Fishing Fever
In the hills of West Virginia, wintertime keeps a tight grip on most
people's outdoor activities. As for this eleven year old boy, there were
plenty of things to occupy my time: sled riding, hunting rabbits and
squirrels, trapping, and exploring the hills with my dog Boy were the fun
thing to do. Even with all of these distractions, summer time fishing and
the big fish that got away, still lingered in the back of my head.
Winter came and went....April was here and it was time to go fishing. The
funny part about fishing in the month of April, I never caught a fish. Yet,
as sure as God loves little green apples, a Big Bend fish story would be
circulated and ‘a fishing' we would go.
Big Bend lay to the east of my little hometown of Barrackville and just
south of Mr. Bane's old house. It was a fast running, large deep body of
water in the Buffalo Creek watershed. This was the place where most of the
notorious big fish were supposed to have been caught in years past. The
banks were several feet high and nearly straight up and down. We were always
very careful not to slip and fall into it, for we believed it to be a sure
death trap.
At school when the rumor started, it spread like wild fire and we soon were
caught up in its mystique. When dawn broke on Saturday morning, my neighbor
Roddy West and I would be off to the fishing hole with dough balls and
fishing worms. To get to the fishing hole, we would walk across town,
through the school yard, past the school principal's house and down through
a large hay field. It probably took 45 minutes to an hour to reach Big
Bend. By then, we had worked up a good sweat. Our clothing consisted of
toboggans, heavy winter coats, two pairs of pants and 12 inch rubber boots
slipped over our shoes. Oh yes, I don't want to forget two or three pairs
of socks.
With great anticipation, we would bait our hooks and wait, wait and wait
some more. This scenario would continue until about noon. By that time, we
had gotten the big fish story out of our heads and go search for a better
place to fish. They say that the grass is greener on the other side of the
fence. Well for us, the fishing was always better on the other side of the
stream. We always liked fishing the sand bars rather than the swift, deep
water bend side of the creek.
Fishing the other side of the creek involved taking off our 12 inch tall
rubber cover boots, which was an arduous task. The boots slipped over your
shoes and had metal latches for closures. Sometimes the latches would be
hard to open especially when your finger tips were nearly frozen. After
unlatching the last of the metal fasteners, we had to pull and tug until it
felt like our ankles were going to pop out of joint. Rod would help me and
I in turn would help him and after a half an hour or so, we both got our
boots, shoes and socks off, rolled up our pants and waded the icy cold
stream.
Once on the sandbar, it was a reverse procedure for putting on the boots.
The sandbar was high and dry and much more comfortable than the wet dirt
bank as we sat down to put on our boots. But with no fish biting, we soon
were ready to go home. Now a decision had to be made. Do we do the ‘tug of
war' and remove our boots or do we chance wading the stream with the boots.
With that vision in mind, we decided to forge across. Thus, the nightmare
begins.
I was an expert at crossing the stream and with great confidence made sure
each step was firmly placed on the slippery rocky bottom. "Come on Rod," I
beckoned, "we can do it." It seemed as though our 12 inch boots had become
hip waders. "Come on Rod," I yelled again, "we can hold onto each other."
Rod moved into the swift moving water and had almost made it to me when he
slipped and grabbed for my shoulder. He struck me so hard, I lost my
balance and we both started stumbling around in the center of the stream.
When it was all over, we both had filled our boots and were soaking wet with
icy cold water.
Knowing that we could not go home with wet cloths, we built a bonfire
several feet high, by which, to dry our cloths. Pulling and tugging at each
others clothes, we got them off and placed them on sticks to dry. This
scene was a play back from other ventures and normally very successful.
Sitting round the fire, eating sandwiches and talking about the next fishing
trip was fun.
The sun sets quickly in the south western skies during the winter months and
long narrow shadows were beginning to form along the fishing banks. It was
getting late afternoon, the fire had burned down, our sandwiches were gone
and most of our clothes were dry.
The only exception would be damp shoes, but we could live with that for the
walk home. We had to be home before our fathers arrived home from the coal
mines. This normally gave us time to clean up and have a happy innocent,
smiling face and daddy's little baby boy as he often called me, would be in
good graces the entire evening. All of this hedged on being home in plenty
of time. I never wanted to disappoint my dad because he worked hard all day
long just so he could be home with his family.
Hurriedly I began to put on my dry, smoke filled clothes. Since we had been
breathing smoke most of the afternoon we were unable to determine that they
smelled more like a smoked salmon. "Hurry, hurry," I yelled at Rod, "you
are taking to much time putting on your clothes." I had my pants and socks
on and he had not yet started putting on his pants. Our shoes did not get
dry. We would carry them home and let them dry over night.
