Fishing for trouble on the Duck River

There’s something about summer that makes the bond between humans and water run a lot deeper than the need to remain hydrated. It seems as soon as April gets here, the girls are getting tan and buying new bathing suits, while the guys are tuning up boats and putting new line on their fishing poles, all in preparation to hit the water.

I’m no exception. Well, I at least put new fishing line on my pole when I awoke on Good Friday.

My dad and I were off for the holiday, so, with both of us uncommitted for the day, I thought it would be the perfect time to take his old fishing boat out for a test run. After all, it ran great last year. If it did the same this year, we’d really be pulling the fish in.

Daddy saw me with my fishing pole and immediately got his, no questions asked. We have a little competition every year to see who can catch the most fish. He won’t admit it, but I beat him last year. This year is payback, supposedly.

“Where do you want to go?” asked Daddy. This is always a tough question, because fishing options are rather few in Culleoka. You either drive to a creek, the Duck or Tennessee River, or, if you’re lucky enough, a friend’s stocked pond.

“How about taking the boat to the Duck?” I replied. Daddy hates fishing the Duck, so I knew this was going to be a tough sell. He relented, however, and we took off, boat in tow.

The first indication there might be trouble was when we got to the usually-full boat ramp and found it deserted. However, throwing caution to the wind, we thought ourselves lucky that we might be the first ones to test these waters for the day; all for the chance to catch some whoppers.

With the boat in the water, we fired it up, and, wouldn’t you know it, it started on the first try. This was going to be a good day. Good Friday.

We went upstream for a mile or two, taking mental notes of logs and rocks that we would cast to on the float back down. The water was swift, more so than usual, but all that meant to us was that our fishing trip would be over sooner, or so we thought.

It wasn’t long before we were almost at the boat ramp. To our dismay, we had not received one single bite. Disgusted, Daddy fired the boat up once more and zipped past the boat ramp. If we couldn’t catch any fish, at least we could take a leisurely ride down the river.

We had gone as far as we could go. Shoals were ahead. We started to turn around, but the motor did not obey the commands of the steering wheel. The steering cable had snapped in half!

Daddy, always quick on his feet, grabbed the motor and turned it manually. I was ordered to sit in the captain’s chair to apply acceleration to the boat. And, wouldn’t you know it, the minute I gave the motor gas, it died.

“What did you do?” demanded Daddy with eyebrows arched — the surest sign anyone in the Southern Family is mad.

I had, in fact, done nothing. The motor died on its own accord and, more, refused to start back. We started paddling.

With two paddles, we were in good shape. We were making some good ground when “SNAP!” My paddle broke in two, the larger half floating down the river. When Daddy turned around to see me not paddling, I had to tell him my paddle broke. His eyebrow arched even higher, and he gave up.

He paddled us to the bank and told me to call my grandfather; perhaps he could bring a trolling motor. We walked up the bank, through a hog wallow and cow field and finally made it to the road. There we sat and waited for help.

Enter into the drama Jerry Cheek, my grandfather, better known as “Papa.” He arrived on the scene with the requested trolling motor and a battery he said was full of fight, just off the charger. Daddy took the items and went back to the boat, I, on the other hand, left with Papa and went to the boat ramp.

We sat at the boat ramp for a good 30 minutes with no sign of Daddy. I called. The report was the trolling motor was working fine and he should be there as soon as he could. I was thinking another 15 minutes.

An hour later, I called Daddy to see where he was. If he could just get around this one bend, he thought he would be in the home stretch. An hour later with no Daddy, I walked to the river bridge and started looking for him. He was nowhere in sight.

I called again. No answer. I was getting a little worried, but I knew if anyone could make it alright, it would be my old man.

Finally (after another hour), from my perch on the bridge, I saw the nose of his boat. Then it disappeared. Perhaps I just imagined it, but, no, there it was again. Then, again, it was gone. In that small bend, the current was so swift it was pushing his boat back every time.

Being helpless on my perch, I started my way back to the ramp when I heard it — a trailer chain dragging. I knew another boat must be coming to unload. I rushed to the ramp to meet it.

It wasn't a boat, but close. It was a jet ski. I talked the owner into rescuing Daddy, but first he wanted to take the jet ski upstream to test it out. Daddy, who had made the bend by now, saw the jet ski go upstream and immediately started cursing me in his head for not sending the vessel downstream to pull him in. Later, he would admit he was waving a QuikMart bag in the air to attract attention to his lifeless craft.

