Fishing along Buffalo Creek during
the Dog Day's of August can be a slow boring experience. Trying
to find something exciting to do in Barrackville, my home town
nestled in the hills of northern West Virginia, was not easily
done. There were no movie theaters, amusement parks, or much of
anything else other than Buffalo Creek. Being eleven years old,
baseball filled my mornings and evenings; however, August ended
the season and left us with little to do other than catching
snakes.
The creek had an abundance of
non-lethal Queen snakes that grew two to three feet in length and
could become as thick as a Louisville Slugger baseball bat.
Intermixed with these, were Copperheads which were poisonous
snakes and made for a hair raising experience when encountered up
close. Most of the time, we could not distinguish the difference
between these snakes and granted each the same respect. Respect
was normally a barrage of rock throwing until they either turned
belly up or swam to cover.
My neighbor, Rod, was notorious
for catching small snakes and keeping them in his pocket. He
would go to the playground or local grill, and scare the girls
into delirium. I was not a snake handler and wanted no part of
them. I used to warn him that some day he was going to pick up
the wrong snake and end up dead. Rod did go on and live a rather
healthy life; however, there were times when I am sure he wished
he was dead.
I recall the time he put a snake
in his pocket, went home and forgot about it. While resting in
his mothers living room, the snake crawled out of his pocket and
climbed up his mother floor lamp. Being cold blooded and needing
heat to warm its body, wrapped itself around the light switch
near the bulb.
Later that day, after supper, I
went to Rod's house to read some comic books. We were lying on
his mothers living room floor, when his mother saw us reading in
the dimly lit room. Without saying a word, she grasped the lamp
with her left hand--stabilized it--reached under the shade to
turn on the switch--when all heck broke out.
She let out a blood curdling
scream that brought three of the neighbors running to the house.
She twirled the thirty pound light around the room like a drum
major's baton, seemingly unable to release it. Finally, she let
it fly--straight through the window. In the mix of the
excitement, I ran through her closed screen door, rolled on to
the front porch and scampered home laughing like I was half wild.
That evening, Rod got two whippings--one from his mom and when
his dad got home, he got it with a three inch mining belt. After
that excitement, I didn't go back to Rod's until his dad fixed
the screen door and his mother's hair had settled down on her
head. I remember her hair kind of stuck straight out for two or
three days.
There were days after the lamp and
snake incident, Rod and I talked and laughed until our sides
hurt. We needed some excitement in our lives but not that
extreme. Sometimes we would just look at each other and
spontaneously start laughing. It was as difficult to look at his
mother and not laugh, too. There were times when we would be
playing in another room at his house and be laughing when she
would yell, "If you boys are laughing at me, I am going to
give you both a whipping." It took a while but eventually we
were all able to set in the same room, talk and laugh about it. I
can assure you, Rod did not take home any more snakes.
Like I was saying, the Dog Days of
August were slow and unexciting. A few suckers under the iron
bridge and snakes were our most exciting moments. Fishing from
the bridge day after day had become a fine art. We did not use
bait during these days, but had resorted to snagging the suckers
with what is called a "treble hook." We placed a sinker
near the hook to stabilize it from blowing in the wind and
drifting in the water. We dragged it through the water until we
had made a good placement under a fish and then jerk. This method
took many tries to catch a fish. Some days I would catch 7 or
8--other days just a few. They ranged from 7 to 20 inches in
length and sometimes weighed as much as 3 or 4 pounds. We didn't
eat suckers because they were bottom feeders and retained a bad
odor.
Not many people who lived in the
Negro mining camps had cars to drive and they would walk across
the iron bridge daily. I knew everyone, being swimming buddies at
the pump house for years, and had a friendly relationship with
all of them. Each day as they walked by, they asked if I had any
fish to give away and would lean over the bridge to look at the
fish I was trying to catch. One of the fellows would come each
day--his name was Pie. I think because he liked pies so much, his
buddies gave him the nickname.
Pie was one of the most likable
guys I ever knew. He was not well to do and appreciated the fish
like they may have been his only meal of the day. He had a deep
fright of snakes. He would always ask me if I had seen any snaked
today and then shiver from his toes to his head.
It was one of those days, he came
walking across the bridge to get his fish, when I snagged a huge
queen snake. As he bent over the railing to see my catch, I
jerked my pole with great enthusiasm. I pulled so hard, the snake
flew over our heads, landing around his neck. He screamed and
flopped around with the three foot queen snake, and then took off
running across the bridge. In the process, the snake fell off and
my hook snagged his t-shirt.
Delirious with fright, he
continued to run at break neck speed across the rail road tracks,
and up the No. 7 Hill. I yelled for him to stop, but it was
obvious he was going to run the entire way home. I ran after him
like he was a great fish on my line. He had taken about 300 feet
of line and bent my fishing pole double. When I was finally able
to set my drag on my reel--with one hard pull--I stopped him dead
in his tracks. Falling down on the road, he squalled, crawled and
cried looking for the snake. I shouted one last time, "The
snake fell off." But he paid no attention, got up to his
feet stumbling, falling and continued to run zig-zagging up the
hill.
The next day when the fellows
walked across the bridge, they walked in the center where the
cars crossed, rather than the walkway where I was fishing. Pie
didn't come to get any fish for several days. When he did, he
climbed up the hill above Rexroad's Beer Joint, and yelled,
"Do you got any fish today? Are there any snakes?"
I tried to tell him it was
accidental and how sorry I was that he had gotten so frightened.
Pie, the good hearted soul that he was, accepted my apology but
never crossed the bridge after the incident, until he had gotten
the "all clear sign." Some days later when Pie passed
my house, I gave him a piece of my mother's delicious apple pie
and that put the finishing touches on my apology. When his
buddies walked by, they would yell, "Hey Joe got any
pie?" "No!" I would yell, "just this big
snake. Do you want him?" That ended any conversation and
caused them all to scatter.
In my home town, exciting times
were there, you just had to find it.
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