Your Catfish Friend

"If I were to live my life in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection and think,
"It's beautiful here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace, and ask yourself,
"I wonder if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

- Richard Brautigan

I love this as much as anything I've ever run across. Ireally really do. Its like I've spent my whole life in this poem.

GHOSTS IN THE FIRE

See also THE "GULLYWAMPUS" STRIKES AGAIN! from October, where I tell about Bruce, my Fathers best friend.



Dear Bruce;
In 1983 I decided that I needed to make a major lifestyle change. I stopped spending my hard earned money on smoke and drink and in an effort to get back to the way I was raised, began purchasing Fishing and Camping gear. I bought a $100 boat and trailer, a $800 dollar motor and put about $1000 worth of high Tech amenities on board.
So I started to do a lot of fishing and a little camping and as soon as you stop chasing women you will find one. I found Yvette and she was sweet and a Redhead and wanted for me to take her Camping. So I began to plan a Campout that would be held at the location of Toledo Bend Lake. Toledo Bend was where Dad and I had had our very best times and I was eager to go there; part of getting back to the way I was raised. There is a point and an Island that I have a lot in common with.
So Yvette and I set out for Toledo Bend and Patroon Bay.
We renamed it "Pat Boone Bay"

We went to that point and Island where there is the greatest little Primitive Campground in the world and I told her about the night that Dad, Bruce and I had caught a lot of fish on Rubber Band Trotlines from this very spot.

There was a group of 4 men that were camped down the way and they had High Dollar boats and huge coolers that from the sound of things after dark probably contained beer. One night they were being particularly raucous with a huge fire blazing so Yvette and I went down to investigate.
Yes, they had beer and they were old timers we pulled up a stump and were offered beers and we drank and listened to the storys the Greybeards had to tell. They talked of gigging frogs and Yvette asked if it hurt the frogs.
They and I laughed and told her “not a bit”.
They talked about the fish they had caught on the lake and the places they had caught them.
There is an old trestle bridge, underwater with a ghost that lives down there.
There is a place you can catch a lot of fish, but there is natural gas bubbling to the surface and on a calm day you don't dare light a smoke.
There are Catfish as big as Volkswagons and men in Asylums that have seen them.

Yvette listened in wide eyed amazment but I recognized these stories as 90% pure bullshit. One of them turned and looked at the Island that stood 100 yards off the point. He said that there was a time when there was no better fishing than right off this particular point.
He said, in fact that there had been a young boy who along with his Dad and another man had caught 180 Crappie, Bass and Catfish in one night off this point with a Rubber Band Trotline.

My gaze moved out of the fire to the speaker.
“When was that?” I asked.
“About 15 years ago” he says.


I look at the Island, I look at the point, and I look at the speaker. I look back into the fire and feel the short hairs standing up on my neck and the chill creeping down my arms. I poke the fire with a stick and watch the sparks shatter skyward and melt into the stars.

“That boy was me” I say "and we had three Rubber Band Trotlines"
“ Well then, youngster” he says “ Why don’t cha get us another one of those beers. “
I can't tell if he is looking at me like I''m full of BS, or if he might believe me.
I got us another beer and said nothing else about it.

Bruce, this is a true story.
I really did run into these four ol'timers that had made us into a legend!
I didn’t try to convince them that I was really the boy in their story because, well, they wouldnt have believed it! But there are times when I replay this in my mind before I fall asleep at night when I get the feeling they knew I was that boy before the story ever got told.
In case you don't remember Bruce, the last thing you told Dad was "I have been standing up in Canoes all my life Jack" right before we went over.

Love, Steve

(to be continued, where I will explain the workings of the "Rubber Band Trotline")

BARE-BEAMED AND BUCK-NAKED

Dad would have been 95 today.

I always think of Rubber Band Trotlines whenever I think of dad.
And then I think about the time we set one up at Toledo Bend Lake when I was a boy.
Then I think of the old man I met down there, years later when I was grown , who told me of some of the legends around the lake, like the haunted bridge, and the bubbles of natural gas that attracted huge schools of crappie, and the giant catfish down there, big as Volkswagons.
But my blood ran cold as we stared into the fire and he told about a man and a boy who had caught hundreds of fish, here, right off this point one night on rubber-band trotlines.
It’s a creepy feeling, hearing something like that and knowing he is talking about you and your dad, and you decide to just keep it to yourself.

When the legend becomes a fact, just stick with the legend.

