8 minute read

Shepherding Outdoors

from June/July 2022

by afccooperativefarmingnews

from June/July 2022, page 36

Farming Your Forest

ZEBCO 33S

BY WALT MERRELL

Fishing has long been a pastime in our family. From farm ponds to freshwater lakes, to coastal waters, fishing is part of our past and our future. And, while, we don’t go fishing every weekend, it is part of who we are … it is part of how we go Shepherding Outdoors.

My oldest daughter, Bay, was five … maybe six … when I bought her first “real” fishing pole. A pink and white Zebco 33. It was the perfect beginner setup because it’s nearly impossible to mess up a cast with a Zebco 33. They are as tough as battleships and as smooth as melted butter. And, because I am not a master fisherman … as we say in our family, there is a reason why we go “fishing” and not “catching” … we needed the perfect combination of “bullet proof” and “easy to use” that the 33 offered. For, you see, that’s what would be necessary to match my skills in teaching her how to fish.

I am a “hometown” guy, so I try to shop

with hometown folks when I can. Bay, Cape and I loaded up one morning and headed off to Clem’s Bait and Tackle between Opp and Andalusia. My old friend, Coleman Mosely, and his wife, Sylvia, have run that shop for as long as I can remember. It truly is authentic bait and tackle … a cricket bin greeted us on the front porch. Ten thousand crickets crawled all over cardboard rolls down inside the bin. Bay squirmed a little and scooted over, away from the crickets as she made her way past. Three jingle bells rang as we opened the door, and the smell of “old school” met us as we breached the doorway. I held the door for the girls, and they shuffled on in … stopping at the counter where Mr. Mosely sat.

He was working a repair on a good-looking Penn International. “How is the Merrell family today?” Mr. Mosely asked. He looked down over the top of his glasses … his gray-white hair tufted out around his ears from underneath a Ranger Boats ball cap. Bay and Cape both stopped dead in their tracks. My feet stutterstepped because of the kiddo traffic jam in front of me. The door swung back shut and hit me in the derriere. “Move forward, girls, he ain’t gonna bite.” Mr. Mosely laughed at the suggestion, and the girls inched forward just enough for me to squeeze around them. They had never been here before. Bay’s eyes were fixed on the hundreds of fishing poles lining racks throughout the store. Cape’s head danced back and forth between the gray-headed old man behind the counter and all of the cluttered wares in the shop. They were both mesmerized …

Though the shop is small, there is a smorgasbord of fishing tackle inside. It is everything a fishing man could ever want. Lures of all shapes and sizes hung in the hundreds from pegboard walls. Plastic worms of red, chartreuse, black, purple and every other color imaginable, packaged in rows by the dozens, created a rainbow of color across the wall. Opposite the lures and worms, Mr. Mosely sat behind the waist-high counter window, framed with pictures of himself and other local celebrities, showing off their best catches. Pictures of big mouth bass and hand sized bream covered the window of the counter like old postcards on granny’s refrigerator. To our immediate left, all sorts of hooks and weights and swivels; scales and scalers; pliers and filet knives; and every other tool one could ever hope to use to somehow apprehend a fish … by the tens of dozens, if not more.

And in the middle of the room… rack after rack of fishing poles. “This place is like fishing pole heaven,” Bay uttered, almost with an air of disbelief in her tone.

Mr. Mosely and I both laughed as we watched Bay and Cape slowly ease into the comfort of being someplace new. They bounced from one spot to the next … one lure to another, remarking about the “pretty colors” and the “shiny parts.” For years, I’ve told the girls to “only pick it up if you are going to buy it” … but today … today was different. As long as they didn’t hook themselves, they could touch everything in the store. And touch they did. Cape picked up a minnow bucket and tried it on as a helmet. Bay put on a bright purple life jacket and a Gilligan hat. They pranced around in their newfound wares like fashion models on the runway. Mr. Mosely smiled large, and, in that moment, I felt pure “dad” joy … my girls were going to be fisherwomen. As I gave them a few minutes to explore, I entertained fanciful conjectures of Bay winning the Bassmaster Classic and Cape sharing co-hosting duties with Bill Dance.

