The Lure of the Lure

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Over the years, I’ve shared with you several posts to The Bridge Project about your great Uncle Bryant. Many centered around memories of him as my big brother; some focused on his amazing capacity as a minister; some were tales about friendship, fishing and music making. In fact, my inaugural blog on Monday, October 29, 2012, entitled “Beirut and Grenada: God’s Question,” was a sermon he delivered at an ecumenical service in Winston-Salem, NC, after the 1983 bombing of the US Marine barracks in Beirut and the subsequent US invasion of Grenada.

But I came across something the other day in a stash of papers that I didn’t remember having. It’s a piece he wrote about a little-known (by me) fascination with antique fishing lures. As I read his words, I realized that perhaps I had failed to adequately expose you to two of his more subtle characteristics—that wonderful sense of humor and dogged devotion to research.

Someday…as you mature into an appreciation for the Project…I hope you’ll enjoy these recollections as much as I have.

How Deciding What Antique Fishing Tackle to Acquire May Lead You to Experiences You’d Never Expect: Notes from a Novice Lure Collector

(Part 1)

By

S. Bryant Kendrick

(Much of the information and all of the quotations contained in this article come from an interview with L.E. and Eva Lisk, founders of Lisk Lures, Inc., it was recorded in their home on July 1, 1999, by the author.)

            Sometimes people tackling a brand new hobby find themselves wading in and getting over their heads almost before they know it. One way to find out that this has happened to you is to start collecting old fishing equipment and then to stumble upon a lure maker almost in your own backyard! “Not very likely,” you say. Well, it happened just that way to me! But let me begin at the beginning.

            I got interested in collecting old fishing equipment after my daughter and her fiancé had first hooked my wife on the joys of general “antiquing.” On one of their forays to a local mall, my wife, knowing that I am an avid fisherman, scooped up an old wooden tube full of Pfleuger Bull Dog Kirby 4/0 hooks and, upon presenting it to me, began to sing the praises of an especially “alluring” spinner that had caught her eye…one that had a striking mother-of-pearl blade. She wanted me to go check it out, since she thought is was “so pretty!” and I might enjoy just having it to admire, even if I never actually went fishing with it.

            A few days later we made the trip to the mall together and soon found the jumbled booth where she had seen the lure. She pointed out a six-sided carousel that reminded me of the type used to display cheap watches in a Walmart. Instead of new Timexes, however, this case was chock full of old lures.

            When the in-line spinner with the mother-of-pearl blade came into full view, I, too, was struck by its unexpected beauty. Until that moment I had seen only spinners made of metal; and, until that blade flashed its iridescent glow into my field of vision, I had thought of rods, reels, and lures as purely utilitarian objects whose only value lay in their ability to help me put fish in the live well.

            Suddenly, a whole new world of discovery opened up before me as I began to realize the sheer craftsmanship of lure making as an end in itself. I instantly knew I wanted to own this lure—not in order to add it to my tackle box—but to carefully preserve it as an outstanding example of how an unknown lure maker had once worked with natural materials to fashion a unique answer to the angler’s eternal question: “What makes a fish bite?”

            With the robust but untutored enthusiasm of a new convert, I rummaged through other equally crowded booths, turning up a few more lures which my wife had not noticed. After a couple of hours of intense searching and a series of exhilarating “first-time discoveries” (e.g., finding an early attempt to make a lure “weedless” by installing an ingenious metal harness to skim the lure over surface entanglements), my excitement, I am sure approached that of an archeologist finding evidence of a pre-Clovis hearth in a North American dig.

            By now, however, my patient wife was getting a bit glassy-eyed as I “oohed” and “ah-hahed” over each new find. Detecting the unmistakable signs of her rapidly developing intention to get me out of there, I reluctantly gave up my search for the day and paid for my booty.

