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!

The Story Teller: Part Two

Here's another story from my old buddy Clyde. (Who's Clyde?) I'm going to tell it like he did, so be forewarned; adult language and content is included!

I used to ride motorcycles back in West Virginia. Never had no money to buy my own, but one of my buddies used to let me borry his. He had a 1951 Indian Chief, and a pretty thing it was. He kept it all polished up and clean. It shined like a diamond in a goat's ass.

Well, my buddy was laid up sick and told me I could have the Indian for the weekend, just be careful with it and clean it up when I was done. Now that was just the ticket! I decided to go pick up the gal I was seein' at the time and go for a ride. She was a fine gal, and loved to go ridin' with me. So I brought along a jug, she hopped on and we went out ridin' and boozin'.

Now ridin' a bike in West Virginia ain't for no sissy. There ain't a level spot of ground in the whole state. You're either goin' up, or goin' down, and the roads in them days would go from pavement to dirt in a wink. We was on a paved part of a road, tippin' the jug and havin' a high old time. After a spell, my gal got to feelin' frisky, and was holdin' on to somethin' other than my waist, if ya know what I mean. So I pulled the bike off the road near some woods, figurin' me and her would have a little more serious fun.

We was both pretty snockered up. Both of us staggered off the bike, and I headed for the woods. "Where you goin' Clyde honey?" she asked.
"Well, 'less ya'll want to do it right here alongside the road, I figured we'd hit the woods, gal!"
She got a big ol' smile on her face. "You reckon we could do it on the bike?"
"I reckon so, but it won't be so comfortable." I started undoin' my drawers.
"Clyde honey, you reckon we could do it on the bike, while we're ridin'?" she said.
Now I ain't no coward, but that idea did seem a little dangerous. "You mean while I'm drivin' the bike?"
She throwed her arms around my neck and said. "Yeah darlin'. I could lay up on the gas tank and the handlebars, and you could get it in me on the fly!" Man, was she drunk! But I was too. She sat up on the handlebars, hiked her skirt up and tempted me. So I figured, what the hell!

So we're goin' down the road, coupled up real good. Goin' up and down the hills of West Virginia, gettin' a mighty fine thrill. She's gettin' into it, and helpin' out much as she can. We come to one of them tall hills, a cardiac hill they call 'em back home. That's 'cause they're so steep, if you had to walk up 'em your heart would give out. My gal's eyes are rolled back, and she starts hollerin', "Faster Clyde! Faster!"I wasn't sure if she meant me or the bike, so I done both.

We get up the top of the hill and she's moanin' and groanin like nobody's business. Now I'm ready to blow my nuts, and we go down the hill faster than greased shit. I'm startin' to get the funny feelin' and us and the bike were goin' damned fast. Then the road turned to dirt, and I lost control of the bike.

Went off the road goin' so fast I jumped a ditch. I was hangin' on for dear life to them handle bars, but my gal didn't have nothin' to hold on to. Her bare ass flew off the bike when I finally hit the ground. Don't know how I done it, but I kept the bike upright. But I was headed for some big ol' hogs that were wallowin' in the mud. Don't remember if there was a fence or not. If there was, I went right through it.

So there I was, with my dick hangin' out and floppin' all over, headin' for two big hogs. Oh Lord, if I die this way, just have them hogs eat me so my Momma don't know the particulars! But soon as I got closer to the hogs, I hit some mud that slowed me down just enough that I could steer around 'em. Home free? Nope. Ran into a big tree stump, stopped the bike cold, and I went over the handle bars, ass over teacup.

Next thing I know, I'm layin' on the ground all coverd with mud, pig shit and blood, with a big ol' State Trooper standin' over me. Don't know how long I laid there, but I looked around and couldn't see nothin' of my gal. Found out later another Trooper took her back into town while I was passed out.

Me and the gal were both drunk enough that we rolled with the punches. Not really hurt too bad, all things considered. But I was sure sore for a long time. My buddy never spoke to me again. The bike was totalled. Lost my gal too. She had some big ol' brothers that probably still want to whup my ass over the deal, and it happened back in '58. But all that don't bother me none. What still bothers me is that the gal blamed it all on me, and the Trooper gave me a ticket.
Now this Trooper had to try real hard to figure out somethin' to give me a ticket for. So you know what he done? When I flew off the handle bars I landed a fair distance from the bike. So far in fact, that the Trooper gave me a ticket for leavin' the scene of an accident!

Sure was a lot of fun, but I never did nothin' like that again. Havin' that much fun can be awful hard on a man.

