March 2011 NewsletterJim Casada
Web site:
www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com March Musings
Recalling his passage through the years has to bring some tears, and as the minister said at his funeral service, “no matter how long we have those we love, we never have them long enough.” But he’s gone, and I know I’ll miss him, as I still miss Mom after the passage of better than a decade, every day in countless ways. Join me now as I recall a few of countless memorable moments from his life and share them as a sample of more than a century of special days and this man’s wondrous ways.
Another aspect of Daddy’s character, and one which he passed on to his children and beyond, was a degree of hard-headedness (although I prefer to view that family obstinacy as a fine streak of independence) combined with a fiery temper. My sister and I got a fine dose of the latter when, in our pre-teen years, we sneaked off down to a neighbor’s house for a play session. Daddy somehow knew where we had gone and met us headed back home. At that time there were ninety-nine steps from the street up the hill to the house, and he switched the pair of us from the bottom step to the top. I don’t know that the forsythia he employed with such a will was perfectly designed for that particular purpose, but what I do know is that neither my sister nor I ever again covered those steps as quickly or in comparably lively form. Several years later, displaying my own fit of pique when Daddy denied some request, I kicked my foot in vexation and my shoe came off. It sailed right through the glass pane of the bedroom window, shattering it to shreds, and I knew with woeful certainty that the wrath of the heavens was about to descend. Amazingly, Daddy tempered his temper and walked from the room wordless. It was an impressive show of restraint, although I’m sure he realized that I was mortified at the results of my impulsive action. Daddy was a firm believer in and an exemplar of what religious philosophers describe as “the Protestant ethic.” In all likelihood he never read the phrase—his reading tastes ran more to the likes of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour than the turgid writings of Max Weber—but he lived it. He firmly believed that work was good and godly, and he raised a garden, mowed his own lawn, and undertook countless projects until well into his nineties. Even after age and the accumulated burden of years had taken their toll, he was always commenting about how he needed to do some job or other. The implicit message was quite clear. “I’m not really up to this chore, but it needs to be done and it’s about time you got busy taking care of it.” Yet Dad never lost sight of the fact that hard play went along with hard work as part of a balanced life. Although I feel perfectly confident he never studied Socrates’ thoughts or contemplated the perspectives of Plato and Aristotle, Daddy had a full understanding of the ancient Greek philosophical concept of mens sana, mens corpa, which roughly translated means that a sound mind linked with a sound body requires play as well as work. His play involved competitive sports, several of which he excelled in as a young man, and his agility and ability extended well into his forties. In fact, he teased me throughout my adulthood by rightly saying that I was never able to outrun him. That was because he was faster afoot than I was until I reached the age of fifteen or sixteen, and when he realized I was about to make a breakthrough and be able to outpace him, he refused to race me anymore, saying “I have retired undefeated.” On one occasion, however, his zest for the active life got the better of him. He and Mom were visiting us when our daughter, Natasha, was probably ten or eleven years of age. We had been out walking and Natasha was riding her bike. When we reached our driveway, which runs down a moderate slope to the house, Daddy suddenly said: “Natasha, I haven’t ridden a bike in forty years; let me give it a try.” What ensued was pure comedy. Daddy rode quite nicely until he reached a point where he needed to brake. He then madly peddled backwards, not realizing that bike brakes had long since made the transition from pedals to handlebars. He eventually managed to get stopped, but only with considerable assistance from a bush at the end of the driveway. There was no real physical damage but his sense of propriety was badly bruised. Daddy’s greatest recreational moments came while hunting, fishing, hiking, and camping, and unbeknownst to either of us pursuit of those pleasures helped me shape a career in communicating the joys of the outdoors. In that context, I might add, he could never quite comprehend how someone could go hunting and fishing all the time and actually get paid to do so. A “marvelously misspent” life is how he summarized my years as a recovering professor. Sampling and savoring the world of nature lent itself perfectly to stories and the telling of tales, and any abilities I may have in that regard are a gift from a gifted mentor. He had a veritable storehouse of episodes involving a sidekick of his named Petey Angel, one of those plausible scoundrels and irresistible rapscallions who seem ordained to provide grist for storytelling mills. He would tell, chuckling with delight, of Petey getting lost when he insisted