WIWAB - Sunday Afternoon

We arrived home just before noon -- tired, dirty, and happy. Dad parked the car in the driveway in front of the house.

"First things first. Let me find something to put the fish in. Start unloading the car will ya'?"

He opened the trunk and then quickly disappeared into the house.

I started carrying the gear from the trunk into the back yard and laying it out in the shade of the apple tree. After only a couple trips, Dad was back with a metal tub and a big plastic bucket. He filled them with water from the tap on the side of the house. He pulled the net full of fish from the back seat, carried them into the backyard, and one by one put them into the containers of water. The largest one forced water over the rim of the tub when he slid it in.

"That ought to hold them while we get things cleaned up a little. You keep going and I'll get the poles."

Pretty soon we had the car unloaded and the gear spread out in the yard. He hooked the garden hose to the spigot and began hosing off all the equipment: nets, waders, my wet jeans -- everything that didn't mind a little water. He untied the bundles of poles and sprayed water on them concentrating on the muddy butt ends. When they were clean, he shut off the water and stood the poles against the side of the garage in the sun. Waders got thrown over the clothes lines.

"Guess I better do those fish. You can go get cleaned up if you want. I can handle it," he said as he started to go into the house. I hung around outside and pretty soon he was back. His arms were full -- a wad of news papers, a pair pliers, a knife, a ceramic bowl from the kitchen. He laid the stuff in the grass, went in the garage and came back with a lawn chair. Setting that in the shade he brought over the stuff from the house and the containers of fish.

He began pulling the fish from the containers and laying them in the grass -- sorting them by size. "... eight, nine, ten, eleven. That's a pretty darn good haul for this day and age. I haven't come back with that many in a long time. Couldn't 'of done it without you." I grinned at him as he said it.

With a sigh he sat down in the chair and picked up one of the fish. It lay gasping in his hand; its mouth opening and closing. It croaked like a frog and I jumped.

"They do that sometimes." Dad said. "The darn things can live quite a while out of water. They actually can breathe air using their swim bladders." And with that he picked up the knife. "Remember how to do this?" I gulped and nodded ... hoping he wouldn't ask me to clean one.

"Cut around his head just behind the fins." I flinched. The fish was still gasping in his hand as he did it. "Guess I should'a put him out of his misery first." With that he picked up the heavy pliers, laid the fish in grass and gave it a bash on the head. He eyed it for a second then hit it again, leaving a dent in its skull this time. I stood on one foot and then the other. He picked up the fish again.

"So cut around his body. Hold his head in your palm and put your fingers behind his fins. Careful: spines on these little ones are sharp as heck and they're poisonous ... oh, not enough to kill you, but they really hurt when they cut you.

Then grab the skin with the pliers and pull down toward his tail. It comes off like you're taking off a sock.

Now cut from his touch-hole to his chin." He said it with a grin.

"Make a cut down through his back. Now just hold his body with one hand, his head in the other, and pull down. All his guts come right out.

"Clean up his insides with the edge of your knife, cut off the tail and you're done."

That old man could skin and clean a catfish in less than two minutes. I tried and tried over the years; I never could do it.

In less than an hour all the fish were cleaned and laying in the big bowl of water.

The rest of that Sunday was a slow winding down from the work of the weekend. We showered, got some lunch. Dad had a beer or two in front of the TV. When the gear was dry we put it away. The poles went back in the garage rafters.

We slept well that night.