Fishing For Time

My birthday is this week, and for me, birthdays always bring about the memory of a special tradition my father and I had to celebrate my birthdays.  Every year, on or near my birthday, Dad would take me fishing, just he and I.  When I was young I was usually just given a baited cane pole with a bobber to watch and I think my catch was often just tiny sunfish that we ended up throwing back into the water.  Dad, of course, had the rod and reel and spent his time casting and trying out different lures from his tackle box, while I watched.  I didn’t really care if we caught anything since I couldn’t stand the taste or smell of fish.  When I was a bit older he gave me a new fishing pole that I could cast with.  It was one of those “new” Zebco’s with the casting button and a supposed tangle-free enclosed reel.  

If you have fished, you might understand that fishing, for most people, isn’t necessarily about catching fish.  Fishing is quiet.  It is meditative.  You don’t need to talk much.  It is almost spiritual.  For Dad and I it was just about being together.  As I got older, the birthday fishing trip expanded to include alternate outdoor activities, like hiking.   A popular destination for us was Bernheim Forest, just south of Louisville, KY. 

One year Dad gave me a small telescope for my birthday, in preparation for a backpacking trip we were planning.  I was about 10 that summer when we spent two days hiking along the Little Shepherd Trail in Eastern Kentucky.  Much of the fun was preparing for the trip and buying all the gear.  My dad was big on gear.  We had red plastic ponchos that snapped together to form a little pup tent, simple framed backpacks, and no-melt Hershey bars like the type he was given in the South Pacific during the war. 

By the time I was a teen and busy with other things, the birthday “fishing trips” were abandoned.  I was busy with friends and Dad was busy getting his new business off the ground.  But, by my first year in college I was eager to recreate our outdoor time together.  We began to plan another backpacking trip.  On my visits home from college that year we shopped for our new gear.  We got new backpacks, new boots, and lighter weight sleeping bags.  We still stuck with the old red ponchos as nothing surpassed their multi-use function as rain gear and tent.  We bought a little Sterno stove for cooking.

My brothers told me it was crazy to take Dad on such a trip.  He was overweight, had high blood pressure and was pre-diabetic.  “He’ll have a heart attack”, they said.  I wasn’t going to back down, if Dad was willing to give it a try, we were going!  I was young and optimistic.

Early that summer we set out for our big trip to Red River Gorge in Kentucky.  We had planned to take a series of trails that would provide a two-day loop back to our starting point.  It was beautiful and like the fishing trip, we didn’t even need to talk.  The important thing was that we had both taken this time to be together again in the outdoors.  Dad appreciated nature and enjoyed identifying the plants and birds along our travels.  He once told me that he had wanted to be a park ranger.  

But, there was no getting around the fact that Dad was slower and the hiking was more difficult than it had been for him on that first backpacking venture almost 10 years previous.  After the first night out, we decided to cut the trip short and spend the second night in the lodge at the state park nearby.  It didn’t matter and I wasn’t disappointed.  We had accomplished the goal.  Alfred Hitchcock always talked about the MacGuffin, which was the thing you thought the movie was about when in fact the “real story” was actually something else.  The real story about our trips was not how many fish we caught or how many miles we hiked, those were the MacGuffins.  The real story was about a father and his daughter being together.

It never occurred to me to wonder how this birthday tradition had started, until years after my father’s death.  My great aunt asked me one day if I knew why Dad had always taken me fishing on my birthday.  I didn’t.  She then told me the story of a time when I was only about 3 or 4 years old and I was asked what I wanted for my birthday.   Apparently, I replied that all I wanted was to go fishing with my Dad.  You see, I was the youngest of five children.   I understand now that my father must have been profoundly touched by my simple and innocent childhood request for more time with him.  Sometimes we forget how precious our time is to those around us.  In many respects it is the most valuable and lasting thing we have to give to the ones we love.  Those outdoors adventures with my Dad are treasures that continue to feed and nurture me to this day, and I am grateful for his enduring birthday gift.  Somehow it seems fitting that the last time I saw my Dad, just weeks before his death at age 57, was at Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee. Doug and I had met him there to see the Bald and Golden Eagles that nest and winter there.



  

-Mary

On the Little Shepherd Trail 1969

Bernheim Forest Hike

Treasure Box with Grange Rituals

Doug and I are still going through and sorting old pictures and artifacts from the Davy and Moyer families.  The Moyers moved from Pennsylvania to North Dakota, to homestead in the early 1900’s.  This is Doug’s paternal grandmother’s family.  One of the items we opened was an old wooded grocer’s box filled with the financial records of John F. Moyer, Doug’s G Grandfather.  In Pennsylvania he had a small farm and orchard but in 1900 he and two of his brothers-in-laws went out to North Dakota, and staked their homestead claim, erecting a few buildings and planting some trees.  They returned to Pennsylvania and the following year brought their families out on the train.  Doug’s grandmother was about nine years old at the time.  I’m sure that close examination of the treasure trove of records from this prairie farm will prove to be quite interesting as a future research project.