            My first jaunt into the heady air of collecting antique fishing lures had netted me a bag full of —I would soon learn—old Bombers, Helin Flatfishes, Heddon River Runt Spooks, a Hawaiian Wriggler #2, an old but still shiny Penn reel, and a Giant Shannon Twin Spinner with the original bucktail.

            While reveling on the drive home in the ecstasy of my “finds,” my subconscious mind…recognizing an imbalance in the Force…began to focus on more somber matters— arithmetic. About the time we pulled into our driveway, the result of this subterranean cogitation entered my consciousness. The sum that I had just spent on fishing equipment (that would never again get wet) considerably exceeded the amount I had budgeted for a new Daiwa rod, a purchase which had over the last few months slowly worked its way to the top of my “Must Have” list. If I were not mature about this new-found passion, I could find myself flat broke.

            I needed guidance and sensing my quandary, my wise wife suggested that I visit our local bookstore and see if there might be something that contained the information essential to making intelligent buying decisions. Knowing good advice when I get it, I soon found myself in the “Collectibles” section of our local mega bookstore and there, indeed, was just what I needed—Carl Luckey’s informative text entitled Old Fishing Lures and Tackle (5^th edition), Krause Publications, Iola, WI, 1999.

            As I slowly paged through this huge compendium that covers most of the tackle produced in the United States in the last century or so, I realized how vast the possibilities for collecting truly are. I bought the book and left the store with the decision firmly fixed in my mind that I must define a clear focus for my collecting efforts, or I would inevitably end up with only a hodgepodge of old gear.

            Over the next few days I continued to peruse Luckey’s tome and focused on my collection choice. Should it be only metal lures or diving lures? Should I collect only lures that are likely to increase in value or lures that look like frogs or maybe only folk-art lures? After sifting through all the options, I decided that it would be logical to explore lures manufactured in North Carolina, my home state.

            Returning then to the guidance of Luckey, I searched for any lure manufacturers located in the Old North State. When I reached page 427, my hunt was rewarded, for there I found a brief note about a hollow, plastic-tube lure manufactured by the Lisk Fly Manufacturing Company of Greensboro, NC—a twenty-minute drive from my house. “Bingo!” I yelled ecstatically.

            Since the book covered mostly antique lures, I assumed the company that manufactured this unusual plastic-tube lure would now be out of business. But my hometown of Winston-Salem and Greensboro share a telephone directory and I decided to take a chance to see if Lisk Fly Manufacturing might still be listed. To my surprise and utter delight, I found a slightly altered entry—Lisk Lures, Inc., 915 Onslow Dr. (336) 299-7787.

            With fear and trembling I dialed the number, not knowing what sort of reception I might get. Would my request for information about the company be rebuffed? Would my interest be deflected by a receptionist bored by yet another amateur collector calling? After a few rings, a gentle recorded voice informed me that no one was in the office that day but if I would leave my name and number, I would be contacted “as soon as possible.” I left a brief message describing my interest in learning about Lisk Lures, Inc., and my telephone number...and reluctantly hung up to wait.

(To be continued…)

Are You Listening?

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The other day, while straightening the extra room upstairs getting it ready for your visit this upcoming weekend, I found a storage bin tucked in the corner behind the trundle bed. I honestly don’t remember putting it there and haven’t a clue when that might have happened, but combing through its contents I felt like I’d found a lost treasure trove…scrapbooks, pictures, newspaper clippings, mementos. It was like a walk back through time in every phase of my life, and that of Captain’s.

One of the long-forgotten jewels was a poem written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox that I had framed years ago to hang on the companionway wall of our sailboat Up Jinks. I’ve always loved the message which is now resurrected over my kitchen sink to remind me of it every day.

                                   

One ship drives east and another west

                                    With the selfsame winds that blow.

                                    ‘Tis the set of the sails and not the gales

                                    Which tell us the way to go.

                                   

                                    Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,

                                    As we voyage along through life;

                                    ‘Tis the set of the soul that decides its goal

                                    And not the calm or the strife.