Before long, the jet ski made its way downstream and soon back up with Daddy in tow. I thanked the man and took a good long look at Daddy and his boat. The inside was full of branches and spiders, while Daddy was red-faced and soaking wet.

It seems that the “fresh” battery Papa gave Daddy was dead. Of course, Daddy had his boat's battery, but with the current fighting the trolling motor, it didn't last very long, so Daddy was forced to pull his boat upstream, branch-by-branch.

I thought that might be why he was soaking wet, because he was sweaty. But, no, he was wet because after he finished talking to me on his phone, he reached for a branch and fell in the river, losing his shoes, hat, sun glasses and phone. It must have been a deep hole, too. He said he never hit the bottom.

We finally got the boat loaded. I thanked the owner of the jet ski and we headed home. Halfway home, Daddy, a man of few words, summed up what I had been thinking all day.

“I thought this was supposed to be Good Friday?”

Good Giggin' to Y'all!

Frog Gigging (pronounced gig’n) is a time-honored tradition among Southern men. Bullfrogs are found along the banks of rivers, creeks, ponds, and lakes. And where they are found, so, too, are country boys in search of them. These amphibians are sought-after for their decadent rear legs, served best when fried to a golden brown.

The art of frog gigging (if it can be called an art) consists of spotlighting frogs and impaling them with a gig- a long pole with four to five sharp prongs, similar to a mini version of a devil’s pitchfork. The light actually serves two purposes. Number one is a no-brainer. Since gigging is done at night, the light is used to spot frogs through the black of night. And, two, once a frog is spotted, the light remains on the cold-blooded creature to “blind” it. The idea is that frogs become lethargic under the beam of strong lights, making them easier to gig.

Just as there’s more than one way to skin a cat, there are several different ways to catch frogs. Gigging is just one of those ways. Some hunters prefer to shoot their frogs with a small caliber rifle, such as a .22, while others (my Grandpa Southern included) prefer neither gig nor gun, use only their bare hands.

Laws on frog gigging/hunting are different from state to state. Contact your local wildlife management office for more details...

Have you seen our lake?

After all of this cold weather, I am fondly remembering my summer trip to the white sandy beaches of Florida, and I don’t even like the beach.

As a matter of fact, I hate sand. The fine sediment finds its way into your clothes, shoes, and certain sensitive parts of your anatomy. The stuff even follows you home. I hate it. But, as much as I hate the beach, I hate cold weather more, making my summer trip now seem like a weekend in paradise, sand and all.

This was no ordinary vacation for me. I was going down to the sunny shores for the wedding of one of my Culleoka buddies and his high school sweetheart. I knew I wanted to be a part of their joyous ceremony, only I didn’t know it would be in Florida.

Nevertheless, I loaded up my rented Kia and headed in the best direction — south.

I started on the interstate, when the monotony of the whole thing finally took its toll. I reached in the backseat, grabbed my travel atlas (I also hate GPS) and charted a new route. I was in no hurry. Why not take some back roads?

I turned onto a two-lane road and cruised along at 55 mph and watched the world pass by my windshield. The hills of home flattened out and clay soon turned into a sandy soil while Elvis Presley sang a song about the “Promised Land.” The sun burned and the wind licked at my arm as it hung from the open car window.

My darling Kayla constantly reminds me I need a GPS because she “thinks” I get lost easily. She’s right, but getting lost is fun to me. It is what makes the journey interesting. I mean, driving straight to Point B from Point A is rather boring. Getting lost gives you something to talk about.

Just so happens I found DeFuniak Springs, Fla., by getting lost.

What first grabbed my attention was an antique store named Sanford and Sisters. Being a fan of Redd Foxx and “Sanford and Son,” I thought to myself, “This is as close as you’re going to get,” so I pulled in.


I spoke to the Sisters Sanford, I presume, and commenced to look about their store. Nothing really piqued my interest, but I thought it was only polite to pick up and examine a few items before making my exit. As I stopped to thank the ladies for letting me peruse, one looked up from her pricing and said, “Go see our lake before you leave town!”

I smiled, nodded, made my exit and soon found another antique store in the vicinity. As the dinging doorbell announced my arrival, the storekeeper looked up and said, and I swear this is what he said, “Welcome to DeFuniak! Have you seen our lake?”

This was enough for me. I had to go see what all of this fuss was about.

It didn’t take much effort to find the appropriately named Lake DeFuniak, which I later learned is one of two almost perfectly round spring-fed lakes in the world. “No wonder they are so proud,” I thought.

