Mark River Returns! I'm taking a break from Rivergator 2025 reporting, in memorial honor of my mother's passing last week, and letting my brother Mark River Peoples take the helm.
Lil River and the Beaver- Part 1
I grew up in a small fishing town ,until the age of 8, on the outskirts of East St. Louis called Brooklyn. Along with being a fishing town, we had a semi-pro baseball team, which my Father was one of the star players, and a very competitive high school basketball team at Lovejoy High School. The high school was named after a black man who tried to start a local black newspaper only to be attacked by an angry mob, and his printing press being thrown into the Mississippi River. The men and women from our town spent evenings after work and weekends fishing the Mississippi River. It wasn't unusual to see people walking, riding bikes, or creating shortcuts through rail-yards or industries just to get to the River.
My Father worked at Mallinkhrodt Chemical, which was located south of my families favorite fishing spot, and my Mother at Venture, a local store like today's Target. He worked the day shift and she worked evenings, so there always someone home with us. When I say us, I'm referring to myself, my brother William and my sister Earline. He hated babysitting, so he always took us on adventures like hunting, bike riding, but mostly fishing the Mississippi River.
I was six years old and the River had been high for months, but had started to drop. My dad always wanted to be the first fisherman to bare the muddy floodplain to dig for the green worms, which was a staple of the diet of the big or smallmouth Buffalo, a prize fish for our community, because they where hard to catch from the bank, and there were no commercial fisherman in our community that own boats or nets. When you caught them you either ate them or sold them- either way you came out on top. Only certain fisherman where known to consistently catch them and my Dad was one of them. We had a green station wagon with real wood trim that we would load up all of our gear, add sandbags around the back axle to add weight, and trample through the muddy floodplain full of ruts and gullies. He also brought any type of tool you would use in any situation.
One day we headed for the River preparing to go off-roading through the floodplain in a vehicle, not made for the terrain, and find our favorite forest of standing willows. We unloaded our buckets and pick forks. I'm six years old and struggling. It's a hot day and I have coveralls and oversized rubber boots. I'm constantly getting stuck in the muck. Nothing ever fit me. I always had my brother William's hand me downs, who was with us that day. We walked deep into the mosquito infested willows and my Father starts to dig. Every chunk of mud had hundreds of worms, which I had to remove and put in a bucket. Mosquitoes are in our mouths and ears; to the point where tears would role down my face. My brother would laugh and my dad would tell me to quit crying and toughen up, or you won't make it in this world. I'm six years old.
We left the willows with a bucket full of worms and headed to our favorite spot. The sun was starting to set and we are catching fish hand over foot. In those days, there were no limits, so we continued to fish until the late night hours. It was so dark on the River at night. The only light you can see is the McKinley Bridge and downtown St. Louis in the distance. I'm covered from head to toe, occasionally crying, spitting out mosquitos. Coyotes are calling and hobos are stumbling through the trees. I grew closer and closer to my Dad, every once in awhile grabbing his leg for reassurance and protection.
The bite slowed down and I'm relieved knowing we would be leaving soon. My brother and I loaded the stringers of fish into the back hatch, while my dad watched his last pole. Suddenly, something swam by us in the eddy. My Dad tells me to go get his pistol in the glovebox. I'm upset, not being very fond of guns at that age, because I had already seen things a 6 year shouldn't see involving guns in the neighborhood. He thinks it's a pig and hopes it swims by again. I'm hoping it doesn't, worried about me and my family going to jail.
My Dad reels his last pole in and again, somethings surfaces. He takes a shot and whatever it was sank to the bottom of the River. He instructed us to grab the biggest weight and treble hook we could find in the tackle box. He rigged up his catfish pole and starting using a "snagging" technique. And hour goes by and just as we were about to leave, he engages with something on the bottom of the River.
At this point, I'm as upset as ever, knowing for some reason, that we were doing something illegal, but my Dad assured me that whatever it was, it will be eaten, and that's natures law above all. It turned out to be a big beautiful beaver. The tail looked larger than me. My dad explained what he would do with all the parts. He would eat the tail, tan the hide for a small rug, leave the entrails for scavengers, and smoke the protein for the whole neighborhood. He had one request from us, that was not to tell everyone it was beaver, but barbecue beef.
Saturday morning came quickly, as I awake from bed, and swiftly rushed downstairs to see what my Dad was up to, and to see my Mom who always arrived home from work while I was sleeping. Saturday mornings were always the same in our home. Bacon, sausage, grits, pancakes, and eggs being prepared by my beautiful Mom, while music soothed from the record player. My Mother's beautiful voice floating through the house enhancing the smell of breakfast. I gave my Mother a kiss and told her about everything that happened the night before, exaggerating some parts like a six year old would.
I walked outside to see my Father dress like a voyaguer, not knowing at the time what a voyageur was. with smoke bellowing from the large barbecue grill. The grill was made from sixty gallon drums and was a staple for each household in the neighborhood. My Dad would build them and sell them throughout the St. Louis area. He always laughed when he seen me, because I had an unique style of dress, which I have continued to this day. The smoke was flourishing throughout the neighborhood and people were investigating and negotiating, making sure whatever was on our grill, they had a stake in the finishing product.
-Mark River
PS: stay tuned for the rest of the story: Lil River and the Beaver- Part 2
Mark River Peoples grew up hunting and fishing along the river with his father near St. Louis, MO. After attending Central Missouri State University, and becoming defensive back with the New York Giants, Mark left a career in professional football for the river. Mark is a writer for the Lower Mississippi River Dispatch and shares his intimate & nature-filled musings about river life in presentations and online platforms. When not on the water, Mark mentors Mississippi Delta youth and educates them on the importance of the protection and preservation of our national treasure for generations to come. He himself is a tributary to his community, like the stream is to the big river. Mark works hard on changing the perception of our great River and its tributaries. Through river trips, cleanups, and workshops, Mark’s goal is overall systemic health of the Mississippi River.
Are you missing the wild places? Next Community Canoe is Sat Sept 13th, from Clarksdale, MS, on the biggest (and wildest) river in North America. You can also book your own custom guided trip with us.
GOD BLESS YOU JOHN RUSKEY and your family. You wrote a beautiful eulogy for your Mother. Take care of your family and friends as you grieve the loss of your Matriarch Mother.
GOD BLESS YOU JOHN RUSKEY and your family. You wrote a beautiful eulogy for your Mother. Take care of your family and friends as you grieve the loss of your Matriarch Mother.
Big River hugs to y'all. Sorry to hear bout your Mama John.