A few minutes passed, and about the third time one of the girls asked, “Daddy, can I have one of these?” I realized this was going to get expensive quick. I quickly turned my attention away from the girls so we could get down to the business at hand.

Mr. Mosely knows I am no expert, so I am quite sure he understood the man code when I said, “What do you reckon’ is the best rod and reel in this place is … that I can get for Bay? It will be her first.”

“Oh, her first, is it? Well, I have a few I could suggest.” His tone said to Bay that he was impressed with her decision to be a fisherwoman, and that he appreciated her decision. She grinned with approval. She has my dimples … and they shone prominently that day. Mr. Mosely picked this one, and then that one, and then another one. Bay entertained each as a suggestion, and it felt as though I were watching a seasoned salesman try to negotiate with a shrewd buyer. Bay was no easy sell, but when Mr. Mosely tipped the end of that bright pink Zebco 33 in her direction, I saw a twinkle in her eyes … I knew she was “hooked.” “That’s the one, Daddy,” she nearly shouted. She grabbed ahold of it like Zorro and commenced to try to carve a “Z” in everything – and everyone – in the shop. She pretended to cast here, there, and everywhere. Honestly, I didn’t know Mr. Mosely could move that fast … quick enough to wrestle the six-foot-long “Z” carving pole from her hands before anyone “got an eye put out.”

She grinned from ear to ear as I handed it back to her. “You know it’s not really my first one, Daddy?” I was puzzled by her remark. “What do you mean, Butterbean” – that was my pet name for her. “I mean, Big Daddy gave me a pole, a cane pole, and I fish with it sometimes.” She studied the silver sided bell on the reel as she talked. “It’s not nearly as pretty as this one, though.” Hannah’s father, George, was a big man. Hence the name, Big Daddy. I often describe him as having stood six foot twelve inches when he was in his prime. But even though he was barrel-chested and had hands like catcher’s

Bay was no easy sell, but when Mr. Mosely tipped the end of that bright pink Zebco 33 in her direction, I saw a twinkle in her eyes mitts, when one of those girls climbed into his lap, he melted like a Hersey’s Bar on the dashboard of a … I knew she was “hooked.” “That’s the one, Ford pickup in an Alabama Daddy,” she nearly shouted. August. He was so good to them … and to me. He truly was a fisher of men and an outdoor shepherd. Cape drew my attention back to the present. She and Bay seemed to be contemplating a sword fight. Bay with her Zebco 33 and Cape with what was bound to be the most expensive rod in the joint. Thankfully, Mr. Mosely intercepted them before anything was broken. And, he had the perfect, three-foot-long, toy rod and reel to trade out with Cape’s “sword.” It was not much different from Bay’s first toy fishing pole. Cape held the grip tight in her hand as Mr. Mosely cautioned her that they

were not, in fact, swords. She and Bay both giggled, and Cape retorted, “I know, silly!” The tiny mite rod and reel combo was just her speed. Yellow and purple, I seem to recall, with a plastic fish tied to the end of the line. “This will help her learn how to cast,” Mr. Mosely said. “It really does work. It’s just not big enough to catch a minnow with.” Holding her new prize, Cape wore a smile that rivaled Bay’s, and Mr. Mosely and I both knew that I wasn’t leaving Clem’s without two fishing poles.

And, so it was… I bought the girls their first fishing poles. I still have them. They are in my shop. No doubt, they are covered in sawdust from hundreds of boards run through the table saw and cobwebs from as many spiders living in the dark recesses. But that’s okay. For, the value was never in the plastic or the metal, the silver or the pink. The value of those worn-out relics has always been in the memories … and that is why I still keep them.

Because every time I look to the corner of the shop and see them leaning there … I smile at what the Lord has done for me.