E-3: A Word From The Editor

An Ode to Grandma, Miss Alma & Friday Nights at the Dike

Finding discouraging news doesn’t require much effort. Flip it on the news and you’ll hear about the unnerving threat of armed conflict in Ukraine. Hop on a social media site and discover a friend has earned his Wings to Heaven (Godspeed, Calvin Cahee). Look at your bank account and there’s always a tugging sensation of there’s never enough.

We long for a simpler time, where worries were few and joy was plenty. For me, stepping outside on a chilly Friday morning ushered memories of bundling up and being active, be it playing football off Pirtle Street in La Marque or making the walk to Lincoln Gym and patiently waiting to get your time on the court for some 3-on-3 or 4-on-4 half-court excursion.

To take those memories further, my mind wanders over to the Texas City Dike. Even in cold weather like this, I always knew Friday wasn’t complete unless my grandmother took us to Curl’s Bait Camp to fish the night away.

Whether you caught anything or not was secondary. It was the ritual of being frozen stiff but also realizing how much fun you’d have as the cold winds from the Gulf would rack your young bones. The night would become special when Grandma would interrupt a conversation she’d have with her fishing buddy, Miss Alma, and wave us over to her to have a chance to cast the line.

Most times, the pole was bigger than I was, but the temperature would rise 20-30 degrees if she gave me the nod to sit with the grown-ups and cast my lot into the water. Prior to that, there was the opportunity to bait the hook, a part-icky, part rite of passage when it came to pulling the biggest shrimp you could find out of the bucket and fitting it perfectly.

I can still get away from the world by letting my youthful self feel the chill mixed in with the salt water and bait as I whipped the line as if I were a pro. For me, it was about how far I can toss it into the night with a giddy optimism of being the highlight of the night by reeling in a big catch.

My first catch happened to be an eel, but that’s another story for another day. Nah, this is about embracing a childhood filled with adventures and over-the-top memories. Both my grandmother and Miss Alma are gone, perhaps “perching” (as my grandmother would call fishing) together, rod in one hand while taking a drag from Saratoga regular as they wondered what would become of the tireless souls they took out to the Dike.

We’re doing OK, ladies. Thanks for asking. Here’s hoping the perching (and the Saratogas) are in abundance in Heaven.

–30–

Brandon Williams is the Editor of The Post Newspaper.