Old Granddad
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
62 Stories For Cycle B
Charlie Johnson was up at 5:30, had all of his gear in the trunk of the car, and was drinking coffee when Martha came downstairs.
"Are you going fishing again?" was her good morning greeting.
"Don't know whether to go or not," grumbled Charlie, "but I guess I will. Old Granddad's a-waitin'."
Martha didn't need an explanation for that comment. A week ago Charlie had been at "the hole" (that's how he referred to that spot on the river where he'd fished for nearly 50 years) and had had a very unpleasant encounter with "a bunch of young punks" as he called them. He had been in search, as always, of "Old Granddad." That's how all the area anglers referred to the biggest, meanest, most elusive old catfish on the river. People had been seeing that lunker for 15 years, but nobody had been able to set a hook in him ... yet. Charlie was sure it was just a matter of time and few, if any, spent more time trying. Well, that day a week ago, when Charlie got to the hole, he had company waiting. Four "young punks" were already there, and just a few yards from Charlie's spot. He tried to fish, but he couldn't get much done that day because of the noise.
"Why, those kids didn't sit still for five minutes," he later told Martha. "They were whoopin' and hollerin' and carryin' on ... runnin' around. Why, they made enough noise to wake the dead. There's no WAY there'd be any fish around!"
Certainly not Old Granddad.
"I'm tellin' you, Martha, these young people today ain't worth their salt, the whole lot of 'em. They don't have any values, and they don't show no respect for nobody. The whole generation ain't worth a plug nickel. The world's in a sad state of affairs if THEY are our future!"
Well, that was how Charlie felt, and it had taken more than a week to get him back in the mood to wet a line again. Martha was glad he was going, but she hoped there wouldn't be any more unpleasantness. He'd probably be back by noon. Maybe she'd fix something special for lunch, just in case. Pork chops with gravy and mashed potatoes was Charlie's favorite. Maybe some fresh baked cherry pie for dessert.
Charlie arrived at "the hole" right on the dot at 6:15. And he was alone this time. By 6:30 he had a couple of nice largemouth on the stringer, but no sign yet of Old Granddad. Then some twigs snapped, and Charlie wasn't alone anymore.
A boy of about sixteen came through the bushes next to the railroad track and set up to fish about twenty yards downstream from Charlie. "Name's Joey," he called. "Catchin' any?"
"Charlie. Nothin' much," was the reluctant reply.
Nothing else was said for a long time. Joey pulled in a couple of bass of his own. Charlie hooked another and threw back two bullheads and a red horse. About 8:00, Charlie pulled his line in to bait up. For some reason, he glanced back toward the river and there was that shadow he'd seen so many times! Old Granddad was on the prowl. But Charlie's hook was in his hand, NOT in the water. He began to hurry, but that was always when Charlie became "all thumbs": couldn't find the worms, couldn't get the worm on, then couldn't pick up the pole. Finally he got it all together and cast back into "the hole."
About the time he sat back down he heard a kind of gasp and looked toward Joey, whose expression was one of complete wonder, and whose pole was bent nearly double.
Charlie looked in total disbelief as young Joey ... just a KID, mind you ... did what he hadn't been able to do for nearly fifteen years. Joey hooked, battled and beached Old Granddad! Not without some coaching and cheering from Charlie, however, who made it over to Joey's spot in about two seconds flat. He just couldn't help but get excited because he'd only ever had a hook in Old Granddad once in all that time, and the wily cat had slipped off. Other than that, Charlie didn't even know anyone who'd come close to catching Old Granddad. Now here was this punk kid holding him up by the gills. It was unbelievable.
"Quick, mister ... er ... Charlie. Could you get the camera out of my backpack?"
So, Charlie - unwilling witness that he was - snapped the picture of Joey and Old Granddad. Charlie put the camera back in the kid's bag and turned around to the riverbank just in time to see Old Granddad splash and swim away.
"What are you doing?" roared Charlie. "I've been trying to get him for 15 years, and you let him go?"
"Well," Joey said calmly, "that was the one they call Old Granddad, wasn't it? People been trying to catch him since I was in diapers. Maybe longer. Today he made one mistake and got hooked. Doesn't seem right to condemn him to the dinner table for one little mistake."
Charlie scraped the plate with his fork for the last little bits of pie crust and filling. "Martha," he said, "there was someone else at the fishing hole today. The Smith boy from over on Daley Lane."
"Oh, yes. Joey," said Martha. "Hope he didn't give you any trouble."
"You know, Martha, maybe ALL kids today aren't like the ones I saw last week ... I think maybe Joey and I will go out again in the morning."
____________
Author's Note:
This story was written and told by my brother, Rod Perry, at a benefit storytelling concert John and I did for Passages, a women's shelter in Richland Center, Wisconsin. When I was growing up, my "big brother" was one of the joys of my life. It was his finely-honed sense of the ridiculous that helped to shape mine, and his instruction in the fine arts - the humor of Homer and Jethro, Stan Freberg, Spike Jones, Bob Newhart, Jonathan Winters and Charlie Weaver - that prepared me for life out in the world. Our thanks to him for allowing us to print this story. I love you, Roddy!
