Are You Nuts?

This winter has been a nasty one for a lot of folks. To say that I am sick and tired of it would be a gross understatement. The past four days here it has been gloomy, cold as hell, spitting snow. But today, finally the sun came out in all its glory. The temp about 10 degrees. So I bundled myself up and went out for a walk.

There's a school up the street from me with a 1/4 mile running track. The walk to the track and back and one trip around the track is about a half mile. I haven't walked much the past few months, so a half mile would be far enough until I get my walking legs back. On the way back home, my back started to hurt, my knees were giving out, I was colder than a well-digger's ass, and my nose was running like an open spigot. But the sun was so bright and awesome, it was worth it.

When I got to my porch, I didn't really feel like going inside. So I sat on a lawn chair on the porch. Well, the sun moved off my porch, and it was pretty dumb to sit there in the shade in 10 degree weather. So I picked up the chair and moved it to the center of the driveway where the sun was still full. I sat and enjoyed the looks of the people that drove by in their cars, and waved to a few of them. I saw my neighbor from across the street come out with just a sweater on. He hugged himself as he tried to stay warm and crossed the street.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.
"What the hell does it look like? I'm sunning myself."
He shivered. "Do you know what the temperature is?"
"Yeah"
"What's the matter with you? Are you nuts?"
I took off my sunglasses and looked at him. "Let me get this straight. You're out in almost single-digit weather with just a sweater on and you ask me if I'm nuts? "

He shook his head and went back across the street. I sat in my chair about a half an hour, until jack frost did more than just nip my nose, he downright chawed on it. I went in the house and saw my little dog was asleep in the chair, belly-up. She didn't bother to get up, but wagged her tail a few times. I rubbed her belly, she went back to sleep. All the excitement had made me tired too, so I laid down on the couch to get some zzzz's.

As I laid there, I thought about that old song, "What The World Needs Now Is Love". I agree with the sentiment, but in our modern day it can be pretty damned hard to keep love in your heart when you're working your ass off, dead on your feet, and got a lot of worries on your mind. So maybe before the world can even handle all that love stuff, what the world needs right now is a nap. Not just a 10-minute power nap either. But a belt-unbuckling, pillow cuddling, mouth-slobbering, dead-to-the-world nap. For at least an hour. So I took one. I wish all of you could have done the same. And some people call me nuts...

The Ring And The Finger - Any Old Finger

Most everyone knows the tradition of wearing an engagement ring or wedding ring on the left hand. As to which finger, we all know which finger. It's a matter of which finger we want to call it. For some, it is the fourth finger of the left hand, the ring finger. For those that have a penchant for accuracy (and perhaps hair-splitting) they say it is the third finger of the left hand. The thumb is not technically considered a finger, but a thumb. An opposing thumb, to be more exact. And we all know that a finger is not a thumb, and a thumb is not a finger.

Now that we've got that out of the way, there is a current trend for finger rings to be worn on any finger on either hand, not just the ring finger. Rings are even worn on toes, but those are not finger rings. They are toe rings, and are off the subject. So what is the subject? The symbolism that goes with a ring on a specific finger, that's what. I've read a lot about it, some of it interesting, some of it pretty far out there. So here's my tongue in cheek interpretations of wearing rings on specific fingers. Take it or leave it:

Thumb - Forget about the thumb technically not being a finger. For this discussion, it's a finger. The thumb is the finger of willpower, so some say. It is typically thought of as being separate from the fingers, (again with the hair-splitting!) thus is a sign of independence. It is also a finger of power. Thumbs up or thumbs down as an example. So a person wearing a ring on the thumb is independent, has strong willpower, is powerful, and is a hair splitter, best I can figure out.

Index Finger - First finger or second, as you like. The finger that is wagged and pointed. It literally reeks of authority. And also stubbornness, being bossy, being condescending, and the need to be in control. All positive attributes if you're trying to bully your way through life. A ring worn on this finger means you are an authority freak and want everyone to know it (as if they didn't already).

Middle Finger - or second finger, as you like. The finger of identity. It is the strongest finger of the hand, and can also represent a tremendously large ego. No wonder it is the finger used for the well-known obscene sign of defiance and disregard. A ring on this finger can mean a whole slew of different things, so the poobahs say. But my interpretation is that a ring worn on this finger reveals that the wearer is nothing more than a vulgar egomaniac.

