The turbo prop plane touched down forty minutes late. An exasperated Maggie Beck watched the Georgia summer heat radiate from the runway, wavy images rising in the midday sun. The thought occurred to her that it all looked just like she felt – like it was all a dream.
Her last experience on this type of plane took her to the remote flats of the Caribbean, chasing bones and permit. She closed her eyes and recalled how the floats of the plane touching down on the crystal water shone like an artist slicing through polished turquoise. It reminded her of the stones like she’d seen the Hopi and Zuni use to make jewelry in the Southwest on that Grand Canyon float trip a few years ago. Her travels had taken her many places, and she knew she was lucky. Not every photojournalist actually lived out dreams of chasing exotic species with fly rod and camera in tow. She now admitted to herself her suspicion that the luck would eventually come to an end.
Maggie had not found herself back here, at the home of her youth, since right after college. Graduation brought job offers and promises of grand adventure, and she never looked back. To herself she could admit she did not really want to be here again now, either. Middle Georgia, at the height of a muggy summer, carried memories of a place that could be called tolerable at best. Under these circumstances, she felt even more stifled. Everything was going along fine until the call came. She didn’t usually have to think about it much. Her father had been content to live here alone, tying flies and fishing with his old buddy Sam, also a widower. Maggie contented herself to be the one who did the dutiful trip back once a year for visits, well, most years anyway. But now no one was left to manage the family place, and she would have to decide what was to be done.
The rental car bumped over old highways and past the creeks and farm ponds she fished as a child. One particular pothole jolted Maggie out of her reverie and prevented her missing the last turn onto the familiar gravel road. Following a trail through the overgrown black-eyed susans she rounded the corner that brought the house into view.
Wonder how long this is going to take? She muttered only indirectly to the grey squirrel perched on the porch railing, and let herself in with the key she still kept on her key ring.
There it was, evidently just like it had been since Tuesday. Coffee still stood in the ancient percolator. It was the one he and her mother had used since their early marriage. Somehow, she imagined, keeping it was his way of keeping her with him after all these years alone.
An unfinished chartreuse Clouser Minnow beckoned from the vise that stayed attached to the end of the kitchen table, waiting for its artist’s return. Maggie poured out the coffee, but for some reason left the Clouser. Deciding the practical things like closets and cabinets could wait until evening, Maggie headed out the back door to take advantage of the remaining daylight.
She made her way down the short path past the old swing and headed for the shed. Going through the contents of the three outbuildings, she found her Dad’s fishing tackle. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers along the glass fly rod the one he refused for years to upgrade.
“Why would I want to spend my hard-earned money on another rod when this one works so well?” he’d said many times.
How could she ever argue with logic like that?
Her hand lingered on the tattered net, the floppy hat. The equipment before her brought back a flood of memories, surprisingly good ones. She spotted his fly boxes and reached over to pick one of them up off the work table. A corner of paper barely stuck out from behind the foam. Maggie tugged on the edge, loosening the page, and was surprised to find it was a note to her. The words on the page gently and warmly described what it meant to him to have a daughter who shared his passion for fly fishing. The emotion of the words took her by surprise.
Carlton Beck epitomized the image of a “man of few words” -- few praises -- though as she’d grown older some of his buddies eluded that he’d always bragged about ‘his girl’ to everyone else. Now here was this note, sharing his joy on the day Maggie caught her first bass on a fly. She knew at the time it was one of the best days they had shared, but in the twenty years since never imagined the magic it held for her father.
Laying the note on the table, Maggie reached for the vest still hanging on the old iron hook. It had an oddly comforting odor as she held it close, a combination of mildew, bug spray and old fish. She patted the front of the vest and found the photo stuck in the chest pocket. Gently wiping away the grime with the bottom of her t-shirt, Maggie let a smile creep across her face.
Suddenly, she was fourteen again. The big largemouth bass that she could barely hoist for the photo before releasing it gulped the chartreuse Clouser her father had tied, just like he’d predicted. It was her first on a fly rod, and she remembered it was difficult to tell who was more excited at the time. The afternoon was hot, much like this day, and the fight formidable. Now the freckled smile still said it all twenty years later.
Something else was in the vest, another small fly box. Opening the top revealed a collection of cricket-looking flies, bead eyed, black with white legs. As she recalled, the pattern was deadly on bream, and very often enticed good-sized bass as well. Carlton tied them by the dozens in the weeks leading up to the Spring time-change every year.
Something clattered on the roof. That crazy squirrel is following me, she mused, and slid the box in the pocket of her khaki shorts. Long, tan legs carried her down the other fork of the path, toward the lake. Maggie stopped to take in the view when she rounded the corner by the well house. The air hung so still in the thick summer afternoon that it was difficult to find the line where the shoreline ended and the water began. Huge oaks, poplar, and beech trees held hands high above the coves, offering shady respite for lunker largemouth. As she reached the pier, she pulled the length of her silken chestnut hair through the back opening of her hat. She rolled up the sleeves of her technical shirt and dangled the long legs off the end of the pier in front of her as she sat down.
