I can only remember a few times during my 59 years that it has snowed in Arkansas on Thanksgiving Day. One day in particular sticks in my mind.
It was freezing outside, and when I awoke and walked outdoors, snowflakes were falling. Such an event normally would have excited me, but not this time. Despite it being a holiday, despite the beautiful snowfall that soon covered the landscape, I was feeling down in the dumps. I had recently gotten divorced, and my ex-wife had gotten custody of our son. I was flat broke, and on a day most people were enjoying with their loved ones, I was alone.
At the time, I was living in a one-room shack that had once been my storage shed. It was cold and damp inside, with cracks in the walls and icy concrete floors. After awakening, I built a campfire in the yard to warm myself. I sat beside it in a lawn chair, contemplating the life-changing experiences that had happened recently and wishing I was someplace else. Then a little voice in the back of my mind spoke.
“Quit whining,” it said. “Many people are much worse off than you. Instead of complaining, you need to get away and do something that will get you out of this funk.”
So I went fishing.
It was frigid outside, so I dressed in a heavy coat, insulated jeans, a wool scarf, gloves and a felt hat. I felt overdressed for Thanksgiving but was glad I bundled up. Despite the snow flurries, I felt snug and comfortable sitting beside Uncle Julius’ pond.
I had started fishing his pond when I was just 7. My grandmother was the first to take me there, at a time when I must have been a worrisome youngster. She took me often, nevertheless, and we fished there side by side many days. Those times were unforgettable.
I dearly loved that gorgeous pond, and until I moved away to college, I fished it almost weekly throughout the year. It became my bastion — a place I could visit whenever my batteries needed recharging.
I usually walked there, toting a rod and reel in one hand and a tackle box full of fishing paraphernalia in the other. From home, it was perhaps 2 miles, but the road across the hogbacks and hollows of Crowley’s Ridge was in such a beautiful setting, I enjoyed every step along the way.
Once there, I would select from the tackle box one of four treasured lures given to me by my wise fishing uncles. A Jitterbug. A Lucky 13. An old Devil’s Horse with rusty props that barely turned. And a big red-and-white topwater plug no one could remember the name of.
When the lure was selected, I would tie it on and cast. And I would cast, and cast again, and then some more until either I caught a bass or knew I wasn’t likely to.
In the latter case, I switched — bass to catfish. The lure was removed, and a big sinker was tied on the line. A hook was tied below that and baited with a chunk of chicken liver or a fat nightcrawler. Then, if luck was with me, one of the pond’s plentiful channel cats would pluck the line and set my nerves atwitter. If I hooked it, I would savor the fight as long as possible and hope another would soon follow.
I had fished the pond often during Thanksgiving school breaks, but never before with it snowing. Now, pulling my scarf up over my nose, I hooked a piece of chicken liver using my frozen fingers. When it was ready, I cast into the pond and watched as the line tightened and sank. I reeled in a little more line, enough to get everything taut; then, placing the line between the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I sat on a stump and waited for the pluck.
It never came. Instead, after I had stared at my line for 15 minutes, I saw it move ever so slightly. It tightened, then made a little sashay to the left. It moved slowly at first, but then faster and faster until … snatch! … I set the hook.
The fish lurched. Line zizzed off my reel.
Goodness gracious! This is a big one, I thought. I knew that because I could hardly handle it. It would race off one way, then turn about and rush off again. I worried it would run the line around a stump or tangle it in a bush. But I managed to steer the fish clear and keep it in open water.
For several minutes, we fought. The fish took line. I took it back. The fish took more. Finally, I gained the upper hand and could see the creature’s blurry outline 4 feet beneath the surface of the clear, cold water.
I reeled hard then, pulling back on the bowed pole for leverage. Then, suddenly, there it was — all 10 pounds of it — splashing in the shallows.
Holy smoke! It was white. Pure white. As white as the falling snow.
I had never seen such a fish. But there it was, flopping beneath my hand as I pressed it down to remove the hook. When I finally lifted it so I might get a better look, it began croaking incessantly.
That seemed funny somehow and made me laugh. Standing there in the cold and snow, holding the white fish, I was happy for the first time in a long time.
I thought about eating the catfish for my Thanksgiving dinner, but I could not. The fish was too beautiful, too unique, to kill and devour. I squatted beside the pond, cradled it in the icy water and gave it a little push. The snow-white fish swam strongly away.
When the catfish had disappeared back into the depths of Uncle Julius’ pond, I looked up into the snow-streaked sky and said a word of thanks to the Great Fisherman above.
“Thank you for this white catfish on this white day and the joy it gave me, when what I needed most was joy. I am truly blessed, and for that, I am grateful.”
Recently, I sat by a Thanksgiving table piled high with foods of all sorts. A warm fire was burning in the fireplace. My wife and sons were with me, and the joy of the season was upon us. Everyone was laughing and smiling.
I stepped outside for some fresh air, and something caught my eye. A snowflake. Then another and another. Soon, the air was full of them, and everyone came outside to see.
“You have a big smile,” my wife, Theresa, said. “What are you thinking about?”
“I’m just thinking of all the things we have to be thankful for,” I replied, pulling her close and snuggling. “Our lives have truly been blessed.”
For a moment, however, I was back beside Uncle Julius’ pond, snow falling all around me, as I watched the Thanksgiving catfish swish its tail and swim away.