I found another bit of memorabilia all by itself tucked into a dogeared manilla folder--12 sheets of paper, punched with three holes, displaying words typed double-spaced in 36-point font for easy reading. It was my copy of the sermon I delivered probably seventeen years ago as the guest speaker on Ladies’ Day at Cedar Grove Lutheran Church in Leesville, SC. This particular church was very involved in the work of Habitat for Humanity and they invited me to participate in the service because of my capacity as Executive Director for the central SC affiliate. The theme assigned to me was “Listen…God is Calling,” and re-reading what I wrote quite a time ago hearkened me back to a concept that perhaps I’ve shelved of late. One that maybe I need to dust off by sharing it with you. It’s a bit long perhaps…as most sermons seem to be…but worth the time I think.

Listen…God is Calling

Thank you so much for inviting me here this morning. I’ve made several trips to Cedar Grove Church over the last few months and I must tell you, the drive down Cedar Grove Road has such a wonderful, calming effect on me. Your church is physically beautiful, but more that that, your members are warm and open to visitors. It’s always a pleasure to be with you.

Our theme today is “Listen…God is Calling.” If it hadn’t of been for the fact that the women of the church were conducting the service today, I would certainly have suggested that you invite my husband to deliver this sermon. Here’s why. Last year, we bought a 38-foot sailboat and named it Up Jinks. I promptly had a tee-shirt made for him that proudly declared him “Captain” of the Up Jinks. Then, I realized that unless I came up with a higher rank, he’d be telling me what to do all the time. So…I thought of Admiral, but that wasn’t high enough. Then…Commander in Chief, but that wasn’t satisfactory. So…I settled on God. Yes, I figured that being God of the Up Jinks, I would definitely have final authority. That's why my husband will readily tell you he’s quite experienced at “Listening to God.”

Let’s analyze this phrase “Listen…God is Calling.” On the surface, it appears to be quite simple. But when we look at it more closely, we see that it’s really pretty involved. There’s actually a lot going on here.

It calls us to “listen” as opposed to “hear.” The definition of “hear” is to perceive or apprehend by the use of the ear. But “listening” takes that a step further. It means to hear something with thoughtful attention or give consideration. So it requires active focus on our part, not just some passive activity.

And, the second operative word is “calling.” God is not just talking to us—He is actually calling us to do something—most likely to make a change in our lives.

Clarence Jordan, the founder of Koinonia Farm near Americus, Georgia, (and mentor to Millard Fuller who founded Habitat for Humanity) explained that the wise seeker after God should extend his spiritual antennae to pick up God’s messages. “God is broadcasting,” he would say, “and if we are listening, we can hear what He is saying.”

 Jordan also points out that too often people make their own plans and then as God to bless them. That’s backwards. God doesn’t bless “our” plans. He wants us to be His partners in carrying out His agenda.

God calls us in many different ways. Sometimes we are so closed off from Him that it takes something very dramatic to get our attention. The best example of this was Saul’s conversion on the road to Damascus. I can remember one such incident in my own life.

I grew up in Greenville, went to Furman University, taught school there after graduation and then went into the real estate business. I had never left home for any extended period of time.

A couple of years after college, I got the opportunity to move to Jacksonville, Florida, and take a job with a Savings and Loan there. (Boy! That sure dates me, doesn’t it?) I looked at it as a great adventure, that I would finally get to spread my wings, be on my own.

After about three or four months, the glamour of the move wore off and I settled into the mundane routine of working, trying to establish friendships with total strangers, and coping with not being around my family.

Then…like a thunderbolt hitting me…I realized that at the ripe old age of 22, I was homesick for the first time. It progressively became worse…curling up in bed at night and loathing the day…calling home all the time…feeling like my feet never touched the ground…crying. Finally, by February of that year, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I called my father and said, “Dad, I don’t care what it is, go find me a job. I’m miserable and I want to come home.”