Maggie had never considered keeping the place, but now, some old connection had sparked; now she had to decide what she really wanted to do. She thought maybe a boat ride would help. The trolling motor battery still held its charge from the prior days, and she eased her way along the shoreline. The feeder creek at the upper end of the lake showed no signs of abandoning its efforts, pouring its cool refreshment in the waiting inlet. Maggie decided to get out at this spot, wading the shelf along the shore, careful to watch for snakes. It was that time of the year, after all.
She took his old fly rod, and stepped into the clear water. The old cork handle felt smooth, familiar in her hand. The slower action of the glass rod made her keenly aware of her casting stroke, but thanks to the heat, the age of the fly line was not as relevant as it might have been; it straightened right out after a few false casts.
Maggie watched her line unfold, sail, and gently land on water, vaguely remembering the big bass that lived off this point years ago. Big Mama, her father had called her, had been hooked once or twice, but never landed. Many a frustrated angler ended up having his fly broken off, leader flying back into a shocked face. Big Mama, Maggie thought, most surely had an impressive fly collection at the bottom of the lake. She smiled, wishing Carlton had been the one to finally keep his fly in her mouth.
The afternoon brought a couple of pound blue gill and a half dozen largemouth. The blue gill made a great supper in the old cast iron skillet. Maggie’s thoughts turned back to Big Mama. She wondered if she still lived there – how long do bass live anyway? Her dad had mentioned someone had hooked her last summer. Surely that fish wasn’t still around, not anymore…
As fun as the afternoon had turned out to be, Maggie concluded she couldn’t keep it. With her schedule, the travel and all; sometimes she couldn’t even be reached for long stretches. She knew that, and that night wrote an ad to put in the local paper, adding for effect – if you don’t fish, don’t call. She did have one ace in the hole though, that she’d play the next morning.
Maggie drove the rental car down early to the old store past the highway fork. As she climbed out, she noted it hadn’t changed outside in years. When she stepped in the door, she realized things hadn’t inside either. Sam was still there.
“Heard you were comin’ back,” Sam Jenkins drawled as he sat behind the counter tying flies. People talked for miles around about how Sam was known to make you wait to pay for your groceries until he finished a fly. His hair was completely white now, but the blue eyes still had that familiar mischievous sparkle.
“This cricket pattern’s deadly on those big bull blue gill this time of the year,” he continued without looking up from the vise. It looked remarkably like the flies in the box she’d found in the shed, only with yellow legs and some sparse hackle.
“Real sorry about your dad, Maggie,” Sam said without looking up. ȁHe was a heck of a fisherman, though I’d never had said it to his face in a hundred years.” He finished the head of the fly.
Pushing himself up from his chair, Sam started toward the counter where Maggie still stood. Those darn rubber-legged things he caught all those giant bream on, what did he call ‘em… Bream Candy… aggravated the snot outta’ me.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. ȁThat’s ‘cause he always caught fish when I didn’t.”
“What’s that one called?” Maggie nodded toward the vise. ȁIsn’t that the same thing?”
“That,” Sam said matter-of-factly, looking over his magnifying glasses, “is what gave your dad the idea for his infamous Bream Candy. Maggie,” he smiled, “meet the Grits Cricket.”
“Excuse me?”
“Grits Cricket, kid. Named it that ‘cause bream eat it even faster than I could down a bowl of Martha’s buttered finest.”
Maggie smiled bigger, remembering Sam’s wife, Martha. She’d been dead for ten years, but people still talked about her famous grits.
“I’d been working on perfecting this fly for nearly a year before Carlton devised that damn bream thing of his. We argued every time we’d fish about whose pattern was most effective, mostly about the color of the legs.” He paused, drifting back, “Old curmudgeon kicked out before I could try this new variation on him. The hackle would’ve kicked his butt.”
Sam looked right at Maggie for the first time, “You stayin’?”
“I don’t know yet,” she exhaled honestly. “o you know anyone who’d wanna buy it?”
“Might.” Sam was still a man of many words.
Maggie reached for her wallet. ȁWell, I’ve got a lot of fixing up to do either way, so I’d better go,” and put groceries on the counter. “How much do I owe you?”
Sam shrugged, “Take it. I didn’t know where to send flowers.” And he sat back down at his vise.
Maggie sat in the old rocker on the front porch with a cold beer, watching the lake ripple in the late afternoon sun. Bream were taking bugs off the top of the water, and big wakes ebbed along the shore where the bass were starting to move up now that it was cooling off again.
What the hell, she thought, and took the flyrod she had left propped against the side of the porch, still rigged with the Clouser.
She hopped in the boat. The first cast was a little long of the bank, and ended up in the weeds. Any bass that within 50 feet of that particular bush was nowhere to be found after Maggie tried to get that fly back. She finally had to break it off. What did Dad used to say? ȁIf you ain’t hung up, you ain’t really bass fishin’.” Brilliant, she thought as she tied on a new fly.
