Jim Casada Outdoors

July 2011 Newsletter

Jim Casada Web site: www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com
1250 Yorkdale Drive E-mail: jc@jimcasadaoutdoors.com
Rock Hill, SC 29730-7638
803-329-4354

Carry Me Back

I come from what could be described as a musically gifted family. My sister has always had a fine singing voice, played the piano well when she was younger, and understands all the finer aspects of music. My brother has a good voice, can make a harmonica talk quite nicely, and has even dabbled with a bit of song writing. One of his sons is working on a Ph. D. in music (clarinet) and another one pulls guitar strings quite nicely, has a melodious voice, and is generally gifted in a musical sense. My daughter helped “sing” her way through college on a partial voice scholarship and subsequently performed with the Charlotte Oratorio Singers for a number of years. Her daughter, now 10 years of age, also shows considerable promise as a vocalist.

Then there’s me, a total stranger to a tune (any tune). I’m so hopeless, in fact, that a good friend who is also an exceptional musical talent (Rob Simbeck, an established Nashville presence who writes the narrative for the weekly American Country Music Countdown program), once told me: “Jim, you sing like a bird. A vulture.” Alas, that pretty well sums it up, and I reckon the closest I’ll ever come to any meaningful linkage with music is a modest ability to clog or buck dance. Of course with advancing years that high-energy activity is becoming increasingly problematic.

Monthly Special

Some years back the good missus and I wrote a cookbook for the North American Hunting Club entitled Wild Bounty. It won an award or two and, thanks to input from studio photographers to support my images and those of outdoor types, it is mighty attractive to the eye.

More to the point, as far as I’m concerned, it features a passel of recipes for all kinds of wild game. On top of that, the concluding portion of the book deals with wild fruits, nuts, and vegetables. I’ve always been a grand one for gathering and grazing in nature’s garden, and it flat out pains me to see good wild food go to waste. Blackberries, featured in the recipes following this month’s newsletter, are a prime example.

At any rate, I’ve got perhaps a dozen copies of Wild Bounty, a hardbound book which normally sells for $20 plus shipping, in stock. As long as they last, through the month of July, they are only $15 postpaid.

For this offer I will only accept personal checks, cashier’s checks, or money orders. Payment should be sent to me c/o 1250 Yorkdale Drive, Rock Hill, SC 29730.

Tel.: 803-329-4354
E-mail: jc@jimcasadaoutdoors.com

Still, for all my total lack of musical talent, I love singing, especially traditional country and bluegrass music. I grew up listening to WSM out of Nashville and the Wayne Raney show on WCKY in Cincinnati, Ohio. We didn’t have a television in our house, but the old radio where we listened to "Gunsmoke" and other programs, as well as college basketball and football games, picked up the above-mentioned 50,000-watt stations loud and clear. That boyhood love of music has never left me, and I do have one tiny bit of talent in this arena of life. Thanks to a good memory I know the lyrics to hundreds, probably thousands, of country songs. I may not have achieved quite the status David Allen Coe suggests when, in one of his songs, he says he knows the words to every song Hank Williams ever wrote, but I’m familiar with a passel of ‘em.

Lyrics from one such song kept running through my mind earlier today as I dug potatoes in the garden and picked a gallon of blackberries. It is “Carry Me Back” sung by the Statler Brothers. I’ve always been passing fond of the Statlers, and there are several reasons why that is the case. For starters, we are very much of an age, and the times and things which loom large in their songs forge a common bond. Similarly, they are sons of the Appalachian soil (Staunton, Virginia) like me, and we share small town roots, values, and memories. Their music has gospel origins similar to the sort of music making which was a Friday night fixture during the late 1950s in the area of the Smokies where I grew up. Then too, I love the fine harmony, the nice blend of humor and nostalgia which characterizes so many of their songs, and the fact that they sing of things with which I can identify.

As I rapidly approach the Biblical allotment of three score and ten years, I’m increasingly inclined toward the way of thinking provided in the lyrics of “Carry Me Back.”

Carry me back and make me feel at home.
Let me cling to those memories that won’t let me alone.
When it was always summer and she was always kind.
Carry me back Lord, while I still got the time.