One of the items from the box that has initially intrigued me is a “Patrons of Husbandry” manual.  The “Patrons of Husbandry”, often referred to at “The Grange” is a fraternal organization of farmers that was founded in 1867.  The oldest surviving agricultural organization in America, it had over a million members at one time but now its numbers are greatly reduced.  In many rural communities the Grange was a community center for farmers and their families.  The group also promoted their political interests and concerns on a national level.  

The small manual that I discovered has the penciled notation inside: “Master, Rolling Green, No. 19.”

Rolling Green was the Township of Ward County in North Dakota where the Moyer farm was located.  I assume that the notation of “Master” might mean that John Moyer was at one time the Master of that Grange.  The Master was one of the leadership positions of the Grange and appears to be a position that we might in other organizations call a president.  The book’s installation ceremony for the Master warns, “You may encounter difficulties.  Overcome them, remembering that difficulties are but opportunities to test our abilities.”  Not bad advice for any of us.  Other positions of leadership mentioned in the book are that of Overseer whose duty it was to see that the orders of the Master are faithfully transmitted to the Laborers, Lecturer who was to lead the literary programs and educational work of the Grange, Steward to guard the Inner Gate, Chaplin who led the prayers, Treasure, Secretary, and Gate Keeper who was to position himself between the Inner and Outer Gates.   

The Grange was not a male only organization and had important female leadership roles also.  These included Ceres (the Roman goddess of agriculture and grain), Pomona (the Roman goddess of fruit trees and gardens), Flora (the Roman goddess of flowers and the season of Spring), and Lady Steward who carried a shepherd’s crook to symbolize her protection of the innocent and feeble. 

Like the Masons, the Grange has its own system of rituals and symbols.  There are seven degrees of Grange membership, the first four of which are given at the local level and the book details the rituals for each of those ceremonies.  The first degree is that of Laborer/Maid and is symbolized by the ax, the plow, the harrow, and the spade.  According to the book: “The Ax is used to cut away obstructions in the fields and prepare timber for use.  Its use teaches us perseverance in overcoming obstacles: for, as by repeated blows it cleaves its way through the hardest wood, so should we by repeated trials surmount every difficulty.”  “The spade we use when we wish to penetrate deeper into the soil than we can with the plow, it thus becomes the emblem of thoroughness.  Whatsoever you attempt to do, strive to do it well.”

The second degree is that of Cultivator/Shepherdess and its emblems are the hoe and the pruning knife.  “The pruning knife, used to remove useless and injurious grown from our trees, plants, and vines, should remind you to prune idle thoughts and sinful suggestions, and thus keep your passions within due bounds and prevent your fancy from leading you astray after the vanities and vices of the world.”

The third degree is represented by the Harvest with the sickle as its emblem and the fourth degree is represented by the Home with the agate as an emblem.  Each degree is also represented by a particular season of the year, additional symbols, and a scene that is recreated for that ceremony of installation.  There are details about how to decorate the grange hall for each ceremony and specifics on materials and colors for the costumes.  For example this is from the section on preparing for the second-degree ceremony:

The stage should be massed with plants and flowers, representing summer in all its intensity and beauty.  Court robes are pink and made of cheesecloth.  Ceres should be trimmed in yellow, Flora in white and Pomona in dark green.  Garden hats are worn as headdresses.  There should be a flowerpot of sand, and a small dish of shelled corn, for use on the altar.  A case of miniature implements, containing a hoe and pruning knife should be on the desk of the Master.  The sister candidates wear pink veils and roses should be on the desk of the Overseer.

Today there are Granges in only 37 states and apparently none left in North Dakota.  Washington State seems to have the largest number still active in this organization, their website listing 293 community Granges.  At the beginning of the 20th century when John Moyer was associated with the Grange, at least 33 % of Americans were farmers.  Today farmers represent less than 2% of the population.  So, it’s not surprising that the Grange has suffered a steep decline in membership.

Before finding this book, I really didn’t know much about the Grange but Doug has pointed out old Grange halls to me in our rural travels over the years.  He’s often described a Grange meeting he once attended at a child in Oregon.  He recalled the members solemnly marching in an intricate pattern, the sound of their feet on the large wooden floored hall, and the leaders carrying staffs and wearing odd hats.  To him it was like entering a time machine and being transported into the past to witness an ancient ritual from the Middle Ages.

-Mary