Author’s note: This was one of, if not the first, pieces I ever had published anywhere. I’d submitted it to the Gainesville (GA) Times in response to their general request for stories relating to Lake Lanier to fill a special edition they were running. Much to my surprise, they picked it up. It’s a true story, although it occurred so long ago that the intimate details have become blurry. I hope I stayed true to the happenings that day, in spirit at least, if not in exact words.

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My little thumb presses and holds in the button on the back of the Zebco 202. I slowly extend my arm rearward and carefully lob the bait in the general vicinity of the water, releasing the button with my thumb as I do so. The cork bobber splashes down with a plop into Lake Lanier’s mirror surface beside the boat dock.

For once the minnow didn’t end up tangled around the steel cable anchoring the dock to the bank, and might actually stand a chance at luring a crappie. Not a bad cast for a 9 year-old. From his seat atop a five gallon bucket on the shore, my grandfather, Papa John, watches patiently out of the corner of his eye. I imagine he’s probably just thankful that he won’t be required to come over and untangle my line… again.

The morning hasn’t been very profitable for us crappie fishermen. Amid my clumsy antics, I managed to hook a very small one, and Papa John landed a nice 2 I /2 pound bass – a pleasant surprise as he sat in the shade expecting a modest pan fish to take his minnow. He’s spent an inordinate amount of time untangling my line and retying hooks for me. But I’ve had a ball exploring the shoreline around the mouth of Little River and generally just being a kid fishing with his grandpa.

A little ways along the shore sits an old, gray-haired, black gentleman wearing a work shirt, tattered overalls, and well-worn, leather boots. He too, is perched atop a five-gallon bucket and waits with the patience of a practiced fisherman. His eyes seem tired, and his back is a bit stooped. Judging from the condition of his attire and equipment, not to mention the old station wagon parked along the right of way that could only be his, I have a feeling he’s not out here primarily for fun. He seems content enough, but something tells me he’s here mainly for supper. We note that throughout the morning, he hasn’t had any luck at all.

Finally, Papa John reels in his line, discards his worn out minnow, and hooks the Eagle Claw on the first line guide. He announces that we’re finished.

“Aww, Papa John, I think they’re about to start biting. Can’t we stay just a little longer?” I plead.

“Go ahead and reel in. Let’s go,” is his only reply.

“Just one more cast,” I say, and turn to cast my line one last time. Out of the corner of my eye I see Papa John place a hand on his hip. I’d better make it fast.

After a mild threat involving the judicious use of a hickory switch, I submit to Papa John’s wishes and we get ready to leave. We pack up our modest tackle, and Papa John pauses by the old black gentleman momentarily. The old fellow looks up with eyes that have seen a share of unkind words and deeds by white folks looking a lot like us.

Papa John holds out the bass on his stringer, the only keeper fish of the day. “Care to have that?” he asks the old fellow.

“Why, yessuh,” the old fellow replies in a low, kind voice that reflects something almost like relief.

And with that, Papa John unsnaps the fish from his stringer and hands it to the man, who promptly drops it into his bucket. He simply smiles and waves at us as we walk along the shoreline back to the road and the waiting pickup. When we reach the truck and stow our gear in the bed, I climb into the passenger seat and ask the inevitable question that any 9-year-old fishing fanatic will.

“Papa John, why did you give that man our only fish?”

Always a man of very few words, his reply is simple and straightforward. “Because he needs it a lot worse than we do.”

And that was that. It would be a long, longtime before I really appreciated that simple act.

That was quite a few years ago, when I was just a boy and fishing was life. In my mind, there would be love for nothing else thereafter. Now, better than two decades later, I find that I’ve lost sight of the enjoyment derived from the utter simplicity of a five-gallon bucket and a Zebco 202. And I’ve lost sight of some important lessons in life. Papa John went on to fish in a better place more than 13 years ago.

On a recent morning, I passed over my fancy fly rods and high tech bait casters, and I didn’t hook up my boat. Instead I dug out my old Zebco and dusted it off. I’m going down to Trotter’s at Bell’s Mill to buy a bucket full of minnows, then I’m going to toss out a line just to watch the rings dissipate and hope that a crappie will sink the cork. Tomorrow I’ll return to the everyday troubles of life, the breakneck pace of the world, and the no-win politics of a public service job. But today for just a while I’ll fish with Papa John, and maybe relearn a lesson or two.