Fourth Finger - Or third finger, or ring finger. The tradition of wearing an engagement ring and wedding ring on the ring finger of the left hand is not universal. Some cultures wear it on the right hand. in either case, the ring finger is a symbol of creativity. It is also the least independent of all the fingers. Because the vast majority of people that wear rings wear them on the fourth finger, there is no end to all of its positive attributes, and hardly any bad attributes associated with it. I wear a ring on the ring finger of each hand, so I agree.

Little Finger - Or fourth finger, or pinkie. The finger of relationships. It is farthest from the thumb, and we all know that the thumb is the 'hooray for me' finger. So the pinkie is opposite from meaning from the thumb. Despite its smaller size, it is a big symbol about anything the person wearing a ring on it wants to acknowledge, most of it flattering.

After all that, there remains but one more possibility, one more symbolic reason people wear a ring on a finger. This possibility applies to any finger of any hand. Perhaps, just maybe, despite all the new age malarkey and abba dabba silliness, people just like to wear rings. On any finger. Period.

When Did Humans Start Wearing Clothes?

There are many schools of thought and belief about the origins of humans. Some purely religious, some purely scientific, some mix the two. Regardless of which school of thought, it seems obvious that the first humans on this earth lived in warm climates. I suppose there are those who will argue about this, but I am proceeding under the assumption that the first humans lived in a climate that was sufficiently warm to keep them alive without clothing.

Pursuing that thought can reveal possible reasons humans began to wear clothing. For warmth and protection, especially when humans begin migrating to colder climates. Further down the line of human progress, the naked body became taboo and modesty came into the picture. It's very easy to come up with some reasons for wearing clothes. But now ask the question, "When did humans begin wearing clothes?"

Not an earth-shattering question. Perhaps not a question many people would think very important (or possible) to get an answer to. But there are those who burn with the desire to get an answer to this question, believe it or not.

Groups of researchers have thought of possible ways to determine the approximate date of apparel wearing. One idea says this could be determined by analyzing the date of origin of human body lice. The reasoning is that since humans have sparse body hair, the only way human body lice could survive would be in clothing. Seems an awfully long stretch to me. What about lice jumping off an animal and chowing down on a human? But supposed serious research has been done under this premise.

So how to determine when body lice appeared on humans? Simple. Take a modern day louse and do a genetic analysis of it. One group has determined that the human body louse appeared roughly 107,000 years ago, thus humans began to wear clothing about the same time. But nothing is that simple, let alone the ancestral DNA of a louse, for yet another team of researchers did the same genetic analysis on the modern louse and determined that it appeared roughly 540,000 years ago. The two groups are still haggling about it.

This is all according to some articles I've read on the Internet. Of course, reading something on the Internet doesn't make it so. It is hard to believe that scientists would take the trouble to invest effort, time and money on such a project. And just think of how many innocent body lice had to be sacrificed.

While I can't verify all of this, as ludicrous as it seems it most certainly is possible that this research has happened. Especially if you consider these other areas of research, a mere handful of crazy research projects I found while surfing the 'net:

• Arm pit odor research.
• Research to determine the relationship between beards and hierarchy.
• Research to prove that familiar children's nursery rhymes were written by aliens.

After reading those, the possibility of scientists hovering over a dead body louse and extracting its DNA to determine when humans began to wear clothing doesn't seem so far fetched. But if this research did take place, I don't mind saying I think it was a lousy idea.

I Never Did Believe In Santy Claus!

At Christmas Time, folks tend to get nostalgic, remembering how Christmas used to be when they were a kid and all. I can remember very well how Christmas was for me, when I was around five years old. The year would have been 1957:

The season started the day after Thanksgiving. Not with getting up early for the 'Black Friday' shopping debacle. There were some folks that did do shopping that day, but it was nothing officially designated with all thehooplah as it is now. We would go to the guy on the corner that had a bunch of trees huddled underneath a light bulb that hung from a drop cord. That was the 'official' start of the season for us. Trees freshly cut from someone that grew them locally. The house I grew up in had nine foot ceilings, so we'd get a big one. Dad would supervise as the older kids cut an inch or two off the bottom of the trunk to help the tree soak up the sugar water we would 'feed' it. Screw the tree down tight in the tree stand, drape Mom's home sewn tree skirt around it and decorate it. The older kids would get the top, the younger kids would get the bottom. We had the old time big lights, bubble lights, a huge box of ornaments, all of them ended up on the tree. We tried stringing popcorn a few years, but with seven kids in the house, no food was safe. Especially popcorn. Throwing the tinsel on the tree was the final ritual.

