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A Fish Story ~ another tale from Kappa Phi Delta


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A Fish Story

 

I like catfish.  Sorta.  I have enjoyed catching them.  I love eating them.  I absolutely detest cleaning catfish. 

 

One warm Sunday evening in late October, 1971, found Hank, Half-Breed Pete, and myself hunkered around the small kitchen table in the Kappa Phi Delta house, undoubtedly enjoying a cold beverage and “fellowship.”  Which, in our case, consisted of comparing stories about recent escapades.  Like visiting a sorority house in Berkeley – something we were unlikely to ever do again.

 

We heard the front door open and boots on the stairs, then looked up when Jerry and Fred walked in, home from duck hunting.  They both stopped and gave us really odd looks, as if they were downright delighted to see us.

 

Uh oh…

 

“Guys!  It’s good to see ya!”  Jerry said. 

 

“OH Yeah!  It’s REALLY good to see you fellas!” Fred added.

 

They grabbed a couple of beers and then really turned on the charm.

 

“So how are y’all?  Have a good weekend?  Do anything fun?” accompanied by a couple of really cheesy grins.

 

Hm.  Now, this is getting’ to be kinda suspicious.

 

After a few minutes of banal chatter, Jerry added a bit of Gruyère to his grin.

 

“Hey - could you guys give us a hand with something?”

 

Oh, probably, we decided.  Just what might you need help with?

 

“Oh, we gotta unload our gear and stuff.  And clean a few fish.  Would ya mind?”

 

No problem.  Happy to help.

 

But fish?  “Fish? Didn’t you guys go duck hunting?”

 

“Yeah,” sez Fred.  “But the weather was terrible!  Blue skies… couple of fluffy clouds… light balmy breezes… absolutely terrible duck hunting weather.”

 

“So we made the most of it!” Jerry chimed in.  “I had some fishing line and hooks, so we tied some to our shotgun barrels, used baloney from our lunch for bait and caught a few fