Fish Tales
Fish Tales
Fish Tales
Table of Contents
2. 4. 6. 9. 10. 11. 11. 12. Mr. Bass Mississippi River Fishing Ringtail The Hobo Fish Jean Shillings Catsh Farm Lee Shillings Circus Catsh Fishing Fishing with Little Green Frogs
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
Mr. Bass
When I was about ve years old, I was shing with a cane pole on a foot bridge over the Nassawanga creek. My line had just entered the water when the oat sank and a huge sh started to pull me right into the creek. I leaned back and started to pull him out. He leaned back and started to pull me in. I knew I was in trouble so I started hollering, Sally, Sally, Sally, hurry, help me. Sally was our old gray mule, and she was shing further down the bank. You do not see mules shing today, and to tell you the truth other than Sally I do not recall ever seeing any other mules shing. Sometimes she went shing with Rocky, our Rhode Island Red rooster. When she went shing by herself she would go down stream where she would not bother anybody and stand on the bank. When a sh came swimming by she would bellywop in on top and knock him out. Then she would just pick up the oating sh with her teeth and set them up on the bank. Sally always had the largest mess of sh after a trip. Well, that day Sally heard me hollering. She came running up the bank and out onto the foot bridge just before that sh pulled me in. Sally grabbed the butt end of that shing pole and together we pulled out of the water a humongous bass sh the biggest sh wed ever seen. When you stood that bass up on his back ns, the top of my head only came to his shoulder (that is, if a sh had shoulders that is about where my head would reach). My dad was near speechless when he seen my bass. I do not recall the weight and measurements, but if you look up in the Guineas Book of Records you will nd that type of information along with my name and Sallys, since that bass still holds the worlds record for being the largest bass sh ever caught, and that was back in 1936. My dad wrapped that gigantic bass up in newspaper and laid him up in the back of our horse-cart. We shed for a couple of more hours, but best I can recollect we only caught a couple catsh and some perch. By the time we got back home to our farm, that bass sh was all dried out, stiff as a board and stuck to that newspaper. My dad dragged him over to the watering trough. This watering trough was longer then a bathtub, and we kept it full of drinking water for our live stock (cows, horses and so forth). Daddy heaved the bass sh into the water to soak the newspaper off his hide when, you wont believe this, that sh began to swim! He was not dead after all. My dad looked at him swimming and said, lets not eat that old sh. Lets just keep him out of the water and see how long it takes him to do die. Today, youd probably call my dad a pseudo scientist. It was an interesting experiment. Wed leave the bass out on the ground. He would start ip opping around and panting, you know how a sh goes when they are out of water. After an hour or so he would stop breathing, get really still, not even a twitch. Wed walk over and nudge him with our foot. The sh would not move so wed drag him over to the watering trough, put him back in the water and hed start swimming again. The fth night, I forgot to put him back into the water. After all, I was only ve years old and in those days I sometimes forgot things (I still do but now its because Im old). The next morning I went out and saw him on the ground, somewhat bowed a little bit, stiff as a board and dead as a door nail. He even started to smell bad. I do not understand how people eat dead sh! Do you eat dead sh? I dragged him over to the water, put him in and sure enough, he began to swim. I was so relieved! Later I gured out what kept him alive. There was just enough dew on the grass to help him make it through the night. You may not believe this part. In three days time we had taught the bass to breathe in the air. He did not have to go back in the water. My dad helped me to rig a block and tackle under a large branch of our Oak tree. I connected the line to Mr. Bass up about shoulder high just under his top ns. Id started calling him Mr. Bass because he was so much taller then me and deserved my respect. With the line, block and tackle I could hoist Mr. Bass up on his bottom ns. At rst, he could not stand without the rope holding him. For the rst couple of days, he leaned this-a-way and leaned that-a- way, but he nally got his balance. On the third day I turned him loose. He leaned over and started opping his bottom ns until he hit a tree. He bounced off, leaned in another direction crossing the barn yard until he hit another tree. I watched him tacking back and forth through the yard like a sail boat. It was not quite walking, but it was not quite standing either. He probably would have had an easier time with walking if his ns could bend like legs with knees. I remember thinking at the time that he looked like he was walking on stilts. After a few days he got better even to the point where he could ip himself up on his bottom ns. By the end of the week, I had him leash trained. When I came home from school, we would just walk every where. Of course, I knew he did not like the leash, but I told him it was necessary in order for us to go into town together. Mr. Bass was one of the best pets I ever had. The rst time we ever brought him into the house, we found he was already house broken. Mr. Bass and Old Blew, our hound dog, became the best of buddies. They would play hide and go seek, run and fetch and all kinds of games together. Ms. Calico was our cat and she liked to eat sh.