"Are you going fishing again?" was her good morning greeting.
"Don't know whether to go or not," grumbled Charlie, "but I guess I will. Old Granddad's a-waitin'."
Martha didn't need an explanation for that comment. A week ago Charlie had been at "the hole" (that's how he referred to that spot on the river where he'd fished for nearly 50 years) and had had a very unpleasant encounter with "a bunch of young punks" as he called them. He had been in search, as always, of "Old Granddad." That's how all the area anglers referred to the biggest, meanest, most elusive old catfish on the river. People had been seeing that lunker for 15 years, but nobody had been able to set a hook in him ... yet. Charlie was sure it was just a matter of time and few, if any, spent more time trying. Well, that day a week ago, when Charlie got to the hole, he had company waiting. Four "young punks" were already there, and just a few yards from Charlie's spot. He tried to fish, but he couldn't get much done that day because of the noise.
"Why, those kids didn't sit still for five minutes," he later told Martha. "They were whoopin' and hollerin' and carryin' on ... runnin' around. Why, they made enough noise to wake the dead. There's no WAY there'd be any fish around!"
Certainly not Old Granddad.
"I'm tellin' you, Martha, these young people today ain't worth their salt, the whole lot of 'em. They don't have any values, and they don't show no respect for nobody. The whole generation ain't worth a plug nickel. The world's in a sad state of affairs if THEY are our future!"
Well, that was how Charlie felt, and it had taken more than a week to get him back in the mood to wet a line again. Martha was glad he was going, but she hoped there wouldn't be any more unpleasantness. He'd probably be back by noon. Maybe she'd fix something special for lunch, just in case. Pork chops with gravy and mashed potatoes was Charlie's favorite. Maybe some fresh baked cherry pie for dessert.
Charlie arrived at "the hole" right on the dot at 6:15. And he was alone this time. By 6:30 he had a couple of nice largemouth on the stringer, but no sign yet of Old Granddad. Then some twigs snapped, and Charlie wasn't alone anymore.
A boy of about sixteen came through the bushes next to the railroad track and set up to fish about twenty yards downstream from Charlie. "Name's Joey," he called. "Catchin' any?"
"Charlie. Nothin' much," was the reluctant reply.
Nothing else was said for a long time. Joey pulled in a couple of bass of his own. Charlie hooked another and threw back two bullheads and a red horse. About 8:00, Charlie pulled his line in to bait up. For some reason, he glanced back toward the river and there was that shadow he'd seen so many times! Old Granddad was on the prowl. But Charlie's hook was in his hand, NOT in the water. He began to hurry, but that was always when Charlie became "all thumbs": couldn't find the worms, couldn't get the worm on, then couldn't pick up the pole. Finally he got it all together and cast back into "the hole."
About the time he sat back down he heard a kind of gasp and looked toward Joey, whose expression was one of complete wonder, and whose pole was bent nearly double.
Charlie looked in total disbelief as young Joey ... just a KID, mind you ... did what he hadn't been able to do for nearly fifteen years. Joey hooked, battled and beached Old Granddad! Not without some coaching and cheering from Charlie, however, who made it over to Joey's spot in about two seconds flat. He just couldn't help but get excited because he'd only ever had a hook in Old Granddad once in all that time, and the wily cat had slipped off. Other than that, Charlie didn't even know anyone who'd come close to catching Old Granddad. Now here was this punk kid holding him up by the gills. It was unbelievable.
"Quick, mister ... er ... Charlie. Could you get the camera out of my backpack?"
So, Charlie - unwilling witness that he was - snapped the picture of Joey and Old Granddad. Charlie put the camera back in the kid's bag and turned around to the riverbank just in time to see Old Granddad splash and swim away.
"What are you doing?" roared Charlie. "I've been trying to get him for 15 years, and you let him go?"
"Well," Joey said calmly, "that was the one they call Old Granddad, wasn't it? People been trying to catch him since I was in diapers. Maybe longer. Today he made one mistake and got hooked. Doesn't seem right to condemn him to the dinner table for one little mistake."
Charlie scraped the plate with his fork for the last little bits of pie crust and filling. "Martha," he said, "there was someone else at the fishing hole today. The Smith boy from over on Daley Lane."
"Oh, yes. Joey," said Martha. "Hope he didn't give you any trouble."
"You know, Martha, maybe ALL kids today aren't like the ones I saw last week ... I think maybe Joey and I will go out again in the morning."
____________
Author's Note:
This story was written and told by my brother, Rod Perry, at a benefit storytelling concert John and I did for Passages, a women's shelter in Richland Center, Wisconsin. When I was growing up, my "big brother" was one of the joys of my life. It was his finely-honed sense of the ridiculous that helped to shape mine, and his instruction in the fine arts - the humor of Homer and Jethro, Stan Freberg, Spike Jones, Bob Newhart, Jonathan Winters and Charlie Weaver - that prepared me for life out in the world. Our thanks to him for allowing us to print this story. I love you, Roddy!
