8 I Today in Mississippi I April 2016
Uncovering a part of the past E
wonder. Initially built with cotton line, nylon supplanted that fiber before he stopped making nets. And he did this knitting in the house. He would put a nail in one top corner of a door facing and begin this fascinating procedure of knots and knitting. Seems a piece of fishing art in the making was always present in that old house during our growing-up years. I recall it well and can’t help but wonder if that gentle, peaceful, rhythmic swishing of the needle and rustle of countless feet of line by Tony Kinton would hold that same aura of contentment and pleasantness now as it did then. Not only did he make the nets, he made the tools. Needles and blocks were of cedar, if it was available, and the carving left each somewhat pedestrian. But after hundreds of passes with that string’s abrasion on ragged surfaces, these units took on a life of beauty— smooth, shiny, more desirable than before. Not unlike life if we allow it to shape us in a positive fashion rather than negative. Needles held the line; blocks determined the mesh dimensions. Restrictions on mesh size were likely not as stringent then as now. Still, they were legal and built for the purpose of allowing the small perch and such to pass through. It was only the bigger specimens that were targeted. Early on, I remember hoops being made from white oak. Dad would split and strip staves to the proper size, then bend them into a big circle. Later, thin steel rods replaced the white oak. Nets had to be dried before storage. Many were the times that Dad would
Outdoors Today
have the nets staked out in the yard drying and I, as a small boy, would scoot through that Knitting needles and mesh blocks used to make fishing nets. These now reside big throat peacefully on my office desk. Photo: Tony Kinton and imagine myself inside a vehicle designed for still viable. I do know that I regret never instant transport to exotic environs. having learned this wondrous skill he These were grand experiences. practiced so well. That is my loss. One Grand also were those times I went of the last things I encouraged him to do with him to run nets. Seldom was I of as he approached the end was to make any assistance, but I would watch in fas- his great-grandson, my great-nephew, a cination as he wrestled those huge net. Dad declined. He likely needed rest, hoops and seemingly miles of string so I opted to allow the matter to rest as over gunwales of a cypress boat, the well. But without question I can say that heavy load thudding to that boat’s botmy life was enriched because of a utilitom. In actuality these were rather basic tarian product fashioned to perfection by endeavors taking place in familiar surhand with a cedar knitting needle, block roundings, but sentiment places them and string. among those high adventures I have For that I am grateful. been privileged to experience in farTony Kinton has been an active outdoors away locales over the past two decades. writer for 30 years. His newest book, I don’t recall the last net our dad “Rambling Through Pleasant Memories,” is made, nor do I know for certain where now available. Order from Amazon.com or the existent nets now reside—if they are Kinton’s website: www.tonykinton.com.
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ven if bittersweet, the find was serendipitous. We had begun the arduous and somber task of cleaning out our parents’ house. The garage sales had ended, various donations had been accomplished and time had come for that landfill phase. Most of us tend to squirrel away items of little or no value, with that mindset of “I may need that” casting its strange spell. But when dealing with possessions of the Great Depression Generation, that propensity is particularly pronounced. Such was the case with our parents. A second trailer load was ready: decaying lumber, splintered PVC, assorted carpet scraps and dingy rugs, decadesold newspapers, incomplete towel racks, rusted buckets and cracked plastic containers, chairs with no legs. The list was long. Trashing such things was haunting; we recalled when these were a part of the parents’ daily lives. But the harsh truth was that these items held no real value. Just things our folks had put away because “I may need that.” Then my brother-in-law Robert made a discovery. He climbed onto a step stool and scoured a shelf made from a piece of cast-off paneling and set above a thin-metal shower stall our dad had installed. There Robert found a shoe box and recognized the contents. He handed it to my sister Brenda, who then passed it to me. Needles and blocks used to knit fishing nets. From his teen years up until my sister and I left home for college, our dad fished nets. It was not a recreational pursuit so much as a means by which to generate income. Dad had several regular customers, and there were standing orders for Pearl River buffalo and those handsome spotted cats. Dad called the latter appaloosas. One local doctor who stitched our cuts and tended our sore throats was quick to tell anyone who would listen, “I buy my appaloosas from Warren!” The nets our dad made were things of