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
Mr. Basspage 3
But Mr. Bass was seven times taller then she was. Well, she learned to love that Bass like some of you young ladies love your brothers. Mr. Bass and I went everywhere together. Wed go to rodeos and wrestling matches and everything together. At home when we would play, Mr. Bass always wanted to wrestle because he could pin me to the mat every time. When it came to rodeoing, I was the best because I always bucked him off my back in under 10 seconds. I remember once when we were all in the house playing hide and seek. Mr. Bass slid under the couch and got stuck. We could not nd him, and he did not call for help. He did not know how to talk. After about three days, he got thin enough to slide out from under that couch. That is when we started to teach that sh how to talk. I ran into problems right away. As bass sh do not have any vocal cords, he could not make any voice sounds. I did teach him to swallow air and belch with a few noises that sounded like words. At least he could call your attention. Now he was smart, and he quickly learned how to nod his body yes or no when you spoke to him. We did nally gure out a way to communicate. Today, when deaf people need to communicate they interpret with their hands. They use both hands for words and one hand to make letters to spell words. When I was a boy, the U.S. Navy did not have the fancy radios they have today. The ships used to talk to each other by waiving ags that spelled words. This type of communication is called semaphore. Mr. Bass and I taught ourselves semaphore, but instead of using ags we used our hands. Well, I used my hands and Mr. Bass used the ns on his upper body. It was slow at rst, but we got faster and faster with practice. I remember that rst winter, Mr. Bass made himself a bed right behind our old wood stove. He did not like cold weather. The following spring, the warm weather had broken up the ice on the creek and the ice oes had washed down stream. My dad called out, lets go shing and catch some supper.
Hush dad, I said. Do not let Mr. Bass hear us talking about going after his kinfolk! Son, bass sh like to eat sh too. Just then, Mr. Bass had come in and over heard us talking about going shing, and he got excited about going with us. He was nodding yes, yes and signing away with his ns that he wanted to go shing too! During the winter my dad had taken some old leather harness straps, and made a chest rig so Mr. Bass could hold his own shing pole. I was surprised. My dad and I hitched Sally, our mule, up to the horse cart and loaded my sister, mom, Ms. Calico, Old Blew, and Mr. Bass. Then we headed off to the Nassawanga creek. Now you need to understand. At the time, I was about six years old. I did not believe in all them liberal ideas like justice and fair play, I was at out selsh. I knew that at the end of the old foot bridge was a deep hole where a bunch of sh always hung out. I knew that whoever got their shing pole into that hole rst always caught the nest mess of sh. So, before Sally stopped that cart, I jumped off the back end with my shing pole and started running for the bridge and that good shing spot. Well, you remember that Mr. Bass used to live in those parts. When he saw me jump out he knew I was cheating, because he knew about the deep hole at the end of the shing pier. He grabbed his shing pole and jumped right out behind me and tried to race me to that spot. But with my knees able to bend my legs up against his stiff ns, I beat him good. I got my shing line into the water rst, and went, na na na na naaa. I turned around just in time to see Mr. Bass trip on a loose board and ip off the dock into the water. Before we could get to him he had drowned. Mr. Bass had forgotten how to breathe in the water, and he never did know how to swim on the surface. I wish we had known about CPR in the old days, we might have been able to dive in and save his life. We did pull Mr. Bass out of the water, carried him home and ate him for supper. As I recall he tasted just like chicken. Fish that taste like chicken must result from eating grits. Grits was Mr. Basss favorite food that winter. AND THATS A SAD, SAD, SAD BUT TRUE STORY
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
