On homecoming, by Guest Author: Jonathan Kelley

James Lewis Goggins, photographed at his home in Brierfield, AL by his grandson Jonathan Kelley 2021.

I’m 38 and my Paw is 83. Like some astronomical phenomenon, our ages mirror each other every 11 years. Taking notice of this cycle of symmetry made me realize how no matter where life takes me, I always return back to my center when I’m with Paw on the river. I had an epiphany last year while we were fishing together about how this synchronicity has revealed itself in my life as an angler, which of course began under his instruction.

My Paw grew up in mining camps around the Cahaba River in the years following the Great Depression. His family hunted and fished for all of their meat, and that way of life never wore off. During his 40 years at O’Neal Steel in Birmingham, he would drive back to the country where he was raised every weekend. He leased paper company land and built a small rustic cabin, “The Shack”, overlooking Half Mile Shoals on the lower Cahaba River. His crew would run trot lines and fish at night, cooking their catch on the campfire. Although I always respected his old country ways, I grew to think there should be more to fishing than just coming home with a heavy stringer. My epiphany made me realize that isn’t really the case.

When I was in grade-school, Paw always had me by his side and gave calm instruction on whatever I needed to be learning. Oftentimes, a fishing pole was the main subject. My anticipation would build all week and when the school bell rang at 3pm on some Fridays, Paw would be waiting outside in his little brown Mazda pickup. When we arrived at the river, he would show me how to flip rocks to find salamanders, crawdads and hellgrammites. We would seine the river and throw minnow baskets in the “branches” that fed the river to catch chub minnows to bait trotlines. These were the old country ways; proven techniques to assure the success of a catch and filling your family’s bellies. With the bait we caught, we would float down the Cahaba in a flat bottomed boat and a few 14 foot cane “dobbing” poles. Using a stealthy turkey quill indicator above Catawba worms (aka “catfish candy”) was his preferred technique to trick skittish catfish. The excitement of not knowing what would pull down the quill became what I dreamed about throughout the week. Crickets, hellgrammites and worms triggered eats from bluegill, redeye and spotted bass.

After a heart bypass surgery, and a partial removal of his colon, my Paw retired at age 58. He and my Granny built a house in Brierfield, AL with a 1 acre pond loaded with largemouth bass and bluegill, and I evolved into a new kind of angler. Every summer for the next five years I spent on their 25 acres, but watching bobbers didn’t cut it for me anymore so I started conventional fishing and targeting big bass like I saw on TV. Paw was supportive of me but he stuck to casting red worms for bedding bluegill from the other side of the boat. 

When I got to college, I evolved yet again into a fly fisherman. I mostly taught myself, but I got the inspiration from old Field and Stream magazines in Paw’s shop. Incredibly beautiful scenes from the West with big mountains and anglers casting fly rods grabbed my attention. I bought my first fly rod, a White River 9 Foot 5 weight for 50 dollars. After graduation, I had the opportunity to move west to Bend, Oregon and live out the scenes from the magazines I had grown to adore. Torn about leaving family and tradition behind, my Paw encouraged me to go live my dream.

Fly fishing became an obsession for me thanks to Deschutes River redband trout, and summer steelhead. Paw’s teachings in country entomology proved useful as I learned to mimic all the insect hatches out west. I made lifelong friends on the River, and loved every minute I spent in that cool flowing water. Maybe I wouldn’t be such a passionate angler if it weren’t for my time in Oregon. But, coming home to my roots has helped me see what I was angling for in the first place.

“The Shack” memorialized in oil paint by Silvia Manning, displayed with mounted buck deer taken in Bibb County.

After almost 6 years away from home, I finally returned to the little Cahaba in Bibb County with Paw. He with his Zebco 33 and me with my 3 weight. For the next several years every time we fished together he did his thing and I did mine. He would bait and catch a stringer full for fish fries with his friends. I would use my fly rod and handle the fish with care before release. I remember thinking to myself that I had moved beyond the need to use an easy method and fill a stringer. How could he still enjoy throwing out a piece of bait and waiting for something to eat it? Why was the focus always on catching fish to eat? Why hadn’t he “evolved” like me?

Last Easter I finally understood. We headed to the river. He brought his grocery sack of chicken livers, red worms, some gold hooks and split shot. I had my 4 weight, hip pack, camera and some flies ready for one of our normal “separate but together” outings. The water was high from recent rains. We went to a steep wooded bank with no room to cast my fly rod. It had been years since the last time I baited a hook. I thought “Aw, what the hell?” and sliced a chicken liver and threaded it on one of the long shanked gold hooks.

We both cast out and sat in silence for a few minutes. I noticed him to be content and sitting in complete stillness, just like I love to do. Before long he had a catfish bending his rod. He reeled it in and I helped him land it since his arthritis kept him seated most of the time. We both recast and after a couple minutes we were doubled up! Laughter echoed off the limestone cliffs as we reeled in some beautiful blue cats together. “These are great eatin size” he said. The rest of the day was filled with more of the same, and I was overjoyed.

I gave Paw a hug, we headed back to his house and cleaned the fish together. As always, he encouraged me to take some of the fish home and cook them. Every previous time I had said no thanks, but this time was different. I realized that eating the day's catch was important to Paw. I drove back to my home in the city and cooked catfish and grits for my wife Anna. As I thought more about the day it became obvious that the method of fishing is not important. Every person has their own values and reasons for being on the water. Much more of my time fishing has been rooted in the old ways and that is something I now give myself permission to take pride in. Not focusing on fly fishing that day allowed me to be present in the moment and enjoy time with Paw. I began to understand that the movement of the river made me feel still and content just like him. I’m eternally grateful for what he has taught me and still learn from the river every time I listen. I acknowledge that my experiences have made me into a different angler than the one Paw had so graciously trained, but also that I am still the turkey-quill kid in my heart, and the river is my centering place thanks to him. 

Paw, seated on the banks of the little Cahaba River, Zebco in hand.




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