When I Was A Boy (WIWAB) - Last Run for the Night

My last "When I Was A Boy (WIWAB)" post about setting out lines with my dad was way back in July. The story line from that post was that we'd just run the lines at night, caught a big fish, seen a shooting star, made a campfire and listened to the White Sox ball game on an old clunker of a radio -- while the smoke chased me around the campfire. I have to say the the WIWAB post just before that one took a lot out of me. That was a very personal glimpse into my soul and it was hard to think of anything to write after that which would be as good. But now, I'm going to try to get back in the writing mode. There's one more post about setting out lines that has to be written. I'm not sure when that will be. All I know is that I have to keep going.

The fire had begun to burn down. The White Sox had lost again. The old man grunted and stood up.

"That's what happens when the knuckle ball stops knuckling", he said. "The pitcher looks great for seven innings. The ball's jumping all over the place. Then suddenly it's not moving around at all -- just coming up there toward the batter like a pumpkin. Next thing you know the other team's scored six runs before the manager can yank the pitcher out of there. ... Oh, well.

"Let's go run the lines then we'll head home.

"Change your jeans and we'll go."

I grimaced at changing into the wet, cold pair of jeans again, but stripped off my nice dry pair, pulled the wet ones off the branch, and tugged them on. We found our head lamps. The batteries were getting low. I had to listen to him tell yet again about how he and his brothers used to fish with just oil burning miners' lights back in his day. "Just a tiny little flame -- more smoke than light", he'd say. It was a family legend. With every telling the light got dimmer and the fish they supposedly caught got bigger.

We clambered down the bank to the river and got the minnow bucket from the water. There weren't many minnows or crawfish left. "I hope we catch so many on this run we use up all the bait", he said.

We panned our lights across the river, picking up reflections from the poles. All quiet, no bobbing. He sighed and waded out to check the lines. "Bait's gone." He called. He re-baited that line and moved to the next and the next and the next. The same story -- all the bait was gone. Further downstream, he pulled a small channel cat off the hook and put him on the stringer. He waded into the bank and handed me the stringer. "You take care of this guy while I finish up." He panned his light back across the stream and one of the poles was whipping back and forth.

"Ho, what have we here?" he asked as he waded out towards it. "Doesn't act like a catfish." As he got closer to the pole he slowed and got the dip net in his hand. He carefully grabbed the line near where it attached to the pole and started to lift up. There seemed to be an explosion in the water next to him. "Ah, hell, it's a gar." he yelled. He lowered the net in the water and then lifted up. I could see the light reflecting from the side of the silvery fish. This time he pulled the whole pole out of the bank and walked towards me near the shore.

"Hate these damn things. They travel in schools, eat all the bait clean, chase away the catfish, and even when you catch one they're no good to eat. Damn things." He walked up on the shore and lay the dip net and pole on the sand. I shined my light on the fish. It was snake like with a long snout. It opened its jaws and snapped them angrily shut on the net. I caught the flash of rows of white sharp teeth. Just then Dad stomped down on the fish's head with the heel of his boot. The tail snapped back and forth. Stomp the boot came down again. This time there was no motion. When he stepped back the fish's head was jammed several inches into the sand. I swallowed at the violence of it and took a step back.

"That's the only way I know to get the hook out of its mouth without getting bitten." He reached for the line and pulled the fish up. He carefully pinched the exposed hook between thumb and finger and worked it out of the fish's bony mouth. When it was free, he held it up in our lights. I could see its needle like teeth even more clearly. "Damn thing." he said and threw it far up onto the bank into weeds. "At least the raccoons and foxes'll have something to eat tonight."

He turned from me and started baiting the hook. I continued to look up to where the fish was gone. I didn't really want to get back into the river.