeter of the twenty-five acre lake and catch a dozen or so decent size bass, while my granddad would sit still patiently waiting out the next fish to bite.

Upon returning from my hike through sometimes harsh landscapes in which tangled vines of prickly thorns weaved across everything that was in its path and thick underbrush that pushed back when trying to push through it all, so that perfect cast could be made in an attractive spot where surely a fish would be lying in wait for their next easy meal. My granddad with his great big bright smile asked, “Did you catch anything?” and of course, at that very moment the excitement of showing him the stringer of fish that I managed to catch was a tad bit overwhelming. As always I got schooled by him and usually by a measurable sum.

The rule was, the loser would have the responsibility to clean the fish and pack them in empty milk jugs filled with water and then frozen after the job was completed. Depending on the number of fish that was caught during the day this job could take an hour or two of bloody, scaly and slimy mess. If anything this job and losing once again to my granddad and his plain white bread was a humbling experience to have lived.