I made the circle drive around the lake, watching the kids splash around in the sandy shallows and trying to imagine the tall tales the old men swapped as their fishing lines bobbed on the lake’s surface. The rigors of driving all day disappeared as I made that lap around Lake DeFuniak. It was just nice to know a place like that still existed and my mind was put at ease.

Then, as it always seems to happen, I saw something that reminded me of my responsibilities at home. The DeFuniak Library sat on the western shore of the lake. Founded in 1886, it was the oldest library structure in Florida.


I was completely smitten. I could just see myself behind the circulation desk where my fishing pole was hidden for a quick fishing trip on my lunch break. It finally dawned on me I still had a wedding to attend, so I put my daydreaming on hold, pointed my rented Kia back into the best direction and sped toward Santa Rosa Beach.

As I left DeFuniak Springs, I realized the lake was about all the little town had. But, boy, were they proud of it.

Think of all we have to be proud of in Maury County. When was the last time you told someone about Mule Day, the Polk Home, the Athenaeum, or any of the other great things we have to offer? Maybe we should stop fussing about our wants long enough to be proud of what we already have.

As for me, the forecast says warmer weather is on its way, but if it turns cold again, you can find me at the Walton-DeFuniak Library. My fishing break will be from 1-2 p.m.

Mule Day 2011- Southern Comfort

Hello Mary, Well, everybody was at the mule show — except for you, I think.

Do you see me in the crowd?

Love,

Bessie

When Bessie mailed her postcard to Miss Mary Smith of the Elm Grove Dairy in April 1947, I’m sure she never thought an ’ol boy in Culleoka would be holding it in his hand 64 years later. Yet, here I am, card in hand, thinking about how much fun Mule Day 1947 was.

The crowd Bessie talks about looks more like a sea of people to me. The expression, “couldn’t stir ’em with a stick” is what really comes to mind. Every man is in a suit and hat, and I’m pretty sure a person could have walked from the courthouse to First Methodist Church hat-to-hat, never touching the ground.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time just to witness an old-time Mule Day. I would like to see the crowds, all dressed in their Sunday best, as mules were sold and paraded around the square on the first Monday in April. I would like to eat in some of the diners I have only heard the old folks talk about and experience the smell of the, well, I’m sure that messy part of Mule Day smells the same.

But, then again, I think of all the scorching hot or rainy Mule Days I have attended in the past, and I am very thankful to be living in the time of air conditioning and paved roads. I also begin to wonder if they were having as much fun on the first Monday in April as I do on the first Saturday in April, because I have a blast.

My Mule Day starts early, well, as early as it can after laughing myself silly at the Liar’s Contest the night before. I pull my cowboy boots on, fire up my truck, and head to town. My body needs nourishment and I know exactly where to get it.

For as long as I can remember, the Culleoka Lions Club has held a pancake breakfast at the Memorial Building. And, for as long as I can remember, it has been a part of my Mule Day tradition. I have learned to get there as early as possible because rumor has it some people have starved to death waiting in line for a stack of flapjacks. Nevertheless, they are worth the wait.

Another trick I’ve learned over the years is to go ahead and stake your claim. After eating pancakes, I go to my spot on the parade route and place my chairs. (After sitting in the same place year after year, you begin to think of that spot as your own!) If I stick to this itinerary, I still have time for another passion of mine.

The stretch of Nashville Highway north of town is always good for a yard sale. As a matter of fact, so many of the homes on this side of town have yard sales on Mule Day weekend, it looks like one big flea market. I’m one of those people that believe the next great find is just over the horizon, so the lure of junk gets me every time.

Before long, it is time to return to my chairs. Police sirens announce the beginning of the parade and, soon after, the first mule walks my way. This is the first of many that will trot by, each one unique and beautiful. I still miss the marching bands, however.

This is usually enough to wear me out, but if I’m feeling squirrelly, I know I can always go to Maury County Park just to take it all in. There will be food, music, mules and more. Really, there’s something for every taste.

This Mule Day, be like Bessie — be seen in the crowd! Happy Mule Day!

In defense of books: E-readers have limits

With all of the trendy, new gadgets flooding the market today, it’s a little scary being a librarian, especially when you take into consideration some of these little handheld devices can store up to 3,500 books. Some people are placing wages on how long libraries are going to last in the face of such technology.

Well, I’m here to say libraries, and physical books, are not going anywhere — at least, not anytime soon. I have several points I would like to present in defense of books to hopefully change the opinions of all the naysayers.