Then us kids waited for the next step, the arrival of the Montgomery Wards and Sears Christmas catalogs! When they arrived, Mom and Dad would tell us to look through them, put a circle around what we wanted and write our initial in the circle. That way SANTA would know what to bring us. I had my suspicions about the validity of this Santafellah. It just didn't sound right, even to my young ears. My suspicions would turn into full-blooded disbelief on Christmas Eve.

The next step in our Christmas ritual was shopping. With no shopping malls, trudging from store to store in the cold and snow was the practice of the day. Like most kids, I loved the snow. Looking back it sure seemed like it snowed more then. But the memory can be afooler . It's probably seems that way because six inches of snow is a lot deeper for a five-year old than a fifty five year old. My Mom , my little brother and I made our way from store to store, and when there were so many packages we couldn't carry any more, we went back to the car. It was at this tender age that my thoughts about the Great, White-Bearded Fat Elf turned from the fog of suspicion to the beginnings of disbelief. For if SANTA gave the presents to people, what were WE doing all this shopping for?

Then a wondrous thing happened. This Santa guy showed up in our town! And he was fat, had a white beard, and said HO HO HO! It was enough to make me wonder if Santa wasn't for real! In 1957, Santa had his own 'house' on the corner where the YMCA was. Not much of a house, some plywood nailed together with a roof. But it was painted red and green, and had a window the kids used to get a glimpse of Santa while they waited in line to get into his house. My little brother and I waited in line on a very cold afternoon. My Mom stood off to the side with the other mothers, all of them smiling as they talked. It began to snow, and my little brother's nose began to run. Right on down under his nose, over the lips and down the chin. But he fit right in with most of the rest of the kids that had the same problem.

My little brother went in before me, but he didn't last long. He was about 3 years old, and ran out of Santa's house squawling like a pig stuck under a gate. Santa scared hell out of him. But that didn't deter the rest of us. We'd seen other 'sissies' that did the same thing. I was next, and by now I was downright curious about the whole thing, so I marched into Santa's house, and plopped myself on his lap. He gave a loud HO HO HO and asked me if I had been a good boy. Of course I answered in the affirmative. Then he asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I told him I already had circled all I wanted in the catalogs, so he should already KNOW. Santa said he didn't know anything about any catalogs. He asked me again. So I told him a few things, but he didn't inspire much confidence (or belief) in him if he didn't know about the catalogs. Besides, he had the smell of beer on his breath and cigarette nicotine stains on his fingers. I never heard of Santa being a beer drinker, and everybody knew he smoked a pipe. I left his house very unimpressed.

Fast forward to Christmas Eve. Dad would get Grandma and bring her to our house for the holidays. She lived about 50 miles away, and he always went on Christmas Eve day, come hell or high water or deep snow and cold. Grandma was a short woman. Her family was Polish mostly, with a little bit of German thrown in for good measure. Dad would get back, drive up to the house with Grandma in the front and three cases of beer in the back. Dad liked his beer, and he came by it honestly because Grandma liked her beer too. All of us would line up in the living room to welcome Grandma. She would pinch each kid's cheek, and give them a beery kiss. When she pinched the older (and taller) kid's cheeks she'd hold on and pull them down to her level for the kiss.