I thought this was my lucky day. That is, until we returned to Carlisle County where old Judge Vandegrift recognized his Guernsey cows and hogs. He thanked me profusely, without nancial reward I might add, for rescuing his cows and hogs. They had been swallowed a year earlier during the drought when they were all skin and bones and as thin as fence rails, but after feeding on the corn they had fattened up well. Of course the corn was gone and only the fodder was left. Would you believe? The FBI impounded the gold pieces. They had been stolen in a bank robbery in Memphis, Tennessee in 1881. The robber had been ingested by that sh during his getaway. That is when I learned that sometimes crime does not pay. And Ive been ruined for shing every since. I do not know about you but I do
not ever want to hook on to another sh the size of the one that got away that day. Anything smaller then a 432-pound catsh is just too small for me to bother with. Now I know some of you doubt the validity of this experience, but I have proof. I still have my baby jack knife, Santa Clause gave me when I was just three years old. You see, I was born during the great depression. When a child got to the walking talking stage, they got their own pocket knife. We used that pocket knife to cut that skeleton free and give him a tting burial. The next time you see me, ask me and I will show my baby pocket knife to you. I do not lie. AND THATS A TRUE STORY
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
Ringtail
I might tell you something seven or eight ways but I wont tell you any lies. Ringtail was a pedigreed, Golden Retriever, bird dog. Her nickname was from a black ring on her tail. She lived with my cousin Willie Poole, a man whose porch light was on but nobody was at home. I probably should not say that but he just was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Once I mentioned he had on socks of different colors he said he knew that but he preferred to match his socks by thickness. His Momma had left him well off nancially and he never did work. Whenever he was asked or needed to list his occupation he would always testify that he made a decent living as a proofreader for a skywriting company. Folks would get really quiet and think about that for a while and then just nod. Well, I wanted to tell you about Ringtail she was some dog. I recall once when we had planned to go hunting down on the Pocomoke river. Willie could not get his pick up truck started. They fell to arguing like folks do who have lived together too long. I felt a little embarrassed but Ringtail was right, xed the timing and that country Cadillac red right up. Willie a bit spiteful, said at least he knew how to swim. Ringtail, being pedigreed and all that, she just lifted her nose, rolled her eyes at me and whispered, a hit dog yelps. Later that day we shot a mallard duck and I watched that golden retriever dog with the black ring on her tail go on her tiptoes out over the water to pick up that duck. I understood then what Willie had meant. Ringtail couldnt or wouldnt swim. What a ne hunting and shing dog She was. If you picked up your shing pole she went outside and started to digging up earth worms for bait. Pick up your gun and she would put in her ear plugs and fetch the game bag. She did not care for golf though. She knew if Willie hit into a water trap she would have to duck her head below the surface and retrieve his ball. Ringtail did not like to get her face wet. When it came to hunting you couldnt nd a better partner. I remember once I shot three ducks with one bullet, I know that sounds impossible but not with Ringtail. She just ran around on top of the water and lined the ducks up in a straight line, one behind the other. I loved having Ringtail along when we went oat shing. She would run out over the water carrying a small glass bottomed, wooden bucket. She had thought it up and Willie had made the bucket for her. Every now and then Ringtail would put the bucket down and peer below the surface until she found some big sh. If they were in casting range she would rst ip a bobber over to mark the spot then she would back up and signal where to cast and how deep the sh were so we could set the line. After she would back up a ways shed put the bucket down and watch the sh. Oh some times she would drop a line in with us but to tell you the truth she seemed to enjoy watching us catch the sh. If the sh swam out