I don't know where Dad came up with a Canoe. Nor do I know where he came up with the "Rubber Band Trotline" either.
Twice a year my mother’s family would get together at Toledo Bend Lake. We would camp on an old road that now led to the lake in either direction. There was a dirt path wide enough for a car that you now used to get to the road.
Moms family was made up of Southern Baptists; and they were hardwired to the bone Baptists that did not believe in doing anything on a Sunday but go to Church. All cooking and shopping was done on Saturday. It was even against State law to buy anything on Sunday... the "Blue Law".


So it was during the fall get together that Dad, big Bruce and I loaded the Canoe and set out for a point and an Island, a good mile away where my Dad would show us how to set up a Rubber Band trotline. Actually, there were to be three.


Let me now describe the Rubber Band Trotline for you. First, you must find and aquire 1/2 inch rubber band stock that comes in 100 foot lengths {available at most Army-Navy Stores}. Then you need about 100 feet of Trotline with as many hooks as you can get on there.
Now double the rubber over to make fifty feet and attach to the trotline You now have 150 feet and you will need to find a stump approximately that far from the bank. Tie the rubber band to the stump and take the trotline to the shore. There should be a little tension on the line. And you should be able to pull the trotline all the way in onto the shore and bait the hooks. The increased tension, provided by the rubber band, pulls it back out into the water towards the stump. Tie it off on a green stick poked into the mud.


With my dad in the stern, Bruce stationed amidships, and myself in the bow with a quick "heave to" we glide from the safety of the firmament onto the glassy surface of Toledo Bend. My Mom, and Bruce’s wife have arrived to see us off. The look of worry on their face makes me wonder if "Edmond Fitzgerald" may be scrawled on the side of the Canoe.


'Stevie, are you sure you don't need a Jacket?".
"I don't think so mom, I'll be awright"


Its a sunny 76 degrees. I glance to Dad who has managed a thin grin. I watch as his cigar rolls from one side of his mouth to the other and the grin never changes. How does he do it?


"Bruce, you boys be careful out there!" shouts Jean.
Jean is the love of Bruce’s life. She is wearing white Clam-Diggers, a flowered top and a crazy straw hat. Looks like a cross between Betty Boop and Minnie Pearl.
"Aw, Jean, I've been doing this all my life" says Bruce.
"You be careful just the same"
"Yes, Mother" Bruce says. They have been married for years, have three kids, and his pet name for Jean is "Mother".


We arrive at our destination, midway between a small island and a point of land. We successfully tie off two of the rubberband trotlines. I am starting to get pretty excited, as is Bruce. My Dad was always coming up with pretty cool stuff and this was looking like a real winner.


Bruce is my dadas best friend,  about 6'5" and weighs in at a good 300 lbs and so far has been pretty good ballast for the Canoe. But when Dad asked for a knife (he had misplaced his) and Bruce stood up in the middle of the Canoe, there was real concern in dads voice as he said;


"Bruce, I don't think you should stand up in this canoe."
"Aw, I have been standing up in Canoes all my life, Jack!


I,  for one, was pretty certain that Bruce had never been in a canoe at all and that we would all soon be very wet.
Sure enough, we rocked once to the left then once to the right- I glanced at Dad who had that Cigar clenched in his teeth- and the canoe turned over and I found myself underwater, slowly rising to the surface.
Now I can see the sky and the bottom of the Canoe.
I can see Bruce break the surface and gasp for some air.
Slowly , very slowly rising to the surface, I see my Dad 's hat, then his nose, and then there is that Cigar. It's still clenched in his mouth and I see him give a few puffs, and there a little smoke, and then a few more puffs and PRESTO! clouds of cigar smoke. Its like magic! He has been fully submerged but that  cigar is still lit!


We made it to shore. We lit a fire from Dads cigar. We stripped down to our underwear and hung our clothes to dry. We heard the rumblings of motors and cars on a gravel road that led right up to us. It was my Mother and Jean and Mom's Southern Baptist Family. They had gotten word and come to check on us.


I am sure they would have stayed away had they known what we were not wearing.
Except for a pair of wet tighty-whiteys, Dad, Bruce and I are bare-beamed and buck naked.


The caravan of cars slowly parades by with those Baptist Bitter Beer faces gawking out the window.
Finally the car carrying Mom and Jean pulls up and stops. Jean climbs out of the car and hollers at Bruce "Just what do you think you are doing there Brucie Boy"
Bruce looks down at me and grins "Just tryin to get dry, Mother"
Jeans got her hands on her hips now and yells at Bruce "Don't you know you can't just take your clothes off any ol' where, light a fire and think you are going to get your clothes dry?"
Bruce looks down at me again and winks "Been doin' it all my life, Jean!"


Man, we did catch some fish that night.