Our family tradition was to open our gifts on Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad would take all the kids (except my oldest brother) to look at the Christmas lights. Now that was a pretty big deal, even for me. We'd come back home in about an hour, and there would be all kinds of presents under the tree that weren't there when we left! A miracle! Mom and Dad would make a big deal out of telling us that Santa must have visited while we were gone. But I noticed my oldest brother sitting in the kitchen. He was all red in the face and sweaty. While everyone else got more and more excited, I walked into the kitchen and asked him point-blank, "WasSanty really here and bring all them presents, or did you haul them down from the attic?" He told me to shut up. But it didn't matter. I knew that's what happened. I knew all the presents had been in the attic. I had gone present hunting (my brother called it snooping) and found them . But I didn't make a big deal out of it. My Mom and Dad seemed to be getting a lot of enjoyment from the whole thing. So I played along with the Santa bit, and joined everybody else in unwrapping presents.

We never really had a sit-down supper Christmas Eve. Mom would make a big pot of meatballs, or home made pizza, or something similar and we'd 'graze' on the stuff as we took stock of our presents. We'd stay up until the wee hours playing and eating, with my Mom watching and smiling and my Dad drinking beer and playing with our toys. Grandma would try to stay up late with us, but after so many beers the dear old soul would be a combination of tipsy and tired, start talking about Grandpa (who had been dead for years, Grandpa was 30 years older than Grandma) and begin to cry. Some of the kids would help Grandma into her room, and get rewarded with another beery (and teary) kiss. Mom and my sister would get her ready for bed and tuck her in. Eventually everybody would wind down, and we'd head for bed. It was usually a short night.

We used to have a real goose for Christmas Dinner, and we'd get up with Mom and help her get things ready. My Dad would give Mom a Christmas Goose too, but I didn't understand what that was all about until I was older. We'd eat Christmas Goose with all the trimmings, then settle in and play with our stuff some more. Mom, Dad and Grandma would sit at the kitchen table, play cards and drink beer. Except for Mom. She was a teetotaller, so she'd drink tea.

So that's how Christmas was when I was a kid. They are all good memories, even Grandma's beery kisses. She's been gone since 1977, and what I wouldn't give for her to be here and give me one of those kisses this year. Mom and Dad are gone, my oldest brother too. The rest of us have gone our separate ways, and for various reasons (none of them good) we don't see each other much. But life goes on. I've got my share of good memories. Some people do not even have that. So there actually much that I am thankful for, despite the troubles in the world and in our country. Even the memory of the fabricated jolly old elf that so many people tried to convince me existed (that I don't think I EVER believed in) is a good one. A fabrication it most definitely was, but at least in those times it seemed like it was an innocent one. At least it appears that it did no harm to me.

But as I've already said, the memory can be a fooler. Although I do look back, I have no desire to go back to those times. I've never bought into the 'Good Ol' Days' nostalgia business. It is far too easy to remember bit s and pieces of what you want to remember and color those memories differently than they actually were. The only things I really miss about those times are the people that were in them that are no longer here. The rest I can do without. And that includes SANTY CLAUS, HO HO HO!

Christmas Peeves!

Call me an old Scrooge, but here are some of my PET PEEVES about the Christmas Season:


1) The Little Brass Bell - The Salvation Army is a very worthy organization. The number of folks they help during the holidays and all year long for that matter, prove that. But I must say, I get so damned tired of hearing THAT LITTLE BRASS BELL being ding-a-linged, I could pull out me hair! It isn't the idea that there's a real ARMY of folks standing on street corners and in malls collecting money. Like I said, they're a very worthy charity and I give something most every time I pass one of the collection pots. But the incessant ringing of the bell! Sure it draws attention, but the sound of the thing, especially indoors, permeates the air and goes through my head like a hot knife through butter. No doubt some would say the reason it goes through my head is that there's nothing in the way to stop it. Be that as it may, the sound irritates me, sets my teeth on edge. It is so annoying I have actually told the person ringing the bell that I'll only donate if they QUIT RINGING THE DAMNED THING until I'm out the door or out of earshot! No bell ringer has respected my request so far, but I still put the money in the pot. Our church volunteers to do this bell-ringing every year. My wife does it, many folks do. I don't. I have made my feelings known, and they don't bother asking anymore. So call me a Scrooge, call me a stick-in-the-mud, or any other name you want. I still can't stand the sound of that brass bell!