of range well she would just herd them back in our direction by splashing her tail. Just the tip though, I mean that dog did not like to get wet. There was one time Willie told me that they were shing over in the Tennessee river up above Chattanooga near Soddy Daisy, Tennessee when Ringtail came running off the river in a terror. Ringtail spoke up and said Willie would have been scared too if he had seen the Blue Catsh she had seen. Both of them started in telling about that adventure. As I recall the story, there had been rumors for years of a big catsh that swam back and forth between Chattanooga and Soddy Daisy. The Tennessee River has two big bends and the river widens considerably at those two communities. The catsh was so large that he liked lots of room to make his turns. Hed swim south to Chattanooga turn and swim north to Soddy Daisy and turn around again. If he turned anywhere else he would scrape his sides. Old timers said that sometimes hed swim over to Alabama and stay for a spell if folks got to bothering him too much. Most of the time he could only be seen at dusk or dawn. Folks had taken to calling that catsh Grand-daddy Roberts after a popular local politician and country singer named Dalton Roberts. Well those two decided to catch that sh. I never did gure who came up with what part of the plan. If one thought of an idea for part of the plan the other would recollect mentioning something years earlier that had fomented in the others head like a compost heap and directly contributed to the others later creation of the idea. This type of dialogue went on all the time. I believe those two could have spent years talking about who said what to whom. However, Willies ve year old niece Rachel apparently was visiting with Violet his Moma and after listening to Willie and Ringtail argue, Rachel laid out the plan. What I pieced together was they got a logging chain, rented a barge with a crane hoist and hired a blacksmith shop to build a humongous three pronged snatch hook out of a ships anchor. Up near but below Soddy Daisy in a deep spot, Ringtail had located, they laid down the logging chain with the snatch hook on the end where Grand-daddy Roberts would swim over. The other end of the chain they attached to the barges crane. The barge they secured with several anchors and steel cables over to both river banks where they were attached to some big oak trees. The plan was for Ringtail to scout, that morning before dawn, using an infrared light attached under the glass bottomed bucket. That way she could see that catsh and track Grand-daddy Roberts. When Ringtail gave the signal Willie was to yank up the snatch hook. It was a big plan
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
Ringtailpage 7
that almost worked. They hooked Grand- daddy Roberts just after he had made his turn up at Soddy Daisy and was heading south. Ringtail said he was hooked back near the tail. The timing was just a tad off in pulling up that three pronged snatch hook but one of the prongs got him. Granddaddy Roberts got to the end of the chain and for about ten minutes the crane on the barge was pulling him in and I mean he was giving them a ght. Suddenly he swished his tail and the prong on the hook busted clean through. The catsh did not turn around at Chattanooga but kept heading south and was last seen down in Alabama. The hooks tempered steel prong was six inches thick where it broke. This all happened a long time ago before sport shing had gotten started. Today any sher woman worth her salt would have told them they should never have tied down the barge. With a big sh, you need to play them some in order to catch them. With the barge on as a drag the prong would never had busted. Its hard to believe but I have seen it that shing hook with the busted prong. Outside and north of Oak Ridge and Knoxville, Tennessee along I-75 there is a place called the Appalachian Museum that is lled with antique log cabins and buildings which are lled with antiques. In the second barn where they have the old time shing gear and next to the shing gigs you can see that huge snatch hook with the one busted prong. Above the snatch hook hanging on the wall is a framed photograph of a huge catsh and you can see a tear near his tail uke with the steel barb from the snatch hook still imbedded. I have been there, I have seen it.
