Mr. Frank and the ‘Fishing Pox’

by Timothy F. Rogers

John Franklin Folk was “Mr. Frank” in Bamberg. Farmer, merchant, entrepreneur, former mayor and school board member, he was a mover and a shaker when there were only a few who were eligible to be movers and shakers.

Everybody knew Mr. Frank, and Mr. Frank knew everybody: male and female, black and white -- he knew everybody. If you doubted it, just go with him on his rounds; to the post office, the bank, the barber shop, to Roy Cooner’s hardware store. It was universal.

That’s where I was back then -- by his side. I was his only grandchild, so my education in all matters that counted was his responsibility. That was fine by him and fine by me. He was the ultimate. So if you had a question about anything that counted, “ask Paps.” He had the answer.

Pap was confident enough to marry Mammy -- a powerful, resourceful, beautiful woman who knew a lot. But, her domain was largely confined to the house, whereas Pap commanded the whole world! That included the farm, the Clear Pond, and especially The Edisto River.

So, unless there was a good reason, every weekend involved -- required -- a trip to Bamberg, which meant a subsequent trip to the River House. I was glad to arrive and sorry to leave. It was as much like heaven as I was interested in experiencing.

Step one on arriving at the River House was to get in the water. We had a wide bend with a broad sandbar immediately to the east of our house. It was a quick john boat jaunt across the rolling black water to a giant beach on the other side.

Growing up on the Edisto meant gradually getting comfortable with the Edisto current. We would walk as far as we could upriver, then float back down. Dog-paddling eventually morphed into swimming. Mom, in her younger days, was the world’s greatest swimmer. She would accompany Trigger and Pap on his long fishing trips down river, exploring each new bend by diving in and lounging on the sand bars while Pap and Trigger fished the deep ends. When they finished, she’d rejoin the others at the end of the bend.

Now, her main responsibility was shepherding me and supervising sandcastle construction on the sandbar. Back then, there were no other houses. We had the place all to ourselves. We could spend hours.

Meanwhile, Pap and Daddy plotted the assault on the fish. That would involve rising early Saturday morning, cooking breakfast of ham, eggs, grits and plenty of coffee, arranging personnel and apportioning gear.

That’s as far as I got with the operation for the first years, because I was simply too young to make the trip! I was Mammy’s and Mom’s responsibility while the men pursued the fish. As you can imagine, that became a problem of increasing intensity as time passed by.

But this particular day was different. Today was the day, Pap decreed, when Timbo would join the Frank Folk fishing assembly for the first time. He would become eligible to acquire the dreaded disease, “The Fishing Pox,” by catching the first fish unilaterally by his lonesome.

So the great expedition began. I got my liberal apportionment of bug repellent, my instructions on remaining silent, got my first fishing rod with instructions on how to operate when it goes “skink”(that’s your clue to crank it in. Got it).

So off we went into the great swamp. I remember the Great Blue Heron, the Cooters, the snakes, the crows, the giant cypress trees, the wood ducks.

When we parked, Pappy stood up and began to cast for bass. He was fun to watch. So accurate. I was, of course, so intent on concentrating on my rod and my line. Soon enough, it happened! My little rod bowed up, and I began to crank. With a little help from ol’ Pap, soon appeared the bright red breast I quickly recognized. We put him on the segregated fish railing for my catch only. We had plenty more fishing to do, but I had caught more than a fish. I caught a solid case of the Fishing Pox alright -- and had plenty of evidence on my line to prove it.

When we got back to “the hill” we climbed out and posed with our catch. There was Pap, camel in hand, holding the end of the rod in balance; daddy, holding the end of the fishing line, and Timbo, owning the catch.

That night, the Stuckey family joined us for dinner. Dr. Stuckey was the trusted family physician. We described for him each of the symptoms in detail. He paused in thought, and then, offered his diagnosis.

“No doubt,” he pronounced. “It’s the Fishing Pox, alright. Only cure is, go as often as you can.”

Pap smiled. He knew, all along.