2) Christmas Carols - Every year, the same old songs. Over and over again. This in itself would be bad enough, but there's always some joker singing a carol that thinks they have to embellish the bejeezus out of it. A simple melody is transformed into a vehicle for their astounding vocal gymnastics. Crap! Just sing the damned song, will ya? To be fair, it isn't the songs. It's the endless repetition of them. No matter where you go, you hear them. The bank, the grocery store, the dentist, the doctor. These 'joyous noises' creep into my head like an annual fungal infection of the auditory system whose only cure is the passing of the season. I can't even sit out in my car while the wife shops without hearing the damned things. And after being bombarded with them day in and day out, people STILL buy recordings of them? Enough already!

3) Holiday Shoppers - It begins on the infamous 'Black Friday'. No, not the crash of the stock market in '29. The day after Thanksgiving. Stores open early, one opened up at 4:00AM near us. People (or rather WILD ANIMALS THAT SEEM LIKE PEOPLE) line up long before the doors open. The prey? Bargains! It's like watching a feeding frenzy of pirhanas. I avoid stores on Black Friday like the plague when I can, but this year a refill for medication (which I forgot to get earlier) necessitated me going. I waited until 5:00 PM, and by then the teeming throng had dwindled. The shopping center looked like the aftermath of a pinata-busting party. Tables that only hour before were heaped with bargains now only held the pawed-over remains. And again to be fair, it isn't the idea of getting a gift for someone that annoys me so. It is the lengths people will go to 'prove' they care about someone, that they will subject themselves to these horrors and become part of the horror themselves. But there is one part of Holiday Shopping I relish. I try to make it to the local shopping mall on Christmas Eve. About 2 hours before closing time. I willingly fight to get a parking spot, wedge my way in the door, but not to shop. To observe. I jump into the first empty seat on a shopping mall bench, and just watch. The noise, the bustle, the tension, on occasion the downright brutality of the johnny-come-lately shoppers on Xmas Eve is a study in human behavior. Every psychologist should have to do it. It's a real eye-opener. Sometimes it gets ugly, and makes Black /friday look like a tea party. I try to stay until all the stores are closed, and mall security is hustling what;s left of the human wreckage out the door. If I'm fortunate enough to be the last one out the door (it's happened on occasion), I give thanks for the incredible peace and quiet after all the broohaha.

4) The Day After Christmas - If the start of the holiday selling season is called Black Friday, what should we call the end of the season? you know, the day when everyone wants to exchange or get a refund for all the crap that they got that is either the wrong size or not what they wanted. The day when the lines at the service desks and exchange counters are so long and wide they look like some sort of horrible anaconda from hell. I can't think of a word or term that is appropriate, but it is a sight to behold. If you ever have the chance to be an outside observer of this phenomenon (if you are a part of the anaconda, you'll get no sympathy from me) the same people that made up the throngs on Black Friday make up the length and breadth of the anaconda. Is there something nefarious going on here? Are these humans merely unthinking cogs in a vast corporate conspiracy to deprive them of their money, dignity and time (mostly their money)?

These complaints but scratch the surface. But if I go any further, I'll have to rant about those who complain about The Holidays. I'm not going there. I refuse to call myself such names. I also will not wish everyone the usual seasonal greetings. But I will wish that you all have a Restful Christmas, and a Peaceful New Year. Those are the things I want for myself, and for everyone.

A Cell Phone Rant

Pet peeves, we've all got 'em. One of my many pet peeves is the cell phone. Well, not the cell phone itself, but the way some people use it. You know what I'm talkin' about. Standing in line, waiting to check out at a store with a bonehead in front of you talking on the phone, juggling a kid on the hip, digging in her purse for a credit card. All the while, the line grows larger, along with my impatience.

Now if her phone rang while she was checking out, that would have been different. Carry a phone, either let it ring or answer it. But she CALLED someone JUST AS SHE GOT UP TO THE COUNTER. And was it an emergency that just couldn't wait? HELL NO! Before you ladies get steamed that I'm only pickin' on the female gender, there's just as many bonehead men that possess a cell phone. And they irritate me just as much! This is a completely non-gender specific rant for sure.

How many times have I been in a public place, and I hear someone say 'Hello', turn around and say 'Hi' back before I realize they're talking on the phone. How many times have I heard the damned loud, annoying ring tones some people have in a restaurant? How many times have I gone to a park to take a walk to enjoy the peace and quiet, only to have it disturbed by some bonehead on the phone (or with a boom box, but that's another rant)?

