A Catfish And A Tiger

“Daddy! Come quick, come quick, Daddy. I’m going to lose him if you don’t come and help me!” My bare feet were sliding down the muddy bank and when they finally lost the battle the catfish won his and swam away. I had tears streaming down my face when Daddy came into view and he said, “Now Tiger, you’ll get him again.” But it was time to clean the others hanging from the stringer on my belt loop, so I tied up my bag of bread and headed back to the house with him. Today’s catch wasn’t enough for Mom to fry up. I would change that soon enough.

Fishing was a good way to decompress after a long day of being nine years old. I liked to take the soft, white bread and mix it with spit to form the gummiest dough balls. Those stayed on my hook the best and I could cast repeatedly with confidence. I hated to lose my bait. I could only fish after homework and before supper so it was important not to waste time or bait. If I could catch at least six it was a good round. I was three bream in when I saw “my” catfish lurking near the bottom close to a freshly dug bed.

My Zebco wasn’t really the proper pole and I didn’t know about things like the right weight of fishing line back then. A twelve pound catfish would make short work of that flimsy equipment, but in my naivety, it didn’t stop me from carefully placing my bait in the most tempting location for my quarry. And then those pesky ducks! They liked the remnants that my bread created and would invariably find me. I called it a day and threw the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the bread bag. The ducks were squawking happily as I headed away from the shore with my determination digging in yet a bit deeper.

Perched in my favorite cherry tree I was the master of all I surveyed. Though being absent for a whole week from my fishing spot didn’t feel particularly masterful at all. And as I contemplated the consequences for sassing Mom, I was still convinced it was just dumb to say “dungarees” instead of “blue jeans.” From now on I would just keep those corrections to myself. There’s no telling how far away that catfish would get if I didn’t get back down to the lake. My nine year old wisdom didn’t think in terms of the limits of a thirteen acre lake.

After Saturday’s chores were done, I donned my “dungarees” with the strongest belt loops and headed for the kitchen to grab a loaf of bread. It was still early enough that I should have some luck. My toughened feet didn’t require shoes, but after the recent run-in with a kingsnake on the lake trail, I decided shoes might be a good idea. I grabbed Daddy’s floppy straw hat and my prized tackle box. I stopped in front of the fruit bowl and weighed my choices. The bananas were just spotted enough to fail the test so I dropped an apple in Daddy’s hat and was finally ready to go.

Black-eyed susans dotted the banks this time of year. I would pick a bouquet on my way back to take to Mom for the kitchen table. She would put them in the old black kettle and admire the contrast of the flowers to the red checkered table cloth. I smiled to think about her doting around the kitchen baking her “million dollar pound cake.” Tomorrow was the family picnic at our church and Mom’s cake was one of the favorites. It was published in the annual cookbook and everything.

As I drew closer to my spot, I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. My big brother must have stolen some of Daddy’s cigarettes again. I hadn’t caught him red-handed but I knew what he was up to. He would sneak down here to the lake and teach himself to inhale. I had overheard him and his snotty friend laughing about their escapades. It was only a matter of time. I was a pretty big tattletale in those days. I hadn’t fully learned that retaliation could be a real comeuppance.

I settled in and dug out my first piece of bread. Sometimes I would take a couple of bites even though Mom said white bread had the nutritional value of a piece of newspaper. She only bought it for me for bait. I rigged up my line being careful not to nip myself with my pocket knife when I snapped down the blade. My tackle box was meticulously organized and I loved sifting through the little compartments in search of the perfect weight or bobber. I was certain today was going to be the day.

My first cast no sooner hit the water than a tiny crappie took my line down and wasted my bait. I threw him back in and recast a little farther out in a different direction. While waiting for action, I watched baby frogs not long out of their tadpole stage hop around near the water’s edge. It was hard not to leave my pole and go catch a few but I remained vigilant. It seemed like hours but when my pole finally saw action again – it was him. I had relaxed a bit too much and the pull on my pole almost tore it from my fingers.

He put up a fierce fight and my slide down the bank and into the water didn’t alter my concentration. I was going to make Daddy proud today. I toggled between letting the line out and reeling in ever so slowly so the line wouldn’t break. And when he was finally close enough, I wedged the net under his body. The thrill matched that of the shiny pink Christmas bike last year. He had swallowed the hook. So I just cut the line and ran him up the stringer. He was a work of art with his speckles and sharp spines. I decided he would be better dangling from my hand than my belt loop.

But as I gathered my tackle box and pole I was overcome by the urge to turn around and let him go. And he wasted no time swimming back to the murky depths that were his home. I didn’t really understand my decision that day but I knew it made me feel good inside and that was the most important thing. I met Daddy on the way back to the house and he hoisted me onto his shoulders and we sang a silly song about Mr. Catfish. We carefully selected only black-eyed susans that had not been left lacey-petaled by the bugs and hurried home to surprise Mom.