The Year of the Locust

Yesterday I blogged about my Grandfather which helped some memories surface. Today I will elaborate on one of those fishing trips I touched on in that blog.

Each Spring Papaw liked to fish at the Mill Dam in Dawson Springs. He always said that the fish would be biting when the water was at a particular level, that usually occurred in mid March. We fished with regular rods and reels, typically with worms and always a bobber, for Blue Gill. For those of you who may not have heard of a Blue Gill, also known as a Sunfish, it is a small fish about the size of ones hand and when filleted, battered and fried they become delicious bite sized treats.

I would usually spend the night at Papaw and Granny's house the night before one of these outings. That night we would get all of our gear together, gather the worms from the compost pile, and discuss how the next day should unfold. One particular year was the year of the Locust, and I know that sounds very biblical, but that is the only way I can describe it. I was camping out one night when it began to happen.

Let me rephrase this, some good friends and I put up a tent in his side yard and his Dad let us have a little bond fire. The fire was very contained and we stayed up late talking and spooking each other about the sounds in the darkness, you know the scene. Throughout the night we noticed these albino looking creatures about the size of a fig leaf emerge from the ground. They were like bug zombies and they were every where. One would be crawling up your leg or on your chair. They didn't bite but were a nuisance, they were only looking for a tree to climb. That Spring we watched these creatures evolve from yellowish white colors to green and then to black with red beady eyes. We took note as they crawled out of their skins and left them attached to the bark on the trees. The Locust or Cicadas as some more worldly would refer to them at the time, invaded our imaginations that spring. Not to mention they invaded all of the yards that I mowed that summer.

You see I had a good business going in those days. My Great Aunt and my Granny had spread the word at the Beauty Shop, at The Place a restaurant in town that was a stomping ground for many locals, and the First Baptist Church. Needless to say I worked for several widows in town and I tried my best to keep their yards looking good and that year I had these Locust to deal with.

I came to understand that the Locust had an agenda. They emerged, climbed the trees, layed their eggs at the ends of the limbs and then gnawed the ends of the same limbs so that the next gust of wind would force those portions from the tree onto the ground. It seems very simple but to them it is the work of a lifetime. Once these leafed twigs hit the ground the eggs were released into the dirt to incubate. After the eggs hatched they would live underground for seven years or so when they would again invade a different generation of campers imaginations. The whole process is quite intriguing and one of natures miracles.

About those twigs...they were everywhere. I began to get request not to mow them up but to pick them up, I was raking up dead Locust carcases and bagging them. They rotted, they smelled and the ones that were still alive buzzed about constantly. The ladies I worked for despised them as they transformed their yards from show places into disarray!

But not Papaw. Papaw was never in the camp that disliked these critters. He watched them invade, talked about their purpose as it progressed, then the night before that fishing trip instead of worms we bagged up Locust and kept them ready to fish with the next day. Papaw, being the opportunist that he is invisioned these creatures buzzing and spreading their wings as they hit the water enticing the fish that we would in turn bring buckets of home. And they did just that. The day was amazing! We filled five gallon buckets with water to keep the fish fresh, and we filled up several of those. As the day unfolded Papaw began to cook up plans for a feast, a huge fish fry for all the family and I was so proud to be bringing in some of the meat. It was great!

My Granny also enjoyed fishing and usually went along, she fished with a cane pole. But on this particular trip she stayed home. They had just bought a brand new Chrystler Fifth Avenue, Black Cherry, with chrome spoked hub caps and a soft top. It was a real beauty to behold; about a week old. That is the car that Papaw and I took to the Mill Dam, the same car that we loaded several lidless five gallon buckets, full of water and Blue Gill into its trunk. The same vehicle that we drove away from the site where I caught the most fish I have ever caught in my life to date. We drove away bragging about what a day it had been.

Now, for those of you who have been to the Mill Dam, in Dawson Springs, you know that there is not a way to get home from there with out going up a hill, or without going down a bumpy road. The Mill Dam was the home of the old Mill located on the Tradewater River. Everyone fished on a huge unearthed rock that overlooked a pool of water constantly replinished by water crossing the dam. It is as cool of a place to a thirteen year old boy as there could be.

As I said we left the Mill Dam in their brand new Fifth Avenue, down the bumpy road and up the hill to Highway 62 and back out to his house. When we pulled into the driveway he said as he had so many times before:

"Son go get your Granny."

I burst out of the car and into the house yelling for her and she came with excitement already knowing that it must have been a great day. We both came out the door all smiles until Granny saw the trunk...There was about an inch of water in the trunk and all our days catch flipping and flopping about in it. I could see her smile evaporate.

We still had that fish fry and I didn't have to take near as much blame for the trunk as Papaw did.

Stay tuned for more adventures with Papaw...