There’s even fading memories of a teenage girlfriend who likely would, to this day, remember 1959. We had a local hamburger joint (Naber’s, which still makes wonderful burgers), driving around town or going to the drive-in were standard summertime activities, and preachers did visit poor souls when they got down (and thankfully, still do).

Such things were part and parcel of growing up in a rural, small town setting. The population of Bryson City, N. C., where I grew up, was less than 2,000 in the 1960 census, the year I went off to college and in effect took the first meaningful steps towards being on my own. Today the population is still under 2,000, and while things have changed in a lot of ways (and in my view mostly not in a positive direction), and this little mountain town remains a place where a sound work ethic, honesty, faith, and patriotism figure prominently in daily life.

The July memories I cling to are many and varied, but without exception they are warm, winsome ones. Just last week I spent a couple of hours with a woman, Blakeney Black Bartlett, I had not seen in a half century. She was the granddaughter of a wonderful couple who were our next door neighbors during my boyhood, and every summer she and her brother would come to the mountains to spend two or three weeks. Since they were straight out of New York it was likely a bit of a culture shock for them, and the same held true for me in terms of some of their outlooks and perspectives. Mainly though, we just shared the simple pleasures of life in a small town setting.

I accompanied Blakeney on a visit to the Marianna Black Library, the local public library which was founded by and named for her grandmother. That library loomed large indeed in my boyhood and beyond. Well before I left home, as I have mentioned in previous newsletters, I had read every outdoor book in its modest collection several times over. Later Mom would serve as librarian for a decade, and in retirement both she and Dad were members of the library’s board at one time or another. Blakeney was seemingly pleased to see what the library is like today, and I know she took considerable delight in gazing at photographs of her grandparents and an aunt, Dr. Ellen Black Winston, who also was a great benefactor of the library.

Books were a constant and welcome companion throughout my youth, but in July they were reserved for rainy days and evenings. There was simply too much to do outdoors the rest of the time. Seldom did a day pass when I didn’t put in three or four hours either in a local trout stream or on the banks of the Tuckasegee River, where catfish were my primary quarry. I ran trot lines and throw lines in the river, occasionally sold some catfish, and spent a world of time with an old river rat named Al Dorsey. Later I would learn that old Al, who was a stranger to soap and warm water but a catfishing wizard, had spent upwards of a decade in the state pen following a conviction for second-degree murder. As I knew him though, he was just a smelly old codger, one among many local characters who were part and parcel of my boyhood.

I got to know several other intriguing characters thanks to spending idle hours at a shady spot near the town square where old men played checkers, swapped lies, and trade knives. The gathering site had two names, both of them grand examples of the pity, to-the-point way mountain folks tend to talk. The polite name for the place was “Loafer’s Glory,” but another off-color term was used more frequently. This was “Dead Pecker Corner,” a humorous reference to the age and declining sexual interest and/or prowess of the old-timers who were regulars there.

That self-same square was also frequented on Saturdays during the summer by various persuasions of Bible thumpers. Some of these street preachers, with their powerful voices and verbal depictions of hell-fired and damnation, could draw quite a crowd. Others garnered scant attention but preached on bravely nonetheless. Often I would stop to listen to them a bit, not so much for the message as for the show.

Religion had other summertime faces as well. There was a tent revival about every other week, and often part of the event would be some exceptional gospel singing. Similarly, once or twice a summer there would be sort of offshoots of the traditional brush arbor revivals, with an entire Saturday being devoted to preaching, singing, and dinner on the grounds. Later, a few years after I had gone off to college, a local gospel group which attained international renown, The Inspirations, would turn this into an annual event known as “Singing in the Smokies.” The original members of the group were just local guys to me—Archie Watkins, the tenor, was the son of the school custodian, and I dated one of his sisters for a time; Martin Cook had been a high school teacher; while the other original members, Jack Laws, Ronnie Hutchins, and Troy Burns; were all simple sons of the Smokies who made a prominent place for themselves in the world of gospel music.