Once a month, the library tries to have an author come down to speak about his or her book. These programs are widely attended and many people in attendance buy a copy of the author’s book following the discussion. Sometimes, patrons have read the book before coming to the program and bring their personal copy for the author to sign. If you read the book on an “e-reader,” how in the world is the author going to sign your book? That’s point number one.

Now, here’s point two. You have been waiting on pins and needles for your favorite author to release a new book. Finally, the moment you’ve been waiting on! The book is out and you purchase it on your e-reader. You are knocking it out and have just reached the thrilling climax when BLEEP! The battery that is supposed to last 10 days dies and your e-reader turns pitch black. Now, you have to wait for it to charge before you can continue your literary journey.

Finally, reading is supposed to be about relaxation and enjoyment. I work on computers all day. When I get home, the last thing I want to do is snuggle up with another electronic. All I want to do is find that cozy, broken in spot on the couch and read something that does not require electricity.

Some people find it relaxing to read while soaking in a hot bath. (I just hope they’re not using library books when doing this!) Reading will truly become an electrifying experience if you drop your electronic book into your hot tub, whereas your paper book just becomes a little soggy.

I’m not against technological advances. Don’t get me wrong. I just shudder at the thought of people already counting libraries down and out because people are buying e-readers. In fact, the e-readers have done nothing but helped libraries as far as I can tell.

I’m convinced everyone and their mothers received an Amazon Kindle for Christmas. It was like a great migration of Kindle owners to the library the first week of the New Year. They all had the same thing in mind.

Patron: “So, I hear you can get free Kindle books from the library.”

Librarian: “No. I’m sorry. If you have a Kindle, you can only get books from Amazon.com .”

Patron: “Ah, shucks!”

Librarian: “Our books on the shelves are still free.”

Patron: “Libraries are so wonderful!”

Well, maybe I made that last part up. But, it brings me to another point about the e-reader.

Physical books are easy to share. You go to the library, pick one up, and take it home. You can buy one and pass it along to your neighbors or friends after you’ve read it. However, with e-books, once it’s on your device, you are the sole owner of the book. To share it, you could let your friend take your $150 device or you could go about some complicated download and transfer procedure.

Give me good ol’ paper and ink any old day.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: After writing this article, Adam Southern bought a NOOK, noting, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!” He is currently downloading e-books using the free Wi-Fi connection at the library as you read this.

Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com .

Specter of romance takes shape at last

“True love is like a ghost, which everyone talks about and few have seen.”

— Francois de la Rochefoucauld

When the courthouse bell finished tolling, we would begin our ghost tour of Columbia’s downtown. I always thought I would see a ghost before I found true love on one of these tours.

However, one night, standing on the lawn of the courthouse listening to my story, stood my true love.

She might as well have been a ghost the first night I saw her. She was a beautiful apparition that appeared to me momentarily before vanishing into the darkness. All that lingered was her perfume and a sweet memory.

Over the next couple of months, I would see this same apparition time and time again as we crossed paths and, just as if I had seen a ghost, she left me shaky and short of breath each time. Finally, she became very real to me as we danced together at the Athenaeum. We shared a stare and a smile before she disappeared once again, becoming my Cinderella.

My heart would not let me rest until I had found her. Like I’ve said before, I put prized bloodhounds to shame, tracking her down as fast as I did. Pretty soon thereafter, we were having lunch together — our first date. Being a hopeless sentimental, I chose a downtown restaurant for this first date so that we would have the courthouse — the site of our first encounter — as a backdrop.

Almost a year after this first date, I was sitting nervously in her parents’ living room, asking for the hand of my darling Kayla Keeton. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t order me out of their house, but, instead, gave me the green light. I then had the daunting task of finding a ring and, more importantly, figuring out the best way to pop the question.

With the ring tucked in my pocket, I knew exactly what I was going to do. We were dressed in our 1860s attire this night, headed to the Athenaeum Girls’ School ball. Kayla believed me when I told her we were going to swing by the courthouse so someone could take a few pictures of us dressed up. I thought I had it all figured out and everything would go according to my plan. As usual, I was wrong.

The first part of my plan to go awry was the presence of an audience. Any other Friday night, the square would have been deserted. On this night, however, people were swarming around every corner. With Kayla being dressed in a hoopskirt and myself in a Confederate uniform, it goes without saying that we drew some attention.

As soon as we got out of the truck, a woman screamed, “Are y’all re-enactors?” Before I could answer, she was coming towards us at a full gallop. I was so busy pondering how I could break away from the woman to propose to Kayla, I practically turned a deaf ear to everything this stranger said.