he knew a special shortcut to a backcountry trout fishing retreat. Eventually Daddy went ahead on his own, carrying not only his backpack but much of his sidekick’s equipment. Finally Petey caught up with him, flopped down on the ground, and said: “Commodore, I’m amazed at your stamina!” Another account from outdoor experiences Dad loved to tell involved his hunting and fishing buddy of many years (and also an individual who was a wonderful gospel singer, winsome soul, and consummate fisher of men and boys), Claude Gossett. While out rabbit hunting, the pack of beagles Dad and Claude owned had run a cottontail into a groundhog hole. It was the second or third time that had happened, and Claude decided he was going to twist it out. He got the rabbit near enough to the earth’s surface to reach into the hole after it, and the cornered cottontail promptly bit him. Claude jerked back in surprise and then, immediately embarrassed, sought in vain to deflect attention elsewhere. My younger brother, Don, was along, but he was too young to carry a shotgun. However, he did have a BB gun and, lacking a better object to hide his embarrassment, Claude yelled at him: “Son, watch where you point that gun.” Daddy never tired of telling how he tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from laughing at Claude’s hapless plight in being routed from the field by a lowly rabbit. Then there were tales from his boyhood telling of hunting squirrels when the American chestnut still reigned supreme in Appalachian forests, of trips to remote headwater streams where speckled trout swam in incredible abundance, of winters so cold the local river froze so thick you could drive an automobile over the ice, and plenty of simple stories of hard work. His family eked out a living on a little hardscrabble farm high up in the Smokies, and to the end of his days Dad worried about money. A good example came with a wonderful African-American lady who regularly baked him delicious black walnut cakes. When I happened, sort of as an afterthought, to ask him how much he was paying for the cakes, Dad said: “I give her $10, and it’s worth every penny of it.” When I pointed out that a cake of comparable quality and size would likely cost $40 to $50 from a bakery, he was incredulous. “Just eating a bit of a cake that cost that much would give me acute indigestion,” was his response. The answer was a simple one. My brother and I just made up the difference. I’ll conclude by relating an awkward episode which occurred during my freshman year in college. My first semester was not exactly a stellar one in terms of academic performance, although I excelled on the social scene and in hours spent on the golf course. When my grades arrived they were somewhere between dismal and deplorable. Daddy sat me down, talked about what I had done (or more accurately, failed to do), made it abundantly manifest that there was not to be a repeat performance of that first semester, and quoted some simple doggerel which went straight to the heart of the matter: When a job is once begun, never leave it ‘til it’s done. Be it great or be it small, do it well or not at all. I subsequently did somewhat better, but in looking back it seems to me those lines are a metaphor for Daddy’s passage through this world. He took on the greatest of earthly jobs, living a full, fulfilling, and fruitful life, and did it wonderfully well. As a father, a mentor, and a friend, I miss him terribly and will conclude with a simple message. Cherish those closest to you and savor every moment you have with them. Building those memories is about as fine a thing as you can do in life. We’ll close with a couple of recipes. It’s time for trout on the table as spring arrives and also a fine time to be cleaning out the freezer. PAN-FRIED TROUTTwo ore three cleaned trout per person
Dip fish in water and shake gently to remove most of the moisture. Place trout, one at a time, in a Zip-loc bag holding corn meal. Be sure to coat the fish completely, including the body cavity. Fry in piping hot oil (a drop of water dripped into the oil should “dance”) until golden brown on both sides. Serve immediately. Good side dishes are oven fries, hush puppies, or slaw. GRILLED WILD TURKEY STRIPSHalf of a wild turkey breast cut into
half-inch strips Marinate the strips in Italian dressing, then roll bacon slice around each strip, enclosing a slice of pepper or water chestnut inside the strip and holding it in place with a toothpick. Grill over mesquite or hickory until done (do not overcook). Serve as a dandy hors d’oeuvre. Thank you for subscribing to the
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This
month’s newsletter takes a decided departure from those of the past, for
most of its coverage is devoted to celebration of a remarkable life,
that of a staunch son of the Great Smokies, Commodore Andrew Casada.
After a full and fulfilling life which stretched over more than 101
years, we lost Dad on January 29. His mental faculties were, for the
most part, sound right to the end, and he took considerable delight in
prodding me on the weekly column I write for the local newspaper, the
“Smoky Mountain Times.” “Son,” he would say, “you didn’t get one thing
quite right this week.” Finding those little slip-ups gave him
considerable delight, but not nearly as much as they did me.