Where I Come From: Stories from the Deep South

by Rick Bragg

I know that I am not alone in this frailty, because I have heard other fishermen also lay claim to the title of worst fisherman in the world, since there is little point in being the second- or third-worst fisherman in the world. If you are going to be miserable at something, you might as well get a plaque for it.

There are times when I think the best moments of my life have been filled, one cast at a time, on the flats of Tampa Bay. If there is a more beautiful sight than a speck almost as long as your arm cutting through that water to take the bait, I do not know it. A Spanish mackerel, nose to tail, is a work of art. Fishing is the one thing I will get out of bed for in early morning…well, that and biscuits and gravy.

I love fishing, but sometimes, if I would admit it, I love more the idea of fishing, of being on the water or just at the lip of the pond, and the glide of a pelican, or the clean smell, upwind of the outboard motor.

You do not actually fly out of Birmingham. You just drive there so someone can tell you why you can’t.

What a great city this will be when they finally invent the flying car.

You have to bring an ice chest out onto the ice to hold your beer. If you just set it outside, it would freeze. I just can’t comprehend this.

“Believers look up, take courage. The angels are nearer than you think.”

I do not need a statue or flag to know that I am Southern. I can taste it in the food, feel it in my heart, and hear it in the language of my kin.