Politely, we excused ourselves from the woman and walked around to the other side of the courthouse. We were finally alone and, with one side of the courthouse being just as good as the other, I thought I would go ahead and fish the ring out of my pocket. Just about the time I worked up the nerve to propose, someone pulled over, jumped out of their car, and came over to talk to me. I felt like screaming.

Kayla and I walked back to our original spot on the courthouse lawn only to find that same woman standing there as if she had been waiting on us to come back all along. She picked up her conversation as if we had never left. Somewhere in the exchange between re-enacting and war memorials, Kayla slipped off to a bench and left me stranded with this woman as she talked and talked. When she finally ran out of things to say, she strolled off. I still don’t know what the conversation was about.

Kayla was never as beautiful as she was on the bench that night. With those remarkable brown eyes of hers, she looked up at me and asked, “When are they going to show up to take those pictures?”

“Well, I lied,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. I knew I had to act quickly. I pulled the ring box from my pocket and opened it in front of her as I hit one knee.

She said yes!

We have a few locations in mind, but we haven’t set a date yet. Kayla is enrolled in a dental hygiene program in Alabama, so we will have a two-year engagement while she finishes up.

Now, Monday through Friday, while my body is here in Maury County, my heart is somewhere I never thought it would be ... Alabama!

Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com

Have Signs, Will Travel: The Life of a Politician

Heidi, folks! It sure is good to be back after my hiatus campaigning in Maury County’s 8th District.

Between knocking on doors, going to political rallies, shaking hands, slapping backs, kissing babies, fighting the summer heat, and keeping all of my personal affairs in order, I am bushed!

It is good to be writing again, however, and I sure do have a lot to write about. This has been a wild summer that has brought several changes. I have met so many interesting people and experienced so many things that it is hard to figure out what to write about first. Being just a few days after the election, I will start there while the events are still fresh in my mind.

I remember being so excited the day I picked up my petition from the Election Commission to run for county commissioner. A week later, the paperwork was filed and I was on my way. A week after that, I was asking myself, “Are you sure you really want to do this?” Being too late to turn back, I pressed on.

I came up with an elaborate design for my yard signs, figuring to have a couple hundred or so printed up. My chin hit the floor when I found out how much these signs cost. Yet, being vital to the campaign, I had to buy them, settling on a more conservative, one-color design. (Then when I found out how fast people steal them, I felt like I was just throwing money up a certain part of a wild hog’s anatomy.)

I had doors slammed in my face. Dogs growled and snapped at me as I walked through their territory to knock on their owner’s doors. I spent the better part of an hour talking to a woman who was really grilling me on some of the issues. Afterward, she admitted she couldn’t even vote in my district.

Those were a few of the bad things I experienced. The good greatly outnumbers the bad, thankfully.

I remember on one of my weekend drives through the district, I saw an elderly man sitting by the roadside, taking in the shade in his motorized wheelchair. This old gentleman was just happy to have someone to talk to. He didn’t even care I was a politician, it made his day. He took one of my cards and promised if he was still alive in August, he would vote for me. A couple of weeks later someone stole my sign out of his yard.

There are many, many more people just like that, who made my time on the campaign trail worthwhile. In addition to the people, just driving around my district was a joy on its own. There’s a reason why Maury County was dubbed the “Dimple of the Universe.” It is a beautiful place. Sometimes we just get too busy to actually slow down and enjoy the scenic beauty in our own backyard.

The months seemed to fly by and the big day had finally arrived. Someone asked if the day before the election was like Christmas Eve, waiting to see what Santa brought. No. I don’t think so. I would describe it more like the day before execution. You eat a hardy meal, try to prepare yourself to meet the deeds you have done, and you pray like you have never prayed before.

Davy Crockett supposedly said, “You can go to hell, I’m going to Texas,” after losing his bid for re-election. I, however, do not share his sentiments. Although Texas is a great place to visit, my place is here. And, I don’t want the people of the 8th District to go anywhere … I may need their votes again!

I came in a strong third place — a noble finish for a race with six candidates. The numbers say I lost, but it is not really losing if you gained something from the experience, and I have gained a great deal. (Not excluding the tag number of that champagne-colored Chevy that stole one my signs!)

I am now off of my soapbox and it has been put away for another time and place. Like I said, I have a whole lot more to write about. This will be my last article about politics, though. I’m sure everyone is tired of it by now, including the candidates.

But, brace yourselves for round two — November elections will be upon us soon!

Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com .