Fishhooks in Treetops: Connecting a Father and Daughter

By Wilda Young

We are busy peoplesometimes so busy making a living that we forget to stay connected with those we love. We even forget to make memories.

This was not the case for Marion Mosley, a busy Southern Illinois man who served as farmer, salesman, pastor, fisherman, and father, among other things. He wrote down events he remembered about author Wilda Youngs childhood and insisted that she do the same. The result is Fishhooks in Treetops.

It recalls fishing trips, spelling contests, revival meetings, music lessons, disciplinary actions, racial tension, and tragic accidents.

This memoir shares entertaining events in the life of a Christian family in the fifties and sixties. They illustrate that all families experience joys and sorrows as children grow up. Opportunities for teaching and learning abound!

Join Wilda Young and her father as they connect on this memorable trip. Observe their relationship as they tangle their fishing lines and tangle with each other. See how their remembered events shape character and teach valuable lessons.

Fishhooks in Treetops seeks to inspire you to make connections for your own journey down memory lane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Nov 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781462408269

Wilda Young

The youngest of seven children, Wilda Young showed an early affinity for language that led to her career. An award-winning educator, she spent nearly four decades teaching high school grammar, literature, and Spanish before retiring in scenic Shawnee National Forest. She and her husband, Robert, also a former teacher, have one daughter, Elena Behnke.

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Copyright © 2013 Wilda Ruth Young.

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ISBN: 978-1-4624-0825-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0826-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920831

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 11/14/2013

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgment

Introduction

Chapter 1   The Christmas Present

Chapter 2   Name That Baby

Chapter 3   The Burning and the Buzzing

Chapter 4   Destined to Be an English Teacher

Chapter 5   Tangling with Daddy

Chapter 6   Learning Made Easy

Chapter 7   Taboo Words

Chapter 8   Contests and Chihuahuas

Chapter 9   The Evil Bus Ride

Chapter 10   Music to Tinker’s Ears

Chapter 11   Let My Fingers Do the Earning

Chapter 12   The Perfect Sermon

Chapter 13   Fishing or Swinging on the Porch

Chapter 14   Losing Mother

Chapter 15   Romance and More

Chapter 16   The Giver

Chapter 17   Heavenward

Epilogue

Notes

Dedication

For Marion Mosley

Acknowledgment

Thank you to my siblings, who encouraged me to publish.

Thank you to Elena, my brilliant daughter, who offered suggestions and kept me positive.

A very special thank you to Robert, my genius husband, who supported and aided and loved me through the creation of this book.

Introduction

Fishhooks don’t belong in treetops. Lines get tangled and knotted, and the fisherman goes home empty-handed. Unless, of course, someone expertly untangles lines, sets things right, and helps the fisherman cast the lines properly.

My dad and I actually enjoyed fishing together. (See Chapter 13.) He did more for me than help me get my fishhooks out of treetops though. He taught me values, discipline, appreciation for life and learning, and so much more. He helped me to recall the simpler times of my youth and the incidents that shaped my personality. He reminded me that my relationship with the Heavenly Father is even more important than my relationship with my earthly father.

I wish that all fathers had his wisdom. I wish that all daughters could connect with their dads, learning from them and depending upon them to help them mature into happy young women. I wish that all fathers and daughters could share wonderful memories.

That’s why I am sharing my Christmas present.

Chapter One

The Christmas Present

I’m writing all you kids and telling them some of the things I remember. I’m going to put them all together and send each one of you a copy when I get them. I want you to mail mine back and a copy of some of the things you remember. - Dad

I knew it was coming.

My sister Ramona had received hers and phoned me to see if mine had arrived yet.

Apparently, our dad had launched a letter-writing campaign. Not only had he written to Ramona and to me, but he had also mailed missives to our other five siblings. Letters from our dad? Amazing! He wrote letters about as often as he visited the doctor’s office, only when absolutely necessary, perhaps once every five years or so.

Boxes of stationery, left over from his days as a Methodist minister, were stacked heavenward on his cluttered desk. The First United Methodist Church, Golconda, Illinois 62938 boldly topped each sheet of paper. To the left side, slightly below, Marion Mosley, Pastor. To the right, the parsonage phone number.

He had scratched it all out, even his name. He had retired, at least from active church ministry, in 1982. He had preached from the pulpit for sixteen years, but really, he had preached most of his life as he went about his various jobs. With seven children, he had delivered many impromptu sermons, too. Now we were all getting a letter.

Another letter, that is. We had each received a letter from him once before. Inside the envelope we had found his funeral service plans, including the name of the funeral home to be used, the officiant to conduct services, and the songs to be sung. In his no-nonsense way, he had eased the burden he felt we would face one day.

