10/23/07
My father grew up poor in Oklahoma. Hunting and fishing were not recreational pursuits. They were done to put meat on the table. My father loved his fishing and hunting. He especially loved hunting for pheasants in the Iowa cornfields after harvest.
But he loved fishing during the warm Iowa summer months for channel catfish around Red Oak, Iowa where I spent my boyhood. Dad would keep a round cardboard tub of shrimp and a package of chicken livers in the freezer over the winter for aging. By spring, they were well aged believe me.
He would thaw both packages out. Then we would head out for Oak Creek where some large blue channel catfish could be found. Under a railroad bridge was a big pool. To fish the best part of the pool required walking the bridge to the far side. Then descending to the creek bank to cast back into the deep part of the pool where the big catfish hung out.
My last time bait fishing started out on a nice warm Saturday in June. I was about 12 years old. The shrimp were stinking to high heaven. And Dad had a fresh package of chicken livers. We arrived at Oak Creek mid-morning. We parked the car along side the country road. Then we carefully crossed the railroad bridge to the far side. I hated the bridge crossing because I was afraid of getting a foot stuck between the ties.
The bridge crossing went well. We enjoyed a great morning and afternoon of fishing. Dad gave me my first taste of beer. My response was Ugh! During the day, I caught a couple of 2 pound channel catfish and Dad caught a couple that went close to 3 pounds. Fish that size on a bait casting rod were fun to catch. By the time we were done, I had used most of the shrimp and my hands smelled awful.
Finally it came time to go. We were about a quarter of the way across the bridge when we heard a train coming. In those days, steam engines were the norm. The whistle was loud and shrill. Dad yelled at me to run. I started to jump ties as fast as I could but not fast enough. Dad grabbed the fishing gear in one hand, threw me under his arm. Then he literally ran the ties to the far side. It must have been quite a sight. Dad was only 5 foot 6 inches tall and weighed 130 pounds dripping wet. He had cut meat since he was twelve years old and was very strong. With me still under his arm, he jumped off the tracks just ahead of the train. This was the second time in five years Dad saved my life.
It took me over a month to get the stink of shrimp off my hands. I used lemon juice, lava soap, plain soap, dirt and several other concoctions.
We went back to Oak Creek several more times but I did not fish. The memories of coming close to death and the stink of well cured shrimp remain with me today.
