THANKS TO Mirror reader Jo-Ann Zimmerman of Euless for writing about a Johnny Mathis concert she attended on Jan. 6 at Bass Hall in Fort Worth, and for sending a clipping of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram’s review of it.

Punch Shaw wrote that the 1,437 in the audience “melted a little each time he eased into a signature number such as Chances Are or Misty.”

Shaw also wrote, “Mathis, who was born in Gilmer, was supported by a 30-piece-plus band comprising mostly Fort Worth Symphony players.”

The critic thought some of the singer’s lesser-known numbers, such as Secret Love and 99 Miles from L.A. were more impressively delivered than his classics. At 73, Shaw asserted, Mathis “has lost little of the magic that graces his impossibly smooth vocals.”

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RESEARCHING the microfilm files of the 1941 Gilmer Mirrors, I came across a fish story that represents the writing style of my late uncle, Jinx Tucker of Waco.

My mother’s brother is still remembered there through, among other things, the annual award of the Waco Tribune-Herald Jinx Tucker Trophy. Quoting from the newspaper, “The Jinx Tucker is given each year by the Trib to honor the memory of a man who gained national respect in his 33 years as the Trib sports editor until his death in 1953.

“The award is emblematic of Tucker, who stressed sportsmanship, fairness and team play.”

Summer, 1941 editions of The Mirror reflected the fact that this country was on the verge of entering World War II. They also reported on a disastrous fire that destroyed the Mirror building on the east side of the courthouse square, and led to construction of the present building at the corner of U. S. 271 and Hwy. 154.

The (then daily) Mirror was printed at the Pittsburg Gazette plant until the new building was finished in 1942.

No doubt thinking that the publisher, my father, needed a break, the family arranged an outing that my uncle reported on. What follows is a slightly shortened version, but still with a twist:

WE HAVE JUST returned from a fishing trip with Russell Laschinger of the Gilmer Mirror and Horace Davis, mayor of Gilmer.

For years they have been endeavoring to get this scribe to go to Black Lake over in Louisiana fishing. It is a beautiful lake about 70 miles south of Shreveport and it is 50 miles long. At some spots it is five miles wide and it is full of fish—mostly white perch, or crappie and bass. It had been pictured to us as a fisherman’s paradise.

Up at 4 o’clock Thursday morning, we got into a motor boat with a guide and went roaring away to a group of tall cypress trees growing out of the beautiful limpid water. The still waters were disturbed only by silvery bass leaping out to snap at bugs or whatever they snap at when they jump out of the water.

Before the sun had risen, we had our hook in the water, felt something pulling, brought it up, but it was only 12 inches long, so we were told to throw it back.

Then on and on until the sun’s rays bore down with customary Louisiana midsummer emphasis, we fished and fished and fished. The next one we landed was 24 inches long, and we pulled it in. Never did we go for over five minutes without catching something.

Shortly before 8 o’clock we snagged one that we could not handle. It must have been four feet long as we had it at the top of the water when the hook was turned as straight as a nail, but we did not land it.

We got the limit finally and were back in camp before 11 o’clock, the limit being 20.

The next morning we were up again at four after lolling around the modern Collins camp for the rest of Thursday. Out once more, we darted past the innumerable stumps, into the clear channel, and back into another lake forest. Then midst the tall trees furnishing shade we started fishing once more.

We pulled in one weighing eight pounds, another weighing less than that by only a few ounces, and then a half dozen varying from 24 to 36 inches. Once more we snagged one over four feet long, and this time profiting by the experience of the day before, did no jerking, played it carefully, let it handle the boat, and then with skill, aided by the guide, pulled it in. It was our largest catch, and before the sun was very high, once more we had the limit of 20.

In fact, during the two days we hauled in enough wood and stumps to keep the home fires burning throughout the winter if we just had had a way of getting it back to Waco, because everything that we caught or snagged was some sort of a stump or log.

The Gilmer mayor had told us that we could get lots of action at Black Lake if nothing else, and he was eminently correct. When we were not hooking a log we were trying to get our hook loose from one. We forgot to mention that we also caught and landed without any help, one 7-inch white perch. How it found its way to the hook midst all of the logs and stumps will always be a mystery to us, but it was a very small fish and I take it for granted that it had become lost from its parents while feeding.

This trip did much for us. It proved beyond a doubt just what a great place Lake Waco is to fish. Now in Lake Waco you won’t see as much action as you do in Black Lake. You won’t be busy all day trying to get your hook out of one log so you can hook it into another, but otherwise you will find the fishing about the same.

[We] headed for home . . . carrying with us enough bruised places on our anatomy to let the folks back in east Texas know that we did get a number of bites, if no fish, but all, of course, were mosquito bites. Yes, sir, if you want action, go to Black Lake, but if you also want fish, carry them with you and at Collins’ camp you can get them cooked for you in a manner to appease the appetite of a king.

sgreene@tatertv.com

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