This letter would not be as somber. My siblings had told me about its content. Daddy, as he was called by four of us, or Pop, as he was called by the other three, was preparing a Christmas present for us.

That, too, amazed us. Since he had married my stepmother, Archa, and added her five children to his seven, they had twelve offspring, all adult, married, and away from home. What do you do for Christmas presents for twelve children?

Archa had solved their problem. She always made grape or blackberry jelly in the summer. When she added a loaf of homemade sourdough bread, a bag of mixed beans for bean soup, and sometimes a homemade candle or a crocheted dishtowel, she had their gift ready for presentation to all twelve of us.

If she had not prepared those Christmas goodies, we would not have had presents from Daddy at all. As children, we had always rushed to the Christmas tree early on the morning of December 25 to find presents beneath it. But as adults, we knew that the emphasis was on the birth of Jesus, not on a secular celebration. Daddy read the nativity story from the Bible, attended church services, and enjoyed his large family. Old holiday photos usually captured him cradling a grandbaby or playing with the bigger grandkids instead of unwrapping a gaily-colored gift.

But 1995 was different. Daddy had been inspired to give his seven children a gift, a book of letters.

Beginning in September, Daddy had started writing to each child. He explained that he wanted to tell us about highlights he remembered from our childhood. He wanted us to write back to him with highlights we remembered. Then he would have copies of the seven letters to us and the seven return letters compiled so that he could present each of us with a book for Christmas.

Ever the logical person, he had written to Phyllis first. She was oldest. Then Frances and Vera Lou (Bet) received their letters in October. The boys, Lendyl and Bill, received theirs in early November. Ramona and I, the little girls, watched our mailboxes eagerly for ours. Late November brought the hand-scrawled notes, with the command, Write back soon. He was pushing his deadline.

I opened my letter and removed the single sheet of paper.

Nov. 30, 1995

Dear Wood,

I’m writing all you kids and telling them some of the things I remember. I’m going to put them all together and send each one of you a copy when I get them. I want you to mail mine back and a copy of some of the things you remember.

I remember one time you got a reaction to a bee sting. Boy, were we worried!

I remember how Ramona gave you her lessons when she started to school.

I remember one time we were at Chapel at a wedding. You weren’t very big. You said, Daddy, let’s me and you get married.

I remember one time on the 4th of July you and Ramona and your mother and I were down at Cairo for supper. It came a flood. You said, I told you it was going to come a shower.

I remember how you liked the organ at New Burnside and said, It’s amazing how much you can learn in so short a time.

Dad

Of course I cried. That was a two-Kleenex letter. I remembered those events, or at least remembered hearing about them. My heart warmed that he had recalled my marriage proposal. I was impressed that he even quoted me. I read and reread his letter, allowing my mind to fill in the details of the memories he had resurrected.

The calendar soon reminded me that it was time for me to respond to Daddy’s letter. So many memories crowded my brain and begged, like children waving their hands and arms frantically vying for the classroom teacher’s attention, to be chosen for the return letter. But Daddy scorned wordiness. He would have no patience for a long, drawn-out, sappy essay. Just the facts, ma’am from the old Dragnet series suited him perfectly. I didn’t know how to choose what I would write. I procrastinated until I received his phone call.

Wood, did you get my letter?

Yes, I replied. I did. And I cried.

I figured you would. Did you write me back yet?

No, I confessed. I am having trouble deciding what to write.

Well, just sit down and do it, he ordered. I need that letter so that Steve can make copies and put them into that book.

I promised him that the letter would arrive shortly.

That very afternoon I curled up on the sofa to begin my response. I had learned long ago that a promise made to Daddy had to be kept. The Kleenex box beside me, I let memory after memory flow to the page, adhering to no organizational method. The students in my composition classes would have given me a D. But Daddy didn’t care about grammar or structure. He wanted memories, and he wanted them immediately!

Dec. 10, 1995

Dear Daddy,

One of the things I remember is that you always refused to let us say, I can’t. We either figured out a solution to our problem, or we stopped complaining out loud, because those words were forbidden.

I remember that you bought the chihuahua Tinker for Ramona and me when I won the spelling contest in sixth grade.

I remember your singing of It’s Real. You certainly were hard to accompany, but I can still hear you singing that song.

You always insisted that we get an education. You said, Get your education. Nobody can take it away from you.

You spanked me once for going to bed the wrong way. You told me to take one route, and I chose to go another—under the quilt Mother had in frames.

Once Mother was reluctant to let Ramona and me ride the bus to a ballgame. Sadly we watched the bus pass our house in Cypress. Two minutes later you came home. You decided quickly that there was no reason we couldn’t go, so you chased the bus to West Vienna where we boarded the bus and went on to the game.

You paid me to type about a dozen bulletins for Tunnel Hill Church twice a month.