Faith of Our Mothers

Charlotte, Martha and Julia Zastrow (l-r)
1903





In November, 2006 I was preparing my portion of a eulogy for my father's memorial service. My father, a Methodist minister for nearly forty years, had been the person I admired most in the world and so I worked doubly hard in the days preceding the service to ensure that I had adequately captured what I felt was the essence of a life amazingly well lived. My eulogy included poignant memories, funny stories, a synopsis of my father's outlook on life; all the makings of what I believed to be an eloquent farewell to my dad.

A day or two before the service, my brother, sisters and I were at my father's house half-heartedly dividing up those family items that we would each keep. As we did so, I found myself holding an old tattered bible that had actually belonged to my great-grandmother. As I sat pondering the bible, I became aware that I was in essence holding a tangible manifestation of the very genesis of my parents' faith and ultimately, my father's ministry. I knew then that the message I'd written for my dad's service was all wrong.

Martha Leona Fielding, my great grandmother, was born in Alabama in 1875. She married Julius Hermann Zastrow, a German immigrant almost 30 years her senior and the owner of the massive depot and commissary at Guntersville landing. Julius died within just a few years of their marriage, but not before Martha had borne two daughters; Charlotte and my grandmother, Julia. Martha subsequently remarried and eventually move to Somerville, Tennessee. Following the death of her second husband, she moved in with her eldest daughter, Charlotte (Tua) and her family in Memphis. There she lived for the rest of her life, helping to raise Tua's children, as well as my mother and aunt Wini after Julia passed away suddenly at age 33.

My great grandmother was a devout Christian, as were my grandmother and my mother. My mother's own first experiences with Christ came as her grandmother would read to her and interpret the stories from her bible. From these first special moments spent with her grandmother, my mother's own spirituality would grow and develop into a tremendous faith that remained with her the entirety of her life. That faith would inspire my father, who was raised outside of the church, to become a Christian, and later, a minister. His own ministry would in turn inspire countless others in their own journeys of faith, and many of his parishioners would themselves eventually enter the ministry to tend congregations of their own.

The day I found my great grandmother's bible, I rewrote my father's eulogy completely. I chose not to dwell on anecdotes or even insight from his life, but rather on those tiny seeds of faith passed on to my mother from her grandmother all those years ago- seeds that would ultimately be passed on to my father and blossom into an incredible 39 year ministry. A true legacy, passed down across the generations through the strong women of our family.

Namesake

Not everyone has a namesake- that is to say, being named for an actual person. I happen to have one- though until today, I'd never seen an actual photo of the man. His name is Mark Cathey, and his are some big shoes to fill.

When my parents were young, one of their routines involved my mother reading to my father in bed each evening to help him wind down from the day. My mother had a style and a voice well designed for narration, and enjoyed reading immensely. She would seek out stories that would interest my father, and each night she read from a wide range of literary sources- from Reader's Digest condensed stories to magazine articles to full length books. One such book was an underground classic by a gentleman named Jim Gasque.

Jim Gasque, as far as I can tell, wrote only two books in his life. One was a full-length treatise on bass fishing; the other was the truly transcendent "Hunting and Fishing in the Great Smokies". The book goes into rich detail about the bygone days when hunting and fishing lodges dotted the streams of the Smokies and the pursuit of local bear, bore and wild mountain trout was essentially unregulated. The book features an interesting array of characters, but one in particular, a hunting and fishing guide from Bryson City, NC, rated an entire chapter devoted fully to his exploits. That gentleman's name was Mark Cathey, and my father clearly idolized him.

Cathey was almost as well known for his peculiar southern applachian dialect and colorful stories as he was for his unmatched prowess as a hunter and fisherman. It was that latter skill that most fascinated my father, and he listened rapt each night as narratives of Cathey's various adventures were rendered in my mother's soft Memphis accent. Cathey's most notable skill was a technique he'd perfected for "dancing" a dry fly across the surface of a mountain pool with such dexterity that the trout were powerless to resist it. Cathey would frequently wade into a single pool and catch what he referred to as his "leemit" of trout within just a few minutes. He was a mountain legend that loomed large in my father's mind, and when I was born, my father gave me his name. When I turned 18, my father also gave me his (very rare) signed copy of Jim Gasque's book (my mother had procured a copy from Mr. Gasque's widow with the help of local author Carson Brewer) and it remains to this day my most prized possession.

Neither my father or I ever saw a picture of Mark Cathey. However, today my friend Tom sent me a link to an article describing the publication of a new edition of Jim Gasque's book, and the cover of the new book features a photo of Cathey himself, along with one of his trusted hounds. I'm happy to say I'm a little better looking than he is, but all in all, he looks exactly how my father and I had always pictured him. I just wish Dad could have seen the picture.
Four years ago, on my birthday, I drove to Bryson City and actually located Cathey's grave in the town cemetery on the hill. The tombstone reads:

Mark Cathey
Beloved Hunter and Fisherman
Was himself caught by the Gospel hook
Just before the season closed for good