Ray of Sunshine OR Fish are jumpin' and the Cotton is High

It was hot and sunny last Saturday and after I got done painting the bathroom in Clint’s shop and he got done with fixing tractors and whatever else is broken, we went fishing.

  We have a little pond right behind our house. We’ve never stocked it and yet magically, it is filled with crappie and bream and the occasional bass. I have no idea how this happens, there isn’t water running into the pond from a creek or something that would have fish in it…but yet, there they are, along with the frogs, crawdads, minnows, turtles and snakes. It truly is one of those “build it and they will come” sort of things, much like if you put a basketball court up, you will soon have scads of teenage boys dribbling balls and passing and yelling good naturedly at each other.

  I don’t understand how the fish get there, but I don’t question it. I just fish and throw them back, as they are too small to eat and I would just as soon let them be happy and swim around.

  Clint was on one side of the pond, and I on the other. He likes to fish with complicated lures and poles…I like bobbers and worms and minnows. I also will take the fish off the hook myself, carefully grasping the fish so his dorsal spike doesn’t poke my hand or allowing the fish to wriggle and send the hook into my finger. These are things I have learned over time, from fishing as a small child in ponds and lakes and creeks. Hooks are vicious and deadly, their barbs making them hard to remove. I’ve pushed hooks thru the skin on Clint’s finger and cut the barb off  with pliers to pull the hook out. It’s a terrible job and I hate it. So, best to not get the hook stuck there in the first place.

  I think of fishing past, of catching catfish in Granny’s lake on chicken livers. Chicken livers used for fishing are nasty, stinky things that are often so rotten they’d barely stay on the hook. Ray and I would string the livers onto the hooks, wiping our nasty hands right on our shirt fronts. We would smell so bad, mom would make us ride in the back of the truck all the way home.

  Once, Ray and I were fishing in a pond near our aunt Debbie’s house in Mixon (a rural community WAY out in the boonies) before one of those sudden,  summer storms that pop up, roaring and scary.  The catfish were coming to the top of the water, like small sharks, their dorsal fins cutting thru the brackishness. They were agitated and flopping, breaking the surface with big, wide mouths. Catfish don’t really have teeth, but they have rough, snaggly mouths that will break thru your skin if you pick them up by the mouth like you would a bass. You have to pick a catfish up by the gills, and you will hear the grinding, snapping sounds of their “teeth”. Ray got a bite, pulling his line taut. He fought to get the fish in, the pole bending and creaking. Finally, Ray pulled the creature up on the shore.

  It was the biggest snapping turtle I had ever seen. It’s shell was black, broad and shiny. It was fighting and snapping, the fishing line coming from its mouth. It had swallowed the hook, and dug it’s feet in to keep from Ray pulling him up further. It made a strange, prehistoric sound and thrashed it’s head back and forth, back and forth, trying to dislodge the thing from it’s throat. Ray and I didn’t know what to do, so I screamed CUT THE LINE! But we had no pocket knife or pliers, so I took the line in my mouth, the line that had just been in that swirling black water with  rotten chicken livers, catfish, turtles, and cottonmouth snakes. I took it, Ray holding tension, the turtle fighting and pulling against us. I bit down, knowing exactly how to cut the line with my teeth, having done it hundreds of times.

  My teeth cut through quickly , and the turtle flipped backward, line hanging from his mouth. One smooth kick from his feet and he was gone, the only evidence the swirling, dirty water and me with the line still  in my mouth.

  We could hear the storm in the distance, coming swiftly…but we had more chicken liver and the fish were JUMPING now, breaking the surface. So we fished and caught catfish after catfish, stringing them on the stringer. Finally, we could ignore the storm no more and Ray hung the stringer of flopping catfish on the handlebars of his bike and we pedaled the mile back to our house as fast as we could. Lightning struck behind us, the storm seeming to follow us home. Mom cleaned the catfish and rolled them in cornflour and fried them lightly. We ate them for supper, watching TV and listening to the storm outside. We told Mom and Bobbie and Boo about the turtle and the fish looking like sharks as rain fell, coming in sideways from the wind.

  I thought about that as I cast my bobber and worm into my quiet, little pond, sunshine burning my neck in a pleasant way.

  I saw a curious turtle poke his head out of the water and nudge toward my bobber. I pulled it sharply, scaring the turtle and he ducked under the water.

  Then, I noticed swimming toward my bobber…a brown, small snake, it’s back a swirl of patterns. I yelled to Clint “hey! a snake!” and we watched him glide through the water, so graceful. He turned when he got to my bobber and pointed toward me on the bank, his tail gently whipping back and forth, propelling him toward me. I held my breath, not reeling in my line, perfectly still.

  I wanted him to come up on the bank, I wanted to see him closer, his glistening skin, the beautiful pattern of his scales.

  He edged closer and closer. I stood in my flip flops, silent, smelling the fish on my hands I had just released.

 Then he stopped and stared right at me and without so much as a flicker, he was under the water. I watched and watched the edge of the pond, waiting for him to appear. Clint walked over, wanting to go  home and get out of the sun and rest for a little while. I said “I keep thinking that snake will pop up! I’d like to see him!” Clint just laughed and said “woman, what is it with you and snakes? He’s too smart to pop up. He’s hiding.” I stood there for another second, my eyes still searching for a small, brown head. “I might not know where he is,” I stated “but I bet Mr. Snake is watching me right now. I don’t know where he is, but he knows where I’m at.”

  I pulled the leftover piece of my worm off my hook and threw it into the pond and then, doing the thing I’ve done since I was a child, with Ray and Bobbie, something so second nature it was like I was 12 again, the storm coming, the turtle on the line, the string of catfish….I carefully strung the hook onto the pole, securing it so it wouldn’t fly around and hook a finger or a face. It made me thing of the time Ray had walked behind me as I cast, the chicken liver gooey and stinky and heavy ... and as I cast, the hook caught him in the left nostril. I felt it snag and I stopped, freezing in my tracks. I turned to see Ray, the hook hanging from his nose, the chicken liver hitting him on the mouth. I had stopped so soon into my cast when I felt resistance, the barb didn’t break through and I carefully unhooked Ray, my hands holding his face perfectly still. A small trickle of blood ran out of his nose and he wiped it away. We re-enacted this for our family when we got home, Ray hooking his finger in his nose and pulling it straight out to imitate what it looked like, me freezing with total stillness after I felt my hook catch something behind me. I told this story to Clint as we climbed on to the Kubota, hooking my finger in my nose like Ray. Clint listens good naturedly, as he has heard this story, just as he has heard ALL my stories in the last 24 years.

  As we drove around the pond, I saw movement on the edge. A snapping turtle, about 6 inches across, slid slowly into the water as we approached. He watched us for a moment, then with one smooth kick, slipped under the water, the only evidence of him being there a swirl of dirty water, a ripple on the surface.