Some of my earliest memories are of following mama and grandma to local ponds. They would have their long cane pole and a five-gallon lard can. I followed with my much shorter cane pole. The can was their tackle box with small split shot, hooks, corks and extra line. 

    It also contained the bait. We always had a tin can of worms dug from behind the chicken house where the water trough drained, keeping the ground wet and rich from droppings in the water trough. Those red wigglers were a favorite bait and we could get a can full in a few minutes.

    There was also always a can with a piece of cheese cloth tied across the top. The can was half full of corn meal and flour siftings. It had been moistened and left open for flies to lay their eggs. Within a few days “meal worms,” really fly maggots, started hatching.

    The cheese cloth cover kept the flies in the can when they molted from the maggots. Young maggots were white and worked best, but bream and catfish loved to eat even the old dark brown ones. And they did not smell bad or make as much of a mess as did the earthworms when impaled on a #6 bream hook.

    There were four ponds within walking distance of the house where we had permission to fish.  Mama or grandma would bait their hook then sit on the lard can. I would try to sit still and fish but usually wanted to move around the pond, dabbling my bait into the “pasture is always greener” spots.

    We caught small bluegill and cats and kept everything we landed to eat. As mama said, “it’s big enough to make the grease stink.” And she loved the crunchy tips of fried bluegill fins, no matter how small.

    By the time I was 13 years old I was allowed to ride my bicycle to local ponds by myself or with Harold or Hal. We fished every pond we could get to during the summer vacation, wading and casting our Zebco 33s for bass and bream.

    I had a huge Old Pal tacklebox and one year all I asked for at Christmas was a basket for my bicycle big enough for it. I could carry all the tackle I owned and some bait as well in the big basket I got. And my rod fit across the handlebars of my bike.

    We spent several days every week fishing during the summer.  I still went with mama and grandma, and often mama would load us up in the truck and take us to ponds too far for walking or bike riding. I have many wonderful memories of those trips, spending hours sitting with them and talking and catching fish.

    One trip when I was about 12 changed my life. We were fishing the pool below the spillway at Usury’s pond and my cork went under. When I raised my pole a little ten-inch-long bass exploded out of the water and jumped three or four times. I was hooked for life; it was much more fun than the circling pull of a bluegill or the dogged runs of catfish.

    I still love the sight of a jumping bass at the end of my line.  It is a thrill that speeds up my heart, partly because I fear it throwing the hook!

    Last weekend at Bartletts Ferry in the Flint River Tournament I was casting a spinnerbait and got a thump. When I set the hook the fish took off fast, sizzling my line through the water. I was sure it was a hybrid until a solid five pound largemouth cleared the water!

    In the tournament only four of us showed up for the Flint River Bass Club June tournament.  In eight hours we landed ten keeper bass weighing about 14 pounds. There was one five bass limit and one zero.

    Zane Fleck won five at 5.98 pounds and got big fish with a 2.31 pound largemouth.  I was second with two at 3.78 pounds and JR Proctor had three weighing 3.73 pounds for third.

    That five pounder I hooked?  I got it to the boat and as I reached down for the net, my line went slack!