The Foundation 
 

As I started writing this article, I kept stopping to look through the mountains of photographs that spawned this subject into words. “Me and Joe- 38 Crappie- Blood River- 1988”.  “Me and Joe- Tickfaw River- 54 Sac-a-lait – 1991” 

Wow, has it been that long? Am I one of those guys that have had the same fishing partner for 20 years? Am I my Dad?  

True enough, it has been twenty-plus years since Joe and I started chasin’ slabs in the river systems near our homes in South Louisiana. Joe, a near full-blooded American Indian, had taught me everything I knew (know) about crappie; including what the heck one was, when I was 14 years old. He was the foreman at a body shop in town and I was hired with the important job of sweeping floors and washing cars for $3.25 per hour. He was 20 years my senior. Writing that down “out loud” for the first time makes me realize he was around my current age when we met. Time flies.  

He invited me to go during the spawn and I accepted, not knowing he would instill in me, that morning, an affliction that would live within my soul till’.... well.... it’s still here I guess.  

Joe and I hit it off over the next few years and he took on the form of a “second Father, slash, cool big brother” that, as a kid, I came to respect immensely and still do to this day.  

Spawns passed year after year. I watched thousands of sunrises with this man and we caught countless crappie together at hundreds of destinations. In 20 years, I can’t remember an argument or a harsh word he ever spoke to me. He got me, and I got him.  

As time passed, I got married, a couple times actually, we both changed jobs and life went on. This rarely interfered with our fishing as we only lived a couple miles apart. Then about six years ago, Joe and I kind of “renewed our vows” so to speak and decided we would buckle down and not miss a weekend. We would travel to new places and try new techniques, really take it to the next level. We stayed true to that promise, for the most part. Occasionally I stood him up to chase mallards on Reelfoot Lake, or to pursue that trophy buck in South Texas. He was always invited, but never accepted. Joe was a purist. He didn’t own a bass rod, he called them green carp. He lived within minutes of some of the finest saltwater fishing in the world, it just wasn’t his thing. He had hunted as a child, but gave it up long ago for a deeper passion. Crappie. Besides loving and providing for his wife and two daughters, whom he put above all else, Joe did little else in the way of recreation. Pure crappie.  

 I’ll never forget the day he told me he was sick. We were in a 12ft flat fishing an old gravel pit that, judging by the amount of slabs we’d pulled out over the last 20 years, should have long been devoid of crappie. We had about 15 fish apiece when, without looking at me, he said, “I need to tell you something, and you aint gonna like it.” Joe and I had had many “serious” conversations over the years while catching fish, but this one would prove to be intolerable, for both of us.  

As he explained his situation, a bout with cancer that wound up taking his life quickly, I realized how little time we have here. I thought of the things he must have wanted to do, things I wanted to do. I thought he certainly has places he wanted to see and people he wanted to meet before he went on to that private crappie lake in the sky.  

After that day, we talked of it little, at his request. We made the most of the sunrises we had left. Each fish we caught seemed to mean more. It added a value that was unexplainable to either of us, but we both recognized it. After his death I came to realize that Joe was doing exactly what he wanted in life. He had a great wife who loved him very much and two daughters that each gave him grandsons, of which he doted over. He had a wonderful relationship with Jesus Christ, which, in knowing, comforts me beyond what I can tell you here.  And then there was me. A friend that will never be able to repay him for the knowledge he imparted over our tenure as a crappie catching team. I’ll never be able to tell him just what he meant to me and how his life impacted my love for this sport. It’s something most would never understand. The virtues and ethics I was taught on those waterways are what define me as a man, a father, and a husband. It’s so much more than just crappie fishing.... but then again, it’s really not. That IS crappie fishing... at least it is to me. 

Although we try our hardest to do it, filling the livewell is not the most important factor of a successful trip. More important than that is a true understanding of this sport and all that goes with it. That’s hard to do without a solid foundation that grounds you to the sport through good days afield and bad. I was fortunate enough to have that with Joe. For that, I am grateful. For that I am a better fisherman. For that, I am a better man.