Backroads and Bobtails

On a very hot but very fine summer's day quite a long time ago, Cletus Monroe and I, as we are wont to do, went fishing. We strolled the banks of a pretty South Alabama creek, casting tiny spinners to fat, willing panfish.

We each carried what was at the time our standard "tackle box," a small paper bag containing a few items of necessary terminal tackle stuffed into a back pocket. This particular day, however, Clete also bore an additional receptacle in the form of a mid-size grocery sack, carefully carried and somewhat reverently set aside each time he paused to make a cast, rummage in his pocket, or answer Nature's call. The bag's opening was crimped shut and tightly folded.

"What do you have in there?" I curiously queried.

"Just Uncle Luther is all," he nonchalantly answered.

"What?!" I exclaimed, swallowing half my Red Man cud. Luther, Clete's great uncle, was three years deceased.

"Yeah, that Aunt Rossie, Lord love her. She took a notion last week that it'd be fittin' and proper if we's to put his ashes in the creek, seein' how he spent most of his fishing' and drinkin' time here."

My initial shock quickly passed. One naturally comes to expect rather off-the-beatenpath occurrences within the Monroe family circle. The same Aunt Rossie, for instance, during a late-1950s trip to Birmingham, got caught out one night in a bad section of town and fell victim to a larcenous street thug. The mugger pawed her roughly as he thoroughly searched beneath her frock looking for the money the naive woman had foolishly confessed was pinned to her girdle. Failing to locate Aunt Rossie's "stash," the fortunately non-homicidal attacker stopped rummaging, shoved her aside, and prepared to flee.

"You ain't got no money, you old bat!" he angrily exclaimed.

"Dang it, boy, look again!" she said. "If you cain't find it this time, I'll write you a check!"

But, I digress. Back to the subject at hand. The timing of this Uncle Luther thing had me baffled.

"But, why now?" I asked. "Didn't Luther pass away in '71?"

"Yeah, 'bout then," Clete chuckled. "But you know Aunt Rossie well as I do. I 'spect she just wanted to free up that purty silver urn. I heard her say more than once she thought it'd look mighty fine with petunias planted in it."

"But, gee whiz, Clete. A paper bag?"

"Didn't have no empty coffee can. Look here; help me keep an eye out for a good spot to empty him, okay?"

No longer in much of a fishing mood, I followed Clete up the creek and deeper into the woods, morbidly curious. He continued casting and retrieving, seemingly unperturbed by the presence of his grisly cargo.

"Say, old buddy," he said, "if you're done fishin', how 'bout carryin'…"

"Forget it!" I declined.

Eventually, we arrived at the big spring, a clear and sparkling feeder pool, willowshaded and sun-dappled. Beautiful. A quite appropriate spot, I surmised.

"Hey, Clete…" I began.

"You read my mind, bubba. This is the place. Okay with you, Uncle Luther?" He shook the bag like he expected a reply.

"Now, then," Clete continued. "Reckon we oughta just dump him in, seein' how we already done had the funeral and all?"

"No," I said. "Maybe a few words first. Then a prayer, I think."

"Okay," Clete agreed, tipping Luther's ashes into the pool. "Lord, we give you these remainders. Take 'em to the river and…"

Suddenly the spring came alive with feeding bluegills. I watched in horror as the old man began his final earthly journey, through the digestive tracts of dozens of hand-size bream.

Even Clete was momentarily aghast. He soon overed it, however, limbering up his ultralight rod and flipping a Mepps spinner into the spring.

"Well," he said, "I reckon getting' turned into fish scat's a whole lot better'n fertilizin' Aunt Rossie's petunias."

On that, I had to agree. Reverently removing my hat, I whispered an amen and bid farewell to Uncle Luther's "remainders." Out of respect, I waited another five minutes before casting my own line.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream. net)