During this time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I do a lot of reflecting on the past. My parents and grandparents always made the holidays special, and each passing year seems to build on those fond memories.

Mom and dad still make the holidays wonderful for all of us, but my grandparents have both been gone for so many years. Times spent growing up next door to them are something I can never forget.

As soon as I can begin remembering anything, I remember becoming my grandfather’s shadow. John Ward was a hard-working blacksmith at The Emerson Shop on the railroad. We lived near the shop, surrounded by many other families with strong ties to the industry.

It was a great neighborhood of avid fishermen and dedicated hunters. The men would migrate to Pop’s backyard to plan trips. The shade of the huge crabapple trees provided the perfect setting. When I was close by, I listened to every word they said.

It was not long before Pop let me tag along on some of those hunting and fishing trips. By the time I started school we became quite an inseparable pair.

In the spring and summer we focused on fishing. We liked to go to local ponds in the afternoon and cast until pitch dark. Sometimes we took road trips Down East to special places like the Cashie River at Sans Souci.

Pop was a bass fisherman long before there were any Ranger boats or organized tournaments. To him, there was nothing more special than fooling a big old bass on a top water lure.

Not only did he enjoy working with metal, he was quite gifted in the art of woodworking. Rather than spend a few dollars on a Devils Horse, he made his own baits, and really enjoyed watching them catch fish.

During our times together, I was able to put the landing net under six bass for my grandfather that weighed nine pounds or better. He never caught a 10-pounder, and that was ultimately his life’s goal as a fisherman. I admire him for never stopping his pursuit.

As soon as the seasons changed, Pop would switch gears and go into a hunting mode. He grew up hunting and trapping along The Roanoke River bottomland near Jamesville. There was not a stretch of woods in eastern North Carolina he could not successfully navigate.

When I was a boy, there were no deer to speak of in Nash, Edgecombe or Wilson Counties. We had to travel to Scotland Neck on another stretch of the Roanoke River just to be able to see a deer.

My grandfather was a member of Nash Gun Club, which is where my fondest memories of Pop took place. He was from the old school, and younger hunters respected his knowledge and skills in the woods. He helped manage the vast deer herd by teaching to let the young bucks live and only harvest mature deer.

After a long walk through our woods last weekend with family and friends, I feel my grandfather would be proud of the way we are managing this small stretch of land. Deer, squirrels, rabbits, and black bear now call this place home.

Physically I know Pop and I can never walk down this long woods path together, but mentally he still guides me. He gave me the knowledge to teach the younger generation about nature.

All the long while my grandfather was preparing me to be a teacher, and only in the past few weeks do I understand why he went to all that trouble.

King