The Edge of Innocence, Eddie Snipes [good books to read TXT] 📗

As a young boy growing up in the south in the late sixties, I was raised on the edge of innocence. The simple joys I learned from my grandparents would become a strong foundation for dealing with the life unfolding around me. The years ahead of me would experience the sexual revolution, an unprecedented number of divorces, and crime rates that would alter the open society that America once held dear. Door locks were something that decorated my grandparent’s doors, but served no real function. I never once heard the door knock. All of their friends waltzed in as if they were just part of the family, and indeed they were.

In most modern neighborhoods, strangers live next door, but in the era of my grandparents, it was hard to find anyone they did not know. I can remember fidgeting impatiently as a five minute trip to buy fishing bait turned into a thirty minute conversation with someone my grandfather hadn’t seen in a whole month. He never made it out of any business without a lengthy conversation. Strangers now occupy the counters where friends once stood.

As a young boy, my greatest cares were getting out of school without homework and hoping it wouldn’t rain when I wanted to fish. I heard my mother talking to Grandma about my uncle being sent to Vietnam, but in my mind, that was a base somewhere near Marietta, GA, since that is where they visited him as he prepared for his service.
Everyone called my grandfather ‘Pappy’. He loved to tell corny jokes. They were the kind of jokes that made you want to roll your eyes. He took great pleasure in drawing that reaction from people and he would tell the same jokes at every opportunity. If someone laughed, he enjoyed a good laugh with them. If they didn’t laugh, he enjoyed a good laugh at their pained expression.

Few things were more thrilling than Pappy saying to me, “Come on. I’m gonna learn you how to fish.” Sometimes those lessons were painful. One time I hooked a large fish and he rushed over to give me step by step instructions. “Hold your rod up,” he kept ordering. I was standing on a large flat rock that the fish had rushed under for refuge. I reached out with my rod to keep the line from rubbing against the jagged surface. “Hold your rod up, hold your rod up.”

I tried to explain that I had to keep the line away from the sharp rock. Unfazed, he continued to issue the same order, “Hold your rod up!” Pappy had a stubborn streak and I don’t think I ever heard him change his mind, even when facing a mountain of contradicting evidence. On this occasion, I grew irritated and decided to follow his orders even though I knew it would break my line. I held my rod up, and my line sliced across the rock as the fish sought for a path of escape. The rod sprang up as an empty line floated lazily in the breeze. He told me that it wouldn’t have snapped if I had followed his instructions.

As far as I can remember, that is the only time I let his orders get the best of me. Everyone loved Pappy, but no one could work with him -- no one except me. Whether it was fishing or working, Pappy felt the need to instruct whoever he was working with. Because of the great love he always expressed for me, I learned how to just say ‘okay’ when he barked instructions, even when it was something already being done. I soon found that I enjoyed working with him in spite of this quirk.

Each school year, I longed for summer vacation when I could go spend a week or two with my grandparents. Pappy showed me every good fishing spot on the portion of the yellow river that passed near his house in Porterdale, GA. It was a delight to come back with a mess of fish. Pappy would say, “You can’t go inside until we get these fish cleaned.”
One day, we were just finishing up and I watched this catfish head with his mouth open. For reasons unknown, I decided to put my finger in the mouth of that fish. When I touched its tongue, the jaws clamped down hard on my finger and its strength caught me off guard. I screamed as the vice-like mouth crushed against my finger. Pappy walked over with two screw drivers and pried the jaws apart, freeing my finger.

With a sly look, Pappy asked, “What did you go and do that fer? What did you think was going to happen?” I shrugged, but I wanted to tell him that I thought fish heads wouldn’t have the strength to fight back.

My grandfather fished all year long and stored all our catches in a large chest freezer. In the early fall, he would have a big fish fry that was more of a celebration of life than a meal. My Uncle Henry would hook up his propane fryer and it seemed like the entire town of Porterdale would gather at his house. We would all sit under his large pecan trees and enjoy hot fish in the cool shade.

Uncle Henry was a big man who loved to show off his strength. After the feeding frenzy subsided, he would go to his barn and bring out his relics of brawn. He had two large, semicircle magnets that clamped tightly together. He would pass them around challenging all the men to try and pull them apart. Every man would strain, twist, and pull against the magnets until someone would utter the words Henry longed to hear, “I don’t think those things can come apart.”

That was always Uncle Henry’s queue call. He would take the magnets and say, “Watch this.” Each of his large hands would wrap around one of the magnets and the big man would try his best to keep his face from showing any strain as he pulled the magnets apart. He would smile and hold up the halves for all to see, then he would place them back together with a loud snap. He would hand the magnets back to a challenger for another vain effort, amplifying the magnitude of his feat.

The men’s conversations centered around church life, hunting dogs, and where the fish were jumping on the river. The women folk talked about men, their kids, and where they found the best bargains as they took turns cranking the hand turned ice cream maker. We tried to avoid this area, but when the ladies tired of cranking, they would fetch the kids to rotate in the duties. I’m not sure which was worse, the pain in my arm as I cranked the handle, or the disappointment of missing the conversations among the men. The joy of finding a ten dollar sweater for three dollars wasn’t my idea of exciting talk.

Rarely did a gathering go by that didn’t end with Pappy getting out his guitar to play hymns. The families would reunite into a large circle as we ate homemade banana ice cream and sang about the ‘Sweet Bye and Bye’. The guitar followed the tune of the old hymns while Pappy sang in a key that never quite matched a musical note as family and friends clapped and sang along. Each smiling face would join the country cantata. Voices rang like clanking keys, refusing to blend, but everyone smiled in harmony, unaware of their voices clashing in the air.

As my grandparent’s generation receded into the past, my generation emerged to witness many changes in the American culture. As a child, there was no fear of walking alone down the street at night and violent acts shocked the nation. Atlanta rose to become a city with the nation’s highest crime rate, doors now lock in the daytime, and children play under the watchful eyes of parents.

I am thankful that I was born on the edge of innocence, and see it as my duty to carry part of it into the next generation. In childhood I found one foot in the generation of innocence, and in adulthood I found the other foot in the receding morality of a post Christian culture. With gratitude I remember the era my generation almost missed.

That era in American history may be forgotten by the culture, but I remember and cherish those days when simple pleasures gave me a taste of life. The work was hard, luxuries were few, and communities were close. I’m grateful that I lived in a time when I could glimpse into that innocent life my grandparents enjoyed, and it continues to live in my heart as I seek to train my children to carry their piece of innocence into the next generation.

Publication Date: 01-12-2010

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