The Story Teller

I have had the pleasure of knowing some good story tellers. The following short story was told to me by a man I worked with for years. 'Clyde' was originally from West Virginia, and this is but one of the many stories he told. He was not what I'd call an 'educated' man, but his command of language and imagery bordered on the surreal. I hope my retelling does the story justice:

Yeah, the weather of late has been mighty hot for sure. Not as hot as a few years ago though. I had me two young bird dogs. Fine dogs they were, but pretty green. So I figured I'd best take 'em out and work 'em afore hunting season got here.

So I piled 'em into my truck, 'Ol' Blue'. Now Ol' Blue's pretty rusted up, but it gets me where I want to go. Them dogs sure liked to go for a ride. They'd get in the back of the truck and wait for hours for me to give 'em a ride, so it weren't no trouble getting them excited about it. I drove out to a spot I know that's full of birds. Pheasant mostly.

I took a gun along too. Not to shoot no birds out of season, mind you. I just wanted to get them young dogs used to hearing a gun go off. So we're walking along, and the birds start a sniffin' the ground. Pretty soon they went off into some tall grass just before some woods near the creek. Sure enough, them dog's noses steered them right. They scared up a pheasant pretty as you please. I popped off a couple of rounds, and 'bout scared hell out of both of 'em. Every time the dogs scared up a bird, I'd shoot. With every shot, them dogs flinched a little less. Man, I was sure they was going to be some fine bird dogs!

Now it was mighty hot that day, and them dogs tongues were hangin' out every which way, slobberin' and pantin' like an old steam engine. I was sweatin' like a race horse all lathered up myself, so I figured it was time to go home. Them dogs did good their first day out.

I started walkin' back to the truck, along the edge of a cornfield. All of a sudden, I heard what sounded like somebody shootin' a gun in the distance. Man, I thought some farmer took offense at me on his property, and I got a little nervous when the sound came closer. I looked around, couldn't see nobody. I looked into the cornfield, and saw white stuff shootin' up into the air. By golly, we was right near a field of popcorn! It was so damned hot, the corn started poppin' right off the cob!

Now my two young dogs started lookin' around, and when they seen all that white popcorn start coverin' the ground, they thought it was snow, and laid down and froze to death before I could get 'em back to the truck! Damn shame too. Them was some mighty fine dogs. 'Bout broke my heart.

The Toothpaste Dilemma

The ridiculous number of different kinds of toothpaste can be unnecessarily overwhelming. Consider the following options: White, colored, striped, paste or gel, additives in the paste that run the gamut from fluoride to plaque control with all kinds of combinations, paste for tooth whitening, for sensitive teeth, for smokers, paste with mouthwash, in tubes, in squeeze bottles, a plethora of different flavors, with baking soda, paste that turns any gunk you've missed after brushing the color of blue so you can brush again. Just a partial list, to be sure.

What is the objective of brushing your teeth? To prevent cavities, or show your individuality? To have healthy gums, or sand-blast the enamel off your teeth? And rest assured, each different variety is BETTER than any of the others, with NEW AND IMPROVED varieties hitting the shelves ad nauseum.

To walk into a store and visit the tooth care aisle is a study in the remarkable redundancy of the American marketing system. Inundate the customer with choices. Lure the eye with brightly colored packaging that SCREAMS about the efficacy of the tooth care product. Toothpastes to fit any decor, any mood, any lifestyle, any personality. Now THAT'S what America is all about!

I have watched people in the toothpaste aisle. A boring activity perhaps, but fascinating in what it reveals. There are people who spend more time choosing a toothpaste, than choosing a candidate for President Of The United States. So, after these folks make the all-important choice of an oral scrubbing agent, woe to them if they also need a TOOTHBRUSH!

The same marketing strategy is used. The choices? All colors of the rainbow, flat handles, round handles, ergonomically designed comfort handles, straight handles, curved handles, bristles from extra soft and mushy to extra firm and rigid, flat bristles, rounded bristles, combinations of bristles, handles with little rubber erasers on the end for gum 'stimulation' (gum stimulation?), handles with built-in floss dispensers, electric brushes with rotating bristles, electric brushes that vibrate so much they could double for a marital aid, and a tooth brush that is not a brush at all that uses water. And floss and mouthwash? Don't even get me started on those!

We are bombarded with choices for oral care the same we are bombarded for most other consumer goods. From baked beans to condoms, consumers are offered choice after choice after choice, with the cost of those choices equal to their newness or uniqueness. Plain old toothpaste (when you can find it) costs a hell of a lot less than the fancy stuff.