Most of the time when I listened to street preachers it was after having attended the Saturday matinee at the local movie theater. For a thin dime (later inflation took the price to 12 and then 15 cents) you got the latest installment of a serial, a cartoon, a news reel, and a Western featuring the likes of Johnny Mack Brown, Lash LaRue, Roy Rogers, or Gene Autry. In July I was usually flush with money, thanks to the fact that blackberries peaked in ripeness around Independence Day and also because I caddied on the local golf course, mowed lawns, caught and sold night crawlers and spring lizards to bait stores, and earned pocket money in various other ways.

Later on, in my mid- and late teens, I would hold a full-time job. That included working at the golf course—mowing the fairways with reel-type gang mowers pulled by a tractor dating from the 1930s which had to be started by hand cranking, mowing the rough with a side blade, and dragging the sand greens (a contrast in terms, because they were brown, not green), and generally running things at the little nine-hole course. That brought in as much as five dollars a day, and I reckoned I was in high cotton, never mind that my typical work day was 10 or 11 hours.

Mostly though, “those memories that won’t leave me alone” are about ordinary things which somehow, with the passage of time, have turned extraordinary.

The first really big trout I caught—I still have a grainy black-and-white picture of it Momma insisted on taking, and for that as so many other simple but singularly meaningful things I owe her a lasting debt of gratitude.
My first trout on a fly, which I ate with a special sort of “putting meat on the table” sense of satisfaction that no trout before or since has ever provided. Incidentally, I’ve always been more of the “release to grease” or “hook to cook” persuasion than of a catch-and-release bent. When I was a youngster, both fish and game were welcome additions to the family diet.
Night fishing in the stream, Deep Creek, where I cut my angling teeth. This was always done after a heavy rain raised the creek level and left it muddy. I now know that night fishing for trout there was illegal (it never crossed our minds), although mostly be caught red horse, suckers, and redeyes, not trout.
Flirting with tourist girls spending a few days in the mountains.
Taking perverse joy in giving a flatlander “Floridiot” (what Floridians were called, behind their back) directions to the Park which were inaccurate and would lead them to the dead end of what was known as the “New Road” and later became “The Road to Nowhere” because it was never finished. This was admittedly mean, but when folks asked questions like “Where do we see the bears?,” “Do they really make moonshine here?,” or “Are there wild Indians on the Cherokee Reservation?”, the temptation to pull some city slickers’ strings was irresistible.
Speaking of tricks, another one was to somehow convince visitors from the city to bite into a green persimmon. Talk about pucker power!
Watching the sun set, seemingly downhill, from Clingmans Dome.
Backpacking into a remote campsite in the Smokies and catching scores of trout every day while never seeing another soul except the buddies with whom I was camping.
Enjoying the spectacle of the “Goat Man” as he made his annual pilgrimage through town, usually camping in a vacant field for a night or two with his retinue of goats. I wonder if any of you among my readers have memories of the Goat Man, whose real name was Ches McCartney. There is even a book about him by Darryl Patton entitled America’s Goat Man. What I remember most is the smell—you could smell the man and the goats, with there being no discernible odiferous differences, a hundred yards away downwind. The man and his goats, with a wagon piled so high with junk the fact that it didn’t topple over seemed a minor miracle, stopped traffic and drew a crowd whenever he appeared. In fact, rumors would pass through the community, for at least a week before he arrived, to the effect “the goat man is a-coming.”
Playing fast pitch softball on warm evenings under the lights and being warmed in a different way by thoughts of your girl friend sitting in the bleachers watching the game.
Feeling that a 20-cent milkshake and a 25-cent hamburger with all the trimmings were the finest fare imaginable.
Going to square dances on Saturday nights and kicking up one’s heels to classic dancin’ tunes such as “Down Yonder” and “Under the Double Eagle.”
Looking at the new fall edition of the Sears & Roebuck catalog, which always showed up about mid-July, and picking out one or two items which Mom would buy as part of my wardrobe for the new school year.
Eating corn-on-the-cob to my heart’s content, and that usually meant a minimum of three ears of Hickory Cane or four of the smaller “sweet” corn.
Spending several days with my older cousins who lived all of six miles away, but to me it seemed like another world.
Practicing marksmanship for hours on end with a slingshot I had made (with some expert assistance from Grandpa Joe).
Skipping rocks in the river in hotly contest competitions with other boys to see who could get the most skips.
Riding my bike back and forth across a traffic counter hundreds of times. I have no idea whether a bike was sufficient to record on the clicker, but if so, the state transportation folks must have pondered mightily on how a little side road could have so much traffic.
Picking blackberries and enjoying the fruit of my labors in the form of goodness straight from nature’s rich larder (see recipes below).
Having my heart broken half a dozen times in those stumbling, sensitive times of teenage romance.
Collecting baseball cards, movie star pictures on the lids of ice cream containers, and stamps (I’ve been a philatelist almost all my life, thanks to a stamp album given to me by an aunt.
Enjoying an icy slice of watermelon with Grandpa Joe after a long, hot session of garden work, then listen to him chuckle at my efforts to become a master of seed spitting. Incidentally, that particular memory makes me wonder what ever happened to the giant green, round watermelons we knew as “cannon balls” and to lament the passing of other melons, such as Charleston Greys, which had plenty of seeds for spitting.
Riding truck inner tubes in the creek while scanning overhanging limbs for water snakes (not a problem) and hornets’ nests (a major problem if you disturbed a nest).

All these memories, and many more, course through my mind, and with increasing frequency, as I become ever longer in the tooth and sparser (and greyer) in the hackle. Still, as “Carry Me Back” from the Statler Brothers suggests, they “make me feel at home” and I’m glad to share them “while I’ve still got the time.” I suspect many of you have similar memories, whether they are ones which carry you back or those currently in the making. Either way, I hope you are as blessed as me in terms of having had Julys aplenty filled with wonder.

ANNA LOU’S BLACKBERRY COBBLER

Named for my late mother, this is a quick, simple, and immensely satisfying approach to baking a cobbler, and the good news is that it doesn’t involve the tedious work on making a crust. I baked one last night, and a big bowl, topped off with milk or ice cream, is tasty enough to bring tears of joy to a glass eye (yeah, I know, that is probably politically incorrect, but it’s a saying I heard throughout my boyhood and, besides, I don’t care a fig’s worth for political correctness).

1 cup milk
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 stick (1/4 cup) butter
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
2-4 cups of blackberries (use more or less according to how much crust you like)

Melt the stick of butter in a shallow, 9 x 13 inch baking pan, and then blend it with the milk and dry ingredients until thoroughly mixed. Pour into the baking pan and spread blackberries evenly. Bake at 350 degrees until golden brown.

BLACKBERRY SAUCE

2 cups blackberries
½ to ¾ cup sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

Mix all the ingredients well and refrigerate for an hour or more. Allow sauce to come to room temperature before serving. Delicious served over a chocolate tart, cheesecake, or vanilla ice cream.

BLACKBERRY DUMPLINGS

1 quart blackberries
1 cup of sugar (or to taste)
Enough water to make berries thin enough to cook dumplings

DUMPLINGS

1 cup flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup milk

Place blackberries, sugar and water in saucepan and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, mix dumpling ingredients thoroughly and drop by tablespoons into boiling berries. Cook for 15 minutes or until dumplings are cooked through the center. Serve hot with cream.

BLACKBERRY SORBET

2 ½ cups boiling water
1 regular size tea bag
3 cups fresh blackberries
1 ¼ cups sugar
¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 1 ½ lemons)

Pour boiling water over tea bag and steep for 10 minutes. Mix blackberries with sugar. Add tea to the berries; crush berries with the back of a large spoon to release juices. Cover and cool. Puree berry/tea mixture in food processor using a metal blade. Strain through a fine sieve. Add lemon juice and mix. Refrigerate for at least an hour. Place sorbet mixture in ice cream maker and process as you would ice cream. Freeze sorbet overnight to allow flavors to develop. Makes one quart (recipe ingredients can be doubled to make more).

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Feel free to contact Jim with your comments, questions or suggestions at jc@jimcasadaoutdoors.com.

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