Another thing, why in hell do people talk so LOUD on a cell phone in public? Really, the person on the other end also thinks you're yelling. And the rest of the world doesn't need to know that your kid hasn't pooped in two days, or your girlfriend farted on your last date, or that so-and-so is having sex with what's-their-name behind you-know-who's back. At least I sure as hell don't need to, or WANT to know.

I really do not care for cell phones, so of course I have one. My wife's idea. The dog has a collar and leash, so do I. An electronic one. But it is just a phone. Not a camera, not a camcorder, not a video game machine, I can't access the internet with it. It's just a phone. My wife has a knack for calling me at the most inopportune times. For instance, while minding my own business using a public restroom, my cell phone rang that was in my shirt pocket. I could carry a cell phone for the rest of my life, and it will ALWAYS startle me when it rings. I was standing in front of a urinal, doing what men do when they stand in front of a urinal. The phone rang. It startled me, not a good thing standing in front of a urinal. I answered the phone. My wife asked, "What ya doin?" Whenever I answer the cell phone, she asks me the same thing. "What ya doin'?" Talking on the phone, of course! The next thing she asks is, "When ya comin' home?" After peeing down my pant leg, real soon dear. Real soon.

So is it too much to ask for a little common courtesy regarding cell phone use? Or is common courtesy like common sense, not so common? Is it too much to ask for people to step aside to make a phone call, or to step outside or somewhere out of the way when answering a phone? How about turning the thing to vibrate mode when in a restaurant or movie theater, or even a CONCERT HALL, and stepping into the lobby to answer the thing? Or better yet, how about just shutting the damned thing off!

And another thing, you men and your cell phone holsters. What the hell is up with that? In the old west days men wore a six-shooter on the hip, now a cell phone? Do you know how silly you look, how aggravating it is...wait a minute. My cell phone's ringing...if I know what's good for me I BETTER answer...

Takes A Lickin' And Keeps On Tickin'

You guessed it, another Clyde story from my memory bank! (Who's Clyde?)

Yeah, I done a lot of fishin' in my day. Don't matter what's bitin' I like to catch 'em. Even Carp. Most folks think Carp's a junk fish and ain't no good to eat. That ain't so. Gotta know how to clean 'em, gotta know how to cook 'em. And the bigger the fish the better. My favorite way is to smoke them Carp. Used to have a smoker, and when we'd get a mess of big Carp, that's what we'd do. Nothin' better than to eat smoked Carp on a hot summer evening and drink beer.

Do most of my fishin' these days with a pole, but I used to run outlines and jug fish a lot. Jug fishin's a real good time. Back in them days we'd buy a couple cases of cheap beer in bottles, drink one case of it, stopper up the end of the bottle so it'd float. Then we'd tie a hunk of fishin' line on the bottle neck and a hook on 'ta other end. Bait them up, set them driftin' on the water, lay back in the boat and drink beer until you see the bottles a bobbin' in the water. You get a case or two of 'jugs' out there, and it could keep you mighty busy!

But my favorite fishin' is for big ol' lunker catfish. I'm talkin' flatheads bigger than 20 pound. In my younger days I used to go catfish hoggin'. Ya'll get in the water, look for an undercut place along the bank. That's where them big catfish like to roost. You find a likely place, and start feelin' around under the water until you find one. Gotta be gentle, not move too fast. Them fish can be skittish. You tickle that big ol' cat's belly, and it calms them down. Give 'em a good belly rub, and it kind a puts them to sleep. Do that for a spell, then grab 'em! Inside the gills is a good place, but man them gill slits are sharp and cut your arms up fierce. But you pretty much have to grab 'em where you can. If you're lucky and got a big one, hang on brother! A thirty pounder will give ya'll a tussle and a half! Plum tucker you out to get him back to shore too.

Reminds me of the time me and a couple buddies went out on the river years back. You got to know where to look for them lunkers, and there's some mighty deep holes we knowed about that them cats liked to be. When you fish for the big ones, don't never set your pole down when the bait's in the water. Them cats will play around with the bait a spell, but when they take it, they take it fast, and you ain't gonna grab that pole quick enough. You could lose your pole, reel and all in a flash.