One of the best tooth cleansers is baking soda. It works great and it's cheap. But it tastes nasty. So I strike the middle ground. I buy plain old toothpaste at $0. 98 a tube. It's white, doesn't taste too bad, and most likely works as well as the fancy stuff.

I still get snookered on the marketing ploys, but not as much as I used to, and by golly not on toothpaste. It has become so ingrained in all of us, it is hard behavior to stop. But the older I get, the less I care about some things. Designer toothpaste is on that list for sure.

So just say 'NO MORE!' American Consumer! Defeat the marketers of designer toothpaste! It is a small step, but do it! Today, toothpaste! Tomorrow, the world!

My Identity Crisis: A True Story, Mostly

I’ve heard about people having an identity crisis, but I never thought I would be one of them. I knew I was a left-handed retired steelworker, and that if I had more money I’d be called eccentric. But given the usual state of my bank account let’s just say I’m a little goofy. Wasn’t searching for myself or my real identity, or anything like a metaphysical awaking. But with a simple thing like filing my income taxes, I discovered I really wasn’t who I thought I was.

It started thirty-eight years ago when I was a young lad of sixteen. A young dumb lad. When I got my driver’s license, I gave the wrong birth date. Most kids learn their birth date early on, but I guess accuracy wasn’t very important to me at the time. Got the month and year right, September 1952, but was one day off. I was born the 26th, but gave the 25th. Simple enough mistake, and two out of three isn’t so bad. It was a mistake I rectified when I registered for the military draft when I was eighteen. The lottery system had just been implemented, and I wanted to make sure that if I got called up that it would be on my official birthday, and not a bogus date.

But the birth date continued to be wrong on my driver’s license. Was going to change it, but the driver’s license people told me that it wasn’t a big deal, they only used the birth date for an expiration date. So I thought no more about it. That is, until I tried to file my taxes electronically.

Modern technology is a wonderful thing. There are cell phones you can play arcade games on, surveillance cameras everywhere, and a vast computer network with everyone’s personal and financial information only a keystroke away. And it’s that vast computer network that finally caught up with my thirty four year old mistake. On my tax return was my correct birth date. On my social Security records was my incorrect birth date. Had I been double dumb thirty-four years ago and gave social security the wrong birth date also? Evidently, for the electronic tax filing cross-referenced the information with my social security records and everything was rejected.

My wife does our taxes on the computer. She’s good at it, and she thinks it’s fun. But we all have our quirks. She called social security and they said that I had to take a copy of my birth certificate to their office and have everything corrected. That was a simple enough thing to do to correct an old mistake.

Went to city hall, and it cost six dollars for one copy, two for nine dollars. Never could resist a bargain, so I got two. Then went directly to the social security office, turned in the birth certificate, was told it would take a few days and everything would be changed, corrected, legal and kosher. I drove home with a good feeling. Usually these kinds of things are much more involved than this. For once, I’d gotten off easy.

As soon as I got home, my wife called me back to our computer room. “Social Security just called. Your birth certificate is wrong,” she said.
“Real funny. All those comedians out of work, and you’re being funny!” I said.
“The lady said your birth certificate is wrong,” she repeated.
Aha! I got out my copy of the certificate, brandished it in front of her nose with my finger firmly pointing to the birth date. “See! The right birth date! September 26th, 1952!”
But in the confident voice of a person that knew they were right she said, “It’s not the birth date that’s wrong. It’s the name.”

I read the information on the certificate:

CHILD’S NAME: WILLIAM FREDERICK BEGGEROW
FATHER’S NAME: WILLIAM FREDERICK BEGGEROW

That would be correct if I had been named after my father, but I wasn’t. I was led to believe that I had been named ALAN FORREST BEGGEROW. Couldn’t believe what I was reading. Here I was, a man with a driver’s license that had the right name on it but the wrong birth date, and a birth certificate with the right date on it but the wrong name. I had never noticed before, and no one else had when I applied for my pension or marriage license. It took an efficient employee at social security to catch it and she didn’t catch it right away. So another trip to city hall was called for, but it was 4:45 on Friday afternoon. I didn’t have enough time to get there before closing. So it would have to wait for Monday morning.

When there is a problem in your life, you can depend on your friends to help pull you through. I not only told people about the situation, but I had to show the incorrect certificate for them to believe it. They started to give me moral support. Someone started to call me ‘Willie’, and demanded to know what I did with Alan. Another put forth the theory that I had really been born a set of twins, and in a fit of jealous rage I’d slain the smarter, good-looking one. Another wondered if I was legally married because I’d gotten the marriage certificate with a false document. Yet another had the idea that since my house mortgage and bills were in Alan’s name, and since Alan was not the name on my birth certificate, I might be able to get by without paying any of my bills. Let ‘em look for some guy named Alan! It’s always good to have friends.

When I got to city hall the following Monday, the clerks couldn’t believe it. One of them had been working there a long time, and couldn’t remember ever seeing the wrong name on a birth certificate. I really wasn’t very fond of being so unique, so I asked what I needed to do to correct it. They referred me to a higher authority: The County Court House. They assured me that the county clerk could take care of it with no problem. I was beginning to have my doubts. This was turning into way too much of an adventure to believe that there was a simple fix.

So off I went to the County Clerk’s Office. I had been advised to take along anything that could be used as a form of identification, so I was well prepared. I had insurance cards, credit cards, my old Mickey Mouse Club badge, my driver’s license, (with the wrong date on it) and my birth certificate (with the wrong name on it).

The clerk at the courthouse listened to my story, looked at the birth certificate and my driver’s license more than once. Her eyes went from one to the other as if she were watching game point at a tennis match. Finally she suggested we call the state capitol, Springfield Illinois. Perhaps the records were wrong at city hall but correct at the capitol. She told me as she dialed the phone to keep my fingers crossed. A bad omen if I ever heard one.

But the finger crossing worked. The records in Springfield were correct. They would send a copy to the country courthouse. She asked if I would like the copy sent to my house, and I agreed. She asked me if I wanted more than one copy. I replied, “Let me guess. Six dollars for one, nine dollars for two?” She assured me I guessed correctly, so I took advantage of the bargain again. The copies would be in my mailbox in two weeks. But curiosity got the best of me. “What if the records in Springfield were wrong?" I asked.
“Then it would be up to you to prove who you are,” she replied.
“Just how would I go about doing that?” I asked as I looked at my drivers’ license and false certificate.
“Oh, you’d probably have to go in front of a judge,” she said. I wondered if the judge would have accepted my Mickey Mouse Club badge as a form of identification, and wondered whom I could get to vouch for my identity. Surely not some of my ‘friends’, that’s for sure. “Let’s just say you dodged a bullet on this one,” she said as she smiled. I agreed, and left the courthouse.

After two weeks of being called ‘Willie’ by an increasing number of people, the correct birth certificates arrived. I checked them. Everything was correct. Even had an official stamp from the county clerk with his signature to verify their authenticity. So I took the copies and headed for the social security office. They remembered me at the social security office. For them to remember one person from two weeks prior, after all the other people that had been in the office, verified that I was truly unique. But it was time for me to lose that uniqueness. I turned over the certificate. The lady behind the window said, “We have to send a field representative to Springfield to verify the records. It will be about three weeks before the information is corrected.”
I pointed to the official seal and signature of the county clerk and said, “But look!”
Patiently she said, “Yes I see, but the procedure of the social security administration requires one of our field representatives to do a physical check of the records in Springfield. It will be about three weeks before the information is corrected, whereupon we will send you a new social security card and a written verification that the record has been changed. Thank you. Next number, please!”

End of discussion. Willie would still be my ghostly alter ego a while longer. I got to know him very well and I came to the conclusion that Willie was a bum. He didn’t bring home a paycheck, didn’t own any property, couldn’t get him to do a lick of work around the house. But he sure could eat. But I was confident that Willie’s days were numbered. After four weeks I got the letter stating that my information at social security had been changed, and after another two weeks I got my new card. I didn’t think it would be changed within the three weeks that social security said. When you’re dealing with bureaucracy, you tend to take their timetables with a grain of salt.

We e-filed the taxes, and they were accepted. Willie had been exiled to the nether world from whence he came. I showed a copy of the new birth certificate to everyone, especially the ‘friends’ that still called me Willie. Some people even asked if I was going to hold funeral services for him. I assured them that Willie wasn’t worth the time, effort or expense. A harsh judgment perhaps, but that’s the way I felt.

I have kept a copy of the incorrect birth certificate. People have enough occasions to label me a stretcher of the truth, but not this time. I’ve got the proof for posterity. Years from now when there will be no doubt a more sophisticated method of identifying people, humans of that future era will look at the record keeping we used way back when and no doubt wonder how we kept anything straight. I’m of the present era, and I wonder the same thing.

We all have skeletons in our closet, but a miss-recorded birth date surely isn’t an entire skeleton. More like a single finger bone. But it was a pain to resolve. So the only advice I have is that everyone should double-check his or her ‘vital’ statistics. We can’t do anything about the modern information access age, but we can make sure that the information is correct. For remember, you too may have a doppelganger like Willie, just waiting to be brought to life.