Fish, A Past Master, And A Song Called Corina

Sitting in my recliner and pondering in the silence of the moment, I began to recall things from my past such as people who are no longer with us. My Mother and my Grandfather are the two which are at the forefront of a great many of the good times I had while growing up. Those were happy times indeed. Let me tell you a little bit about my Grandfather.

I used to tag along with my Grandfather on Saturdays to help him work during the School Year and spent many days each week with him during the Summer months. As I look back on those days I realize just how much I learned from him and just how much help I may have been to him. He was a Heating and Air Conditioning Repairman and much of our time back then was spent crawling around under houses where the furnaces were typically installed. I was the one in charge of handing Papa, as I call my Grandfather, the right tool when he asked for it. I was also the runner. That job entailed crawling out from under the houses and running to the van to retrieve whatever else Papa found he needed to facilitate the repairs. It was an important job, according to Papa, and one which I took very seriously. There were instances where I couldn't find what it was I was sent after and would run back to tell him. He would then make his way out and I'd follow him to the van where he'd instantly lay his hands right on what he had sent me to get. He never complained about having to go to the van to find what I could not. I'm not sure if he deliberately taught me how to organize tasks and my time or if I just learned it by attrition while helping him. Either way I learned how to do those things as well as how to use some specialty tools.

Papa was an amazing man who was nearly always smiling. At least I remember him smiling more than anything. He was a quiet but quick-witted man and everyone loved him dearly and trusted him because of his honesty. He was well respected as a tight-wad but would give you the shirt off his back if you were truly in need. He was a musician just like most of his side of the family. This was because his father came to the United States, became a Citizen then immediately opened his first music store. All his family was constantly exposed to music and various instruments. Papa learned to play the guitar, piano, saxophone, clarinet, flute, drums, pump organs, and was a fine vocalist as well. His Sisters, Brother and Mother were all as well versed in varieties of instruments and singing.

Papa used to sit around playing his guitar and singing when he was young but played less after arthritis settled in his hands and fingers. There was one song he was quite fond of playing from the 1940's called Corina. I decided to learn that song one day in order to show him I could play it as well and maybe even play along with him as he played it. I spent weeks learning a finger-picking technique I created just for that song. I never got to play it with him because his fingers hurt too bad and had become stiff from the arthritis. I vowed to play the song for him at some point before he died.

I had bought into a studio in Georgia at ten shares and later acquired more and more stock to become a Majority Shareholder. Things were going well with the Corporation and I asked Papa if he might let me bring him to work one day to see what I did for a living at that time. Papa agreed and I picked him up on the date agreed upon. I was amazed when I picked him up. He was wearing a grey, pin-striped silk suit and carried a charcoal grey fedora in his left hand. I asked why he dressed up so and he replied, “Well. You wear a suit and tie to work. Don't you?” He went on to say he just thought it might look a little better for him to wear a suit because I used to dress in appropriate clothing to go to work with him. He said it was only fair.

We talked about music all the way from his house to my offices and studio in Georgia. When Papa walked into the main entrance, he paused to look around. We were busy with construction building more offices and adding on to the studios. The place was a mess. I took him in to see my office first as I laid my briefcase on my desk then gave him the grand tour. I deliberately left the control room of our A Room for last. The control room was a room, within a room, within another room. Each wall was isolated by sound deadening material between each floor, wall and ceiling and was totally sound-proofed from the studio and outside world. There were various sizes of speakers hung from the ceiling and walls as well as a couple of different sets of near-field monitors sitting over the Hill, J-5 board which sat under the main window. Several different recording machines were along the wall left of the main console and out-board equipment filled several racks along the right side of the console. Papa took a seat on the client couch along the back wall of the control room as I spooled up reel after reel of 2” tape to let him see how things were done.

I finally asked Papa if he felt like trying to play a little guitar for my partner who had joined us and he agreed. I gave him an easy playing Martin with a buttery timbre and he strummed and plucked it for a few moments to get used to the feel. He immediately broke into Corina as I knew he would. Papa began to sing and I picked up another guitar to strum along with him. Before he could finish the song he started to get stiff fingered from his arthritis but I continued to play for him until he finished singing the song. When done, I told him that I had a song I wanted him to listen to. I pulled an A-DAT tape out of my personal rack and placed it into the player. I cued up a song and began to push the play button. It began with four clicks and I started finger picking Corina to the rhythm track I recorded some time prior to his visit. The look on Papa's face was all I needed from him. I could tell he was proud as tears welled up in both eyes then began to leave their moist tracks down his cheeks. When I finished the song, Papa was speechless for a moment then asked how I knew that song. I explained to him that I had grown up listening to him and watching him play it and wanted to give him a different arrangement of it for him to sing along to. I handed him the tape which I recorded as I played along with the rhythm tracks and explained to him that I did all this for him. Papa wept openly for several minutes then told me he was indeed proud of his number one Grandson. Hell. I was his only Grandson! That was one of the most poignant moments I ever spent with him. He died years ago but I still miss him today.

As I was growing up, Papa and I had become expert fishermen. Of course, he always was able to out fish me and it was our competition, of sorts, that kept us in good humor the whole time we would fish. It was Papa that taught me how to tie blood knots and many other fishing knots all the way up to the Bimini Twist. I still know them all today. We used to go night fishing under the old I-85 bridge on Lake Hartwell before they built the concrete structure that remains today. We would tie up on the crossbeams under the bridge and fish until daylight. The fishing was good back then. We stopped our night fishing for some years after the new bridge was built until Papa bought a boat that had a stove, a sink and a refrigerator. The only thing missing was a head. We'd anchor out in the middle of the lake and again fish the entire night. A couple of the things that made it better is that we could cook something to eat like a fish we had caught when we got hungry instead of having to eat cold sandwiches brought on board before shoving off. We also could percolate fresh coffee which was much better than coffee from a thermos type bottle.

Papa was never a trout fisherman so I never learned to operate a rod and line for trout fishing streams and rivers until I moved to Wyoming. I told him about one of my adventures in learning how to cast fly line over the phone one day. He laughed as I told him how many times I snagged my vest with a fly while trying to cast properly. He would tease me a little then tell me to keep practicing. He told me I'd get the hang of it and I did.

Papa always encouraged me to be myself and not listen to negative banter from anyone. He never told me how proud he was of me until the day I played Corina for him but I always knew he was proud. He never discouraged me from trying to beat him on the fish count. He hugged me often and told me he loved me each time he did so. He never stopped telling me to use my head and figure out new or alternate ways to do something because maybe I'd come up with an easier or faster way to do it. Some of you will understand what I mean when I say that Papa, a Past Master several times over, raised me in the Masonic Lodge. What an honor for me. He told me afterward that it was more an honor for him. Yes. I learned from Papa. Yes. I miss him. Yes. It was my honor to have him as my Grandfather. Yes. I will miss him forever. Moreover, I will forever carry a piece of him inside me. When I cross over to the next world, I will remind him of how my time in this world has been positively augmented because of his teaching and encouragement all those years. There in the next world, I will hug him, thank him and tell him how much I love him and how much I've missed him. If there are guitars in the next world, I'll play Corina again for him and maybe, just maybe, he'll play along with me.