Now it was time for my rubber boots which had set in front of the fire all
afternoon. Sliding them on, oh how good they felt. The warm rubber warmed
my cold feet and I began to walk around felling warm once again. Rod still
taking his good old fashion time, was trying to get his second pair of pants
on when all of a sudden, my feet felt a little too warm. I looked down and
saw, what at first I thought was steam, was actually smoke billowing from
the bottom of my boots. Oh! Oh! I thought my feet are on fire. Surely I
thought, my feet were going to burn. I tried to get my boots off, kicking
and prying but I could not budge them. I screamed, "HELP ME, ROD, HELP, I
AM ON FIRE." Rod just laughed and laughed until he fell backwards over a
log. As for myself, I was dancing like a chicken on hot ashes.
The "Dancing Chickens" was an old trick we used to play on the chickens in
my dads feed lot. Pour hot ashes from the coal fire on the ground and then
throw chicken feed in the center of it. Those chicken used to dance the jig
for several minutes. I guess you could say this was PAY BACK TIME.
Regardless, there was only one option open for me.......jump in the water
again. High stepping across the sand bar like the head drum majorette, I
leaped into the water. Oh my, how good that water felt. It was a few
minutes before the a stark reality set in again. What had I done? My feet
were cold and my clothes were wet all over again. I began to sob and think
out loud, "What my dad was going to do to me?"
As we walked home, I felt cold and depressed. Then Rod got the great idea
to go to his house first, slip up stairs, take off my clothes and wear a
pair of his pants home. It sounded like a good plan.
We got to Rod's house and with razor sharp accuracy, we executed the plan to
the last stair step into his bedroom. Quickly, he dug out a pair of old
jeans which were about two sizes too small for me to wear home. Rod was a
genius and he had saved the day for me.
Running like the wind, I made it to our kitchen door, to hear my father
talking to my mother at the kitchen table. I had no choice, I had to enter
the house and I just knew "my goose was cooked". With a happy face I opened
the door and spouted, "Hi mom, hi dad" and hurried right past dad to my
bedroom. Passing, I could hear my dad remark, "You know that boy is growing
like a weed. His pants hardly fit him anymore."
My mother knew I had been gone most of the day and suspected I had been up
to something but didn't say a word. She knew if dad had found out what I
had been up to this day, he was certainly going to give me a switching. But
being the kind mother that she was, not wanting to disturb my dads evening,
she had said nothing. To this day, I think my mother had given some kind of
head signal to my dad not to stop me. After cleaning up, I went to Rod's
house and got my clothes. They smelled like my dad's smoke house sausage.
The next day was Sunday and still no inquires were made by my mother. I
figured I was home free.
Monday morning was like most Monday mornings. I got up early, had breakfast
with my dad and mom and waved a farewell to my dad as he caught a ride to
work with a friend. I got my books together, gave my mother a big hug and
kiss and was in the process of walking out the door, when I felt her hand on
my shoulder. It was the kind of hand that stops you in the middle of a
sentence or makes you stop on a dime. Mother with a more than kind voice
said, "I believe you are forgetting something". At that moment, as she
offered me a stiff back chair, my guilt returned to me.
Mother sat down beside me and started encouraging me to tell the whole truth
and nothing but the truth about my Saturday smoke filled clothes. I knew
if I lied, I would live a rough life, there was only one thing to do, spill
the beans. I told my story with tears running down my face and a quivering
voice all about my suffering. She was very sympathetic and continued to
encourage me to tell it all. I even told her about the pants that were two
sizes to small. Every once in a while she would leave the room to freshen
her coffee. As I look back on it, I think she left the room because she
could not hold back the laughter.
Monday turned out to be the longest day of my life. After I was finished,
she gave me a cup of sweeten warm milk and instructed me to sit on that
chair the remainder of the day. That's right no school. I would rather
have been given a switching than to be caged on a chair all day long and my
mother knew it. I thought the punishment was tough until I told my dad
about it later in the week. When he expressed his disappointment in me for
my sneaking around and not telling him all about it, I thought I was going
to die. Later that evening, when I went to bed, dad and mom came to my bed
side and told me that they had forgiven me and hoped that I had learned my
lesson.
That was the last time, I ever hid anything from my mother and father. I
found that it was much easier to face the music than to try to avoid the
punishment which I certainly deserved. I love my mother and father for
teaching me this lesson.
The old saying, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" and "Why Joe crossed
the stream?" have some very close ties.
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