Now you talk to ten different catfish men, and you'll get ten different favorite baits. Some guys swear by night crawlers, some by dead minners, some by stink bait. A catfish will eat 'bout anything, truth be told. I done caught cats on all those kind of baits, but my favorite is chicken guts. Fresh chicken guts. That's what gets the big 'uns. We knowed a guy what butchered chickens, and we could get all the fresh guts we wanted.

We cut the motor when we got close to the hole, and drifted the rest of the way in. Last thing ya'll want to do is make noise. No clangin' and bangin' in the goddam boat, whisper when you talk. Them fish pick that noise up through the water and they're gone! We quietly baited up, and cast into the hole. Weren't about 2 minutes when I felt somethin' a nibblin' at my bait. You got to pay attention, 'cause even a big fish can be gentle like when they start. You got to be patient too. Got to know the right time to set the hook, or you just gave a catfish a free dinner.

That fish toyed with the bait for quite a spell, then I felt him take it. I pulled up on my pole with ever thing I had, and 'bout pulled my arms out of the sockets. That fish didn't move! Lord have mercy, he was a big 'un! He started to run, and I held the pressure on the pole. Felt like he was hooked real good, and he was playin' out a lot of line.

There's one thing 'bout them big cats, they fight like hell. So I held my rod high, and he started to tucker out. I started pumpin' my rod up and down, takin' in line, and finally got his big ass up to the boat. Son of a bitch, he was a monster! I hollered to my buddy, "Get the net, get the net!" But there 'twern't no net. We remembered the beer, but forgot the net.

I got the biggest cat I ever seen on my line, and no net to get him in the boat! I kept playin' him to tucker him out even more while a buddy got on each side of me. I was gonna get him as close to the boat as I could, and they was gonna grab him. He finally quit shakin' and was just a-floatin' on the water, so I held his head high and they took a grab. Each buddy had a hold of a fin. They got the head on the side of the boat but his tail was still in the water. I reached down to grab the fish by the mouth and drag him in, when that fish shook his head one last time, shook the hook, and my buddies lost their grip!

Without even thinkin' I dropped my pole,went to grab the bottom lip of the fish, but the cat swung his head and my hand went into its mouth. Then the bastard swallered my arm up to the elbow, and clamped down tight! Man, it hurt like hell! The more I yanked tryin' to get my arm out, the tighter that cat clamped down. What was worse, he was a-thrashin' around tryin' to get back in the water, and he was gonna take my ass with him! One of my buddies grabbed me around the waist to keep me in the boat, and the other started whackin' the fish on the head with his fists. Now why this punkin head didn't grab the damn fish and drag him in the boat is a mystery to me. But it happened so fast, and I was bellerin' and cussin' at the top of my voice, reckon he just wanted the fish to let go.

And the cat did let go. In one second, the cat unclamped his mouth and slipped back into the water. I looked at my arm, and it was all cut up and bleedin'. And I not only lost the biggest fish I ever seen, my wrist watch was gone too! Goddam fish ate it and took it with him! Damn fine watch it were. One of them Timex waterproof, shockproof, magnetproof watches that was a self-winder too.

A few years after that, we was out lunker fishin' again. I finally caught a cat what looked like he was bigger than the one that got away, out of the same river. We took him home, gonna steak him out and have us a big fish fry. He weighed forty-two and three quarter pound! Now there's only one way to skin a cat that big. I had my buddies hold him up whilst I nailed him to a tree at my place. Couple big ol' nails right in the head. Them big cats got a hide on 'em like leather, so it took some doin' to skin him out.

We put a bucket under him when we went to gut him. I slit the belly, and all the guts fell into the bucket, and I heard a 'clunk' noise. What the hell, I started siftin' through the guts to see what that cat done ate. What do you think I found? My watch! If I'm lyin' I'm dyin', the same damn watch I lost a couple years ago was still in the belly of the same damn fish what tried to drag my ass out of the boat! The damn thing was still runnin', and had the right time to boot!

I still got that watch, still got the scars on my arm from when I first met Mr. Big Ol' Catfish. And the watch still works perfect. When they tell you them Timex watches take a lickin' and keep on tickin', it be a fact!