I remember the time like it was yesterday when they shared that story. In the evenings when we would sit around and tell stories Ringtail would always retell her favorite story about her brother. The one who became a seeing eye dog and how his master, who was blind, would go into a store, pick him up and turn him around and around in the air until a sales clerk would ask if they could be of service. Then his master would laugh and say, no, Im just looking around. To tell you the truth sometimes that story after several tellings would get kind of monotonous but she was some dog. Ill never forget our last sad hunting trip together. Willie and I were after a bear and Ringtail had crossed a small creek. She ushed up a pheasant, just for practice you know. She was chasing that bird when all of a sudden she tried to stop. We could see her claws kicking up dust as she tried to dig into reverse. If there was one thing that poor dog was scared of it was snakes and Ringtail had seen a poisonous, copperhead snake. Ringtail died that day. No, not from snake bite though. She stopped so fast that ring of black fur on her tail slid up over her body, around her neck and before we could get to her she had choked to death. Wed tried CPR but we were too late. I was a young teenager then But that was a lesson in life. Sometimes quick stops can be dangerous. AND THATS A TRUE STORY
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
Cleve and I sat and talked a spell. A great philosopher, Cleves favorite sayings are; Its later then its ever been, Its better to die childless then to parent an orphan and my favorite Always explore the gray area between yes you can and no you cant. His boat landing is next to the bridge that allows the Suwannee river to pass under state road 135. That afternoon we both heard this rumble kind of noise. We looked and here comes from up stream a sh so big its sides were scraping along both banks. When that sh reached the bridge it could see it couldnt squeeze under so it reversed its n movement and backed up. The
next thing we knew, that sh was coming down stream again full throttle, so to speak, and leaped up out of the water and over the bridge. What caught our attention was the fact that as that middling sized sh was coming down on the other side of the bridge a larger sh jumped up and swallowed him. Later after we thought it over we agreed it must have been the same noise that had caught our attention that had caught the bigger shes attention. To tell you the truth that was a strange day. AND THATS A TRUE STORY
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
Fishing
That is a pretty area along the Ohio river. It reminded me of a time in my childhood listening to my dad and neighbors talking on the back steps about shing. They were chicken shing for supper. When I was a child we would sit on the back steps with an old cane pole, about ten feet of line. For chicken bait we would drill a hole through a kernel of corn and tie the corn on our line. When we were ready wed chum with corn. That means wed throw a handful of corn into the barnyard to bring the chickens in. Cast your piece of corn among the chicken and in no time you have one on the line. Chickens ght better then sh as I recall. That day Silvester remarked how he caught a sh one day last week in the Nassawanga creek. A sh so big then it was longer then the creek was wide. My Dad never blinked. He said, yes Ive seen sh like that, poor sh cant hardly turn around, just go forward and backward but I never had the privilege of catching one. Last Saturday I did hook onto an old antique railroad lantern and when I pulled it out of the water it was still lit. Sylvester said, still lit Jim? That is hard to think on and a might hard to consider swallowing. Dad said, well Sylvester if you will lob about 10 feet off that sh Ill blow out the light in the lantern. Rutledge spoke up and said, I prefer to do my shing with chewing tobacco. I just cut up a plug into small bits and spreads the chunks in the water. Trout sh love chewing tobacco, when they come up to the surface to spit I smack them with a pole and knock them out. My mother piped in then from the kitchen door, I prefer using small paper bags, size of lunch bags, maybe three or four with each holding a smallish rock. You put four seltzer into each sack and just drop them in the water. Rocks suck the sacks to the bottom and when the water pours in the seltzer rises out of the sack. Bass see the zzling seltzer rising in the water, silly sh, they think its wounded minnows. They swim in, swallow the chunks which keep zzing and blow up their little tummies like balloons. They roll over and oat up to the surface. I use a dip net on a long pole. You got to move fast. As they come to the surface the gas pressure is increasing and the water pressure is decreasing. They tend to belch and swim back down. AND THATS A TRUE STORY
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.
These Fish Stories are collected and adapted for telling by Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin. Permission to use, revise and tell the stories from this manuscript is granted to the storytelling public.