I remember it was a Friday afternoon and was raining in Jacksonville. I told my folks that I was going to leave straight from work at 5:00 and should get to Greenville before midnight. Taking I-10 west out of Jacksonville, I hit I-75 heading north to Atlanta. After crossing into Georgia about 10 miles up the highway at the small town of Cordele, my car began to slide. The rain had become sleet. I pulled off at the next interchange and went to the Howard Johnson motel there. The clerk behind the desk said, “Thank goodness you stopped. The road is closed five miles further up.”

I checked in for the night thinking that I could get back on my way first thing in the morning. When I awoke, though, Cordele was blanketed with over a foot of snow, a condition for which the town had no preparedness. I couldn’t go north…I couldn’t go south…couldn’t even get out of the parking lot.

Turns out, I was stuck I Cordele for three days. I must have talked to my parents 20 times during those three days…stayed cloistered in my room coming out only to eat every flavor of Howard Johnson’s ice cream available…my desperation to get home fading fast in reality.

Dad finally convinced me that I needed to go back to Jacksonville, face my fears and overcome my homesickness. “You don’t want to come home defeated,” he sensibly advised.

So…I went back.

Three days later, there was a letter in my mailbox from the Vice President of Development at Furman inviting me to interview for the position of Alumni Director. Nobody in my family knew about it or had a hand in it. But…God knew, and He did. And I’m firmly convinced He sent that snowstorm to stop me in my tracks. My impatience and despair had turned off my antennae. I was no longer listening for any direction.

Yes…I had my personal Damascus Road experience, but I think those are the exception, not the rule. Most of the time, God calls us more subtly. It’s not snowstorms or lightning strikes. It’s steady whispers that we really have to listen for to understand.

It was such a calling that lead me to Habitat for Humanity. A little over three years ago, my daughter was working on the Women Build house for Habitat. She invited me to come have dinner with some of the women who were involved in the project. One of them as an employee of Habitat. At the time, the affiliate had been without leadership for a few months and was really suffering for lack of direction. During the course of the conversation, I just made the comment “have they ever considered a woman for this position?” Now…I was speaking generally…just making an observation because of the Women Build. But my daughter said, “Mom, you’d be great.”

The next day, the employee called me and asked if I would consider it. I told her I was perfectly happy selling real estate and wasn’t looking to make a change. But I told her to have the president of the board call me anyway just so I could find out the details.

At that time, the board had done an exhaustive search and narrowed it down to two people. The president explained they were meeting that night to make an offer. I told her that was fine, I really wasn’t interested.

Two weeks later, I learned that the position was still open. Over that period of time, God had really been working on me. My thoughts were consumed with Habitat—and what I could bring to the organization from my experience in real estate, public relations and fundraising. By the time the president and I met again, my heart was so full of excitement and optimism I knew God had called me to do this. For once, I listened.

So…what do these two examples really point out? We must do a better job of tuning into God. As Clarence Jordan says—get the antennae out.

But our lives are so hectic, the days so full of work and worry that sometimes we just don’t have the capacity to listen.

Christina Baldwin, in her book “The Seven Whispers, Listening to the Voice of Spirit,” suggests that we have to consciously make ourselves open to listening. One practical way to open ourselves to listening is to incorporate a regular ritual into each day specifically for the purpose.

Some people will do a devotional reading, some will meditate, some will pray, some jog, some take a quiet walk. Baldwin states that “it’s not so important what any of us do to invite peace of mind, it’s only important that peace of mind is invited. We must prepare ourselves to walk the day in a spiritual manner. And then listen, and to the best o our abilities, do as we are told.”

When we prepare ourselves to listen to God’s calling, we are able to hear Him over the frenetic chaos of our lives. Even with all the distractions our society throws at us, it is possible to find God’s direction for us because we strive to.

