Crawdads, Catfish, Corn and Carp

Summertime on Short Creek was a special time of the year for my two brothers and me. Our days were filled with activities such as swimming, bicycling, picking berries and fishing. I remember how Mother Nature hinted that summer was near. The maple trees were peppered with lime green buds, plowed hayfields looked like muddy rivers, and daffodils yearned from the woods' edge. All of these signs signaled that the springtime chill on the waters of Short Creek was soon to be gone, and the early summer sun would shortly be glistening and sparkling upon the waters' shimmering reflection.

The last day of school for summer vacation ushered in all the hopes and possibilities of another great year of summertime adventures. Going fishing was always our favorite pastime. We could not wait to break out our Zebco’s and dig through our fishing boxes. Whenever my younger brother Eric opened his box, he would take in a snout-full of the familiar fishy smell and exclaim, “Pee-u!” I took inventory of my lures, sinkers, bobbins, hooks and line. My older brother Greg stretched apart his great nets to make sure they were without holes. His nets were used to catch crawdads. Every summer we looked forward to catching those crawdads, mostly because it meant getting wet, but also because they were good bait. Greg was a true master at capturing these elusive marine creatures. If not handled correctly, those miniature-looking lobsters of the creek’s realm could inflict pain. Their dark red claws were mighty weapons that would clamp down on your finger. He, however, had a foolproof method of catching them without getting pinched. I remember him sliding down the side of the creek bank and setting up his nets. Next, he would select a rock in the water that he felt would yield a bountiful catch. Then bending over, he would grab the rock, his face cringing as he mustered up strength. With one quick flip the rock spun once in the air and landed in the water, creating a tidal surge that swept the crawdads into his netting. This was always a spectacular event and usually ended with Eric chasing me up the creek bank with a little water snake that got caught in the netting too. I would run home as fast as I could. Defeated, I went to my room crying, throwing my Raggedy Ann and cursing the fact that I was a girl. It seemed I was always in second or third place when it came to competing with my brothers. But soon the competition of all competitions was going to start. The Annual Children’s Catfish Tournament at Schenk Lake was about to begin and this year I was going to win.

The waters of Schenk Lake looked serene that day--perfect for catching catfish. My brothers and I exited our mothers' car and inventoried our bait and tackle. She handed each of us seventy-five cents and said, “Don’t spend it on candy. You can use it to buy a hot dog and a Coke for lunch.”

My rotten little brother Eric looked at my mother and said, “Sure mom, whatever you say.” Then he turned and looked at me with a sinister grin. He flipped one of the quarters into the air, caught it and then placed it with the other two into his pocket. The battle was about to begin.

The three of us waved at our mother as she drove away. Grabbing our gear we ran down to the lake, sending a flock of ducks quacking and splashing into the water, to claim our fishing spots. My older brother Greg always got the best spot, even while carrying a three gallon bucket full of water, crawdads and chubs. He would get the dark-green, cast-iron bench under the large oak tree, midway up the lake’s east side. Many of the best catfish captured at this lake were known to have been caught from this very spot.

I settled for a spot about fifteen feet away from him. A large rock was there and it made for a good spot to sit and organize my gear. Plus, Greg was the competitor to beat this year, and I wanted to stick close. I was not worried about my brother Eric because he didn’t have any patience for catching catfish anyway. He would go for the bluegill, chase ducks, and spend all of his seventy-five cents on milk duds, jawbreakers and popcorn. Also that particular spot caught some of the shade from the oak tree, and old Whiskey Bob, the one-legged veteran, was napping nearby in the grass. Over the years he was my own personal authority on learning the art of catfishing. He claimed to have molded my talent and made me a true competitor for my male combatants.

The first two hours of the fishing tournament went by fast, and the bluegill had eaten up most of our bait. There was less than an hour left and Greg was down to only three crawdads and ten gray, floating chubs. My time was running short and my chances of winning were too. I reeled in my line only to find that my crawdad was gone. Dread was now pouring into my thoughts. I knew Greg was not going to let me have any more of his bait, not even the dead chubs, but I had to ask. I slowly approached him and asked, “Greg, can I have one more crawdad?”

“ Are you nuts?” he replied as he reached down and grabbed a handful of rocks and threw them at me. “Get away from me. I’m getting a bite!” My heart skipped a beat, I was all but defeated. Then, I remembered the old rusty can of corn in my tackle box I had been carrying around for the past two years. I rushed back to my spot, tore out the rusty can, and just as I was about to yell at Greg that I did not need his stupid bait, I realized I did not have a can opener. I dug through my tackle box hoping and praying something within its' contents would open the can. I even tried to open it by slamming the can against the rock on which I was sitting. Then old Whisky Bob, who was now awake said, “I can open it for ya‘.” I sighed with relief. A newly found confidence emanated from my being. I realized the catfish must have been waiting for some tender hors d’oeurves to whet their appetites, and I had a whole can of sweet golden nuggets waiting to be served.

I handed Whiskey Bob the can and he reached for his dog tags on the chain around his neck. Also, upon the chain was an army issued P38 (can opener), and with twelve or so quick twists of his wrist the can was opened. I grabbed the can and raced to bait my hook. Searching the water over for one last time, I cast my line. I knew there could only be about twenty or so minutes left when Greg yelled, “ I got one! It’s a big one too!” His line was drawn tight and his pole was bent over in a half-circle shape.

I thought to myself, If he lands this one it will surely be a record. My thoughts raced as I watched him do battle with the great fish, as it pulled his line from the right and then to the left. My only recourse was to reel in my line and accept my defeat. As I reached for my pole it pulled forward for a moment. I stood paralyzed. Again it tugged--tugged once more-- and then the line went whining and racing. I pulled the pole back to sink the hook. It was set. I was now not only battling the fish but also my brother. We both were on the verge of greatness. Our time was running short. Finally, I was able to see my catch and with one final spin of my reel, I landed it. It came squiggling, splashing and thrashing. It was a big one, at least five pounds and bigger than any fish I had ever caught. Whisky Bob stood in awe and realized his P38 won him a catfish dinner. But then I realized, if I was able to land my fish first , Greg’s fish must be bigger. My only hope was that his line would break. His battle intensified and a crowd drew in around him. I realized I was going to lose the tournament on the day I caught my biggest fish. I thought, Oh, what bittersweet irony.

The crowd grew bigger. Greg yelled, “Get back… I can see him!” There was a large whirlpool forming where his line met the water. We could see the fish rise to the surface and then down again. Greg pulled harder. The water swirled and a wave of it splashed against the bank. A person in the crowd screamed out, “How big can it be?”

Greg demanded to the crowd, “Get back I am bringing him in!” And in a one spectacular moment he pulled the pale monster to the shore and it flopped on the ground.
“I knew it…no whiskers!” yelled Whiskey Bob.

Greg, exhausted, collapsed on the cast-iron bench. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and proclaimed, “It might not be a catfish, but it is the biggest darn carp I’ve ever caught.”

My heart skipped a beat. I won! I won the tournament! My name was going on the board in the boathouse; inscribed on a brass plate. I was part of Schenk Lake’s history now. It was a defining moment in this little girl’s past. It was also the last year I competed in the annual tournament. The following summer I was out to catch a big fish called Donny.