The River, Part 1

When it’s hot and humid I remember going fishing with Uncle Tip.  I was a teenager living with my parents on a small, hilly farm in Tennessee about a mile from the Cumberland River, on York Landing Road, during the late ‘60s.  A number of my aunts and uncles lived up and down the road from us. 

Uncle Tip, whose real name was Clifford Settle, was married to Aunt Eunice, one of Daddy’s sisters.  They had moved to the country and built a nice brick house when Uncle Tip retired from working as a lineman for Southern Bell in Kentucky.  One of the trials of being his niece was listening to endless stories about his adventures electrifying that part of Kentucky and working through ice storms to repair the lines.  He was a proud member of the Telephone Pioneers of America and often went to reunions.  But he was kind and patient with me, and missed his only son and grandchildren back in Kentucky.  So he decided to teach me to fly-fish in the river.

During the long, hot summers I spent my time reading books, riding my bike up and down the road aimlessly, working reluctantly in the vegetable garden, cleaning house, weeding the flower beds, helping mother cook dinner, and freezing and canning.  I attempted to tan my pale skin, sweating in the sun, covered with Coppertone, on a lounge chair with my dog panting beside me.  Big excitement was a trip to the grocery store or going to church in town.  Taking up fishing was definitely a better pastime.