In closing, I’d like to share a story to illustrate this point. Several years ago, my family was vacationing at Pawleys Island. We were invited to go out on a friend’s boat up the Waccamaw River to a favorite swimming hole known as Sandy Flats. We anchored the boat in the river. The place was crowded with many families on the shore at the beach and many other boats anchored as well. Children were swimming in the river with people diving into the black, swirling water from their boats…lots of squealing and laughter.

All of a sudden, a speedboat came careening up the river at full throttle, not slowing down as it approached and headed right for the swimming hole. We looked in horror to see that the man who had been driving the boat had fallen out. The woman left in the boat had no clue how to control or stop it.

Everyone screamed for the children to get out of the water. Boats tried to move out of the way. It was total pandemonium.

As the totally frightened woman flew by our boat, our friend very calmly…and with deliberate exaggeration…demonstrated the motion of pulling the engine’s throttle back. And, by God’s grace, out of all that chaos, she saw the antithesis and realized what he was instructing her to do. She pulled the throttle down and the boat stopped—no one was injured, and her boat didn’t hit another or run aground.

It is a perfect example of how God can call us over the din of life and give us the guidance we need.

And so…let’s remember to constantly prepare ourselves to listen…because God is always calling.

The Trampoline

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We had the good fortune night before last to catch Lyle Lovett’s concert at the Schaefer Center for Performing Arts on the campus of Appalachian State University. Our first introduction to him was over twenty years ago when your Aunt Bee was a soloist with The Boston Ballet. One of their programs was set to several of his songs…quite an incongruity in that these classically trained ballet dancers performed to such titles as She’s No Lady…She’s My Wife, Ugly from the Front, and She’s Hot to Go. We became fans of his music then but had sort of lost track and were delighted to learn he would be performing so close by.

Lovett is a native Texan, and one who prides himself in that fact—which is pretty typical of Texans (much like your Texas-born great grandmother Mary who never really got over being transplanted to South Carolina…but that is a story for another day). He has circulated for years in the upper echelon of country music talent as both a singer and song writer. For the most part, his lyrics fall under the “tongue in cheek” category but some provoke more nuanced attention, especially with the benefit of explanation as to their origins. Seeing him live gave us the opportunity to hear many personal anecdotes about his life and to learn of the influences that molded him…and his words…over the years.

He talked about growing up near Houston and shared how much his family—both immediate and extended—meant to him. Music became a passion at an early age but his parents, while not discouraging the pursuit of it, still insisted on a “plan B” which led him to Texas A&M where he majored in Journalism and German. While reminiscing about his folks, Lovett made what I thought to be a very loving tribute.

“My parents did everything they had to do in order that I could do whatever I wanted to do.”

This profession struck me immediately as noteworthy, but the longer I sat with these simple words, the more profound they became. Perhaps it was the setting—a sixty-something-year-old man, singularly spotlighted on a stage. musing out loud to an audience of some 2500 perfect strangers about the gratitude he feels for the sacrifices made on his behalf. Even though Lovett fully confessed he came to this realization as most of us do…in retrospective deference as adults…his words were no less sincere.

It is a universal tenet. The purpose of parenting should always be for the betterment of the child. And the stronger the trampoline, the higher the flight.

I am reminded of a similar homage your great granddaddy Schaefer paid in one of his editorials for The Greenville News back in October of 1993. (It was entitled “Lessons of Great Depression Remain Important” and I’ve previously blogged about the thoughts he conveyed at that time but in a different context.) If Lyle Lovett were to read these words, I think he’d completely relate to this segment of great granddaddy’s desires for his lineage.

“I want them to know my widowed mother made enormous sacrifices in order for me to attend college and law school.  That these sacrifices were made willingly, eagerly and tenderly, out of a heart as big as a child’s imagination and out of unconditional love that redeemed me more than once.

I want them to know when I received my law degree on June 1, 1939, at the football field of USC in Columbia, with the thermometer hovering at 100, my mother and grandmother were in the stands receiving that diploma with me which the three of us had earned.”