She finally worked her way around again to where the point jutted out and the shelf came close to the old creek bed. Maggie cast the big deerhair bug and let it lay for a moment on the smooth surface. She stripped slowly– glurb, glurb, glurb – and was just about to recast when it happened. A sudden explosion of silver water enveloped the deerhair. Maggie glimpsed the huge mouth, red gills, then a tail. All she could think was, it’s her!
The monster ran with it, the line whirring off the reel. When she jumped Maggie couldn’t believe her eyes. This magnificent bass had to be well over 10 pounds!
She began to focus. How old is this leader? I didn’t really expect to catch this! No new tippet… was the barb pressed down on the hook?
This would take concentration and determination, like that last flats trip. Man, how many fish had she spooked or lost before finally landing that permit? She’d lost count when the guide kept yelling at her.
Her mind came back to this fish, this beautiful fish! How was she going to land it? She had no net – it sat in the shed, rotten. Maggie knew she had to get it to the boat first.
She lost track of time, and had no idea how long the fight took. Five minutes? Fifteen?
Maggie finally got it on the reel and knew only that she really needed to land it quickly. She had to be sure to release this awesome creature.
When she finally got it to the boat, Maggie reached over to grab the lip and found she could lift it with one hand, but just barely. She was afraid to hurt it, and laid her dad’s fly rod down before she picked up the fish.
Maggie marveled at the amazing colors, how the greens, blacks and silvers shimmered in the glow of the late afternoon sun. The bass was healthy, huge! She realized she’d brought nothing to weigh it, and her camera was back at the house. She was on the other end of the lake, too far to even think about, because it might kill this once-in-a-lifetime fish.
Maggie took one last look. Guess it’s just between you and me then, old girl, thank you. And she let her go, watching the water swirl behind one powerful swish of the tail.
Suddenly, Maggie was fourteen again, grinning, giggling, then laughing aloud. The picture in her mind completed by the ponytail, the waders, the fly – she realized the one she’d caught that particular day was thanks to one of the last Clousers she’d actually seen her dad tie.
“Okay Dad,” she said out loud. “You’ve convinced me.” Maggie wiped her hands on her shorts, and headed for the house to make her plan for the morning.
Over a cup of coffee from the percolator Maggie formulated her strategy for keeping the lake and house. It could be a tough sell, requiring careful choice of words and quick timing. She poured out the last third of the coffee from the cup, grabbed her keys off the counter and climbed in the car.
For some reason, she had butterflies in her stomach as she pulled in to park in front of the store. It wasn’t officially open for another half hour. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door that Sam still never locked.
“Sam, I’ve got a proposition for you,” Maggie said as she walked into the store.
“That can get you arrested around here, you know.” He never looked up from his coffee and newspaper.
“I mean it Sam,” Maggie pressed, and cut right to the chase. ȁHere’s the deal – you love to fish and I need someone to look after the house and the lake for me. I can’t sell it, Sam. But I can’t be here full time, not right now.” She paused, searching for a reaction, and then continued.
“Look, Martha’s been gone for almost 10 years now. Your kids never come back home. You love to fish and would take real good care of the place.” She could see he was listening and decided to go for broke. “Go live in the house and just keep up with things. You know, maintenance, the lake, that kind of stuff. With all my job responsibilities and fishing adventures I probably wouldn’t come back to bug you more than two or three times a year.”
She again tried to get a read on Sam’s impression. ȁI’d just move here myself, but not now. Maybe I’ll retire here, but until then it would be in good hands. C’mon, Sam, what do you say?”
Sam put down his coffee cup and looked over the counter somewhere beyond Maggie. ȁIt’d be kinda like your dad and me were fishing together again, wouldn’t it? Only this time around I’d finally be the one catching more fish.” A grin curled the edges of Sam’s mouth. ȁIt just might be the chance once and for all to prove my Grits Cricket really is the best, wouldn’t it?”
Maggie went for broke, “Sam, even though you two argued all the time, you were still his favorite fishing buddy. The only one who’d really put up with him on a regular basis. I know he would like the fact that someone was still fishing there every day.”
Sam knew she spoke the truth. “Okay Maggie, you got yourself a deal.”
They discussed all the details over another cup of coffee, laughing, remembering. Maggie told Sam she’d call when she got back to work and they’d line everything out to their mutual comfort.
He walked her out to the rental and opened the door for her.
“He’d be happy, you know, with this,” Maggie said as she hugged Sam.
Sam just nodded and said, “Alright now, go on, you’ll miss your flight.”
By lunch time, Maggie was back on her way to the airport, satisfied that Sam would be happy at the lake, and the house would be cared for like his own. She pulled the picture out of the one box of sentimental things she chose to take with her. She looked at the bass and smiled. Then Maggie remembered the one from this trip, but knew she didn’t need a photo of that one. Hell, no one would believe her anyway.
Picking up her cell phone, Maggie dialed her office. “Everything’s finally settled here. I’ll be in on Monday.”
Putting the phone on the seat, Maggie looked out the window at the Georgia pines and rolling fields. Things would never be the same, but they were good. She set her cruise control, turned up the radio, and smiled. She looked in the rear-view mirror and noticed the Grits Cricket stuck in the cloth of the sun visor. Maggie laughed out loud.
