Mack loved to fish. He didn't mind fishing for the big ones, but he really loved fishing for the scrappy little ones. The bream at Club Lake were favorites. Those very small fish could really tug and pull on the line. They are fighters.
Club Lake is a small private lake just outside of Sherman. There is a row of rustic one slip wooden boat houses on the west bank. Daddy had a slip with a john boat equipped with a small motor. He didn't visit often. It felt like a cobwebbed wooden cave. We would carry in all our stuff, whisk away the cobwebs, and put the fishing gear in the boat. When the boat was lowered into the water, it was below the level of the decking. To get into the boat, Daddy would lay down on the decking and kind of roll into the boat. He was amazing agile given his inflexible left lower body and no traditional forms of exercise.
As a young kid, going to Club Lake was a huge treat for me. It meant being with my father one on one, sharing his zeal for all things fish, and being out on the water. I can still feel the thrill of walking across the rickety wooden bridge to the boat house; watching Daddy navigate getting from the car and eventually into the boat; the musty smell of the boathouse; the sound of water lapping on the wooden beams; the putt-putt-putt of the little engine coming to life; pulling out from the musty darkness into the fresh light of the lake; wondering about the strangeness of the secretive duck blinds. I was full of anticipation of hours with my dad at his happiest- on the water; watching birds; using his inner knowing, years of experience and curiosity to ferret out the best fishing spots; preparing the fishing rods by tying knots in the thin fishing line to attach weights or lures with his beautiful hands and finely coordinated motions; teaching me how to tie his special multiple twisted knot to securely attach a lure. Losing a fish because of a poorly tied knot didn't happen with a Mack knot. I loved to watch him prepare the lines. He was so attentive to detail, light in his manner, and happy at heart. A man in his element. A daughter with her dad. All was right in the world while on Club Lake.
One day on Club Lake, we caught a basket full of bass. I remember them being BIG, but as I said, size didn't matter with Mack. It was as much about fishing as catching. My job that day was to take care of the basket with the fish we had caught. It was tied to the side of the boat and left in the water to keep the fish alive. The basket was collapsible mesh, with a spring mounted solid metal lid that would snap shut to prevent fish escapes. One of us caught another fish. Daddy, no doubt, helped remove the hook and slid the fish into the basket. I then threw the basket into the water over the side. I watched in horror as the knot came undone, the line unfurled and the basket and line disappeared in the lake with our stupendous catch of the day. I was horrified. My memory of daddy's reaction was of calmness and determination to get those fish back. He threw out the anchor to hold us above the basket and then he pondered the situation for a bit. He hatched a plan of action and explained, as he attached new lures to the our fishing lines, that we would troll the bottom of the lake for the basket using lures with several large treble hooks. These are like a small plastic toy fish with 2 or 3 dangling hooks; each hook having 3 barbed hooks. He attached heavy metal weights to the lines to help them sink and stay on the bottom. We proceeded to cast our lines past where we believed the basket to be, let our lure hit bottom, then dragged the line across the bottom hoping to snag the basket. It felt like we did this for quite a while. My guilty feelings were replaced by exhilaration in joining his brilliant and fun search and salvage operation. The guilt was all my own. He never appeared upset; only amused by the predicament and doggedly determined in his fish quest. In retrospect, I think this opportunity offered him a brand new method of "fishing".
One of us, I don't remember who, did snag the basket and the fish were recovered! We were so excited and I know he was satisfied that his scheme worked!
Club Lake Part 2: Bream Fishing on the Dam
According to Mack, its time to fish for bream when the buds on the a pecan trees are the length of your thumb nail.
Often, we would fish for bream from the bank at Club Lake. We would drive past the boat houses and park below the steep embankment of the dam. The rods, tackle box, and worms would be carried up the hill by the kids, then Daddy would will his way up that embankment, throwing his left leg out with each step, lurching one step closer to the top. We would set up on the grass or on a wooden pier close by. He set us up with bamboo poles; no reel; just a line tied on the end of the pole, a bobber attached to the line and adjusted the right depth, a hook tied on with the super-duper Mack knot, a worm squeamishly threaded on usually with his help, and we were ready to go.
The water was a few feet deep at the pier, quite a bit deeper closer to the dam. Knowing/hoping that there were multiple bream nests, on the bottom, Daddy would use his bream-sense to know where to throw his line. We would follow his lead. On good days, we would catch bream hand-over-fist. Red ears. Blue gills. The deeper in color and heftier in depth and girth, the better. Size DID matter with bream!
He measured by holding a fish on his palm and eyeing how far down his wrist it extended. With the nose at his fingertips, a good bream's tail would lay a few inches onto the inner arm beyond the wrist.
He would clean the bream at Club Lake; just gutting them and removing their head. He and mother would cook a bream feast those evenings. Bream, breaded in cornmeal, fried outside. Served with hush puppies. We would eat the meat along the upper back. Those little fish were too small to fillet, so we just munched along the "bream tenderloin". Very tasty. Great gustatory memories.
In the later years of my father's life, my brother, Drew, caught a good sized bream. Knowing how much Daddy admired the feisty little fish, and that he could no longer manage getting into the boat or onto the dam at Club Lake, Drew had that bream mounted. Daddy put it right beside the chair in which he spent most of his days. Turns out that it was a blue gill, but the taxidermist painted it as a red ear. He didn't care. He got to spend his days accompanied by what I believe was his favorite fish: the spunky little bream.
I swim most days in the clear, natural, unchlorinated waters of Barton Springs pool. There are vast numbers of bream in those waters. I watch those pint sized fish protect their nests, chase away bass, and aggressively pursue me if I get too close. As I swim with the bream of Barton Springs, I feel my father's presence. I don't know what happens after death, but I do hope that he is swimming along with me as I point out all the activity below the surface: Carp, catfish, eel, craw daddies, cormorants fishing, ducks bobbing, water flowing from the aquifer creating a current which makes the tall weeds undulate, and the ever present feisty little bream.
