A Day at Devil’s Dip
In many ways Grandpa Joe was a boy trapped in an old man’s body. As full of tricks as a pet ’coon, tough as a seasoned hickory sapling, and imbued with 70-plus years of Smokies wisdom, he possessed an unflagging sense of adventure, especially when it came to hunting or fishing. On many of these sporting outings I enjoyed the great fortune of being his sidekick.
Grandpa had a knack for turning something simple—whether an afternoon of fishing in the Tuckasegee River, which flowed by his home, or a day spent in pursuit of squirrels—into grand enterprises. Alas, our escapades didn’t always work out as planned, and certainly that was the case one late spring day at Devil’s Dip.
Named for its powerful hydraulics and strong backwater, which gave it the appearance of a whirlpool, Devil’s Dip swirled just a short walk downstream from Grandpa’s house. We had fished here before, but on this particular day the two of us ventured into uncharted territory. Hopping from one rock to another we went farther out on the shoals adjacent to the turbulent water than ever before. At one point, scared a bit by the nearby torrent, I commented to Grandpa: “If we aren’t careful we’ll fall in.”
He nodded in agreement before giving a response that settled matters as far as both of us were concerned. “You might be right,” he said, “but every time we move we catch more knottyheads.”
Sure enough, my prophecy came true. I’m not sure whether I slipped and grabbed Grandpa or if he fell and reached out to me. Whatever the case, the frigid waters of Devil’s Dip claimed both of us. We scrambled out, shaken and chilled but no worse for wear other than the fact that Grandpa had lost his straw hat. Purchased just the day before with hard-earned cash, the hat made four complete circles in the backwater while my erstwhile mentor tried unsuccessfully to snag it with his long cane pole. The fifth time around it caught the current and head downriver towards Fontana Lake, never to be seen again.
By that time both of us were shivering and dreading the coming confrontation with Grandma Minnie. Weighing at most 100 pounds, my tiny grandmother possessed a 300-pound temper and a tongue that could flay the hide off a razorback hog. The family in general—and Grandpa Joe in particular—stood in a constant state of awe at her wrath. We all did our level best to avoid being the focus of one of those eruptions.
We both knew that showing up on the doorstep of their home, looking like a pair of drowned muskrats, would earn us a tongue lashing of the first order. Grandpa acknowledged the inevitable, muttering, “They ain’t going to like this one bit.” Somehow in situations such as this, he found it more comforting to use an impersonal pronoun rather than her name.
I silently nodded in agreement and followed close on his heels. Grandma met us at the door, and what I now realize was a millisecond of relief immediately gave way to rage. She directed her initial verbal sally towards me. Punctuating every word by poking me in the solar plexus with her gnarled index finger, she said: “The only thing worse than a young fool is an old fool.” Having switched to prodding her spouse in mid-sentence, she quickly added, “Here stands a matched pair.”
At that moment I dared a glance sideways to see how Grandpa was reacting, only to discover he was, while never breaking eye contact with Grandma, slowly retreating. I wasn’t about to be left alone to face her ire and forthwith moved to join him. As we backed through the doorway and around the corner into another room, Grandpa winked at me and whispered quite softly: “I reckon they won’t be cooking any fish tonight.”
We had cold cornbread and milk for supper.