As a child, I used to go fishing with my Grandpa, brothers or uncles. We would take our bamboo poles that Grandpa ensured was just the right length, lay them over our shoulders and walk to the creek. Here, we would find a shady spot under one of the huge weeping willows that grew on the bank, put a worm on our hook and cast into the clear water.
Before long, the fish would start biting. Grandpa had a fisherman's almanac that told the date and time that the fish would be biting. I have no idea how the author of that almanac calculated his facts but his advice was right on target.
We always took along a five-gallon pail to bring the catfish home in. Grandma did not want the fish to die before she was ready to skin and clean them. Many times we would have seven or eight good-sized catfish in that bucket when we returned to the house. Grandma would smile and tell us what a good job we'd done. We always felt proud to have pleased her.
Grandma would skin and clean those catfish in no time. When we took her fish, we were always invited to stay for supper. I would watch her salt, pepper and roll the fillets in flour, then put them into a cast iron skillet of hot butter and fry them to a crispy brown. My mouth would water in anticipation of the first bite of the slightly pink meat. The way Grandma cooked it; it melted in your mouth.
Another activity we enjoyed was taking some kindling on our fishing excursion, gathering some twigs and branches and starting a small fire on the creek bank. This always was contained within a circle of rocks to prevent it from spreading out of control. After we had caught a few fish, usually bass or perch, we would scale and clean them, skewer them on pointed branches whittled especially for this purpose and hold the fish over the open fire. When it was done, we would eat it with our fingers. I well remember a few burned fingertips but the tasty fish made the pain well worth it. For desert, we roasted marshmallows over the open fire.
Sometimes we would wade out into the creek, the mud squishing between our toes and cast our lines from there. This was done only when the hot summer sun and lack of rain had made the water level low. Normally, the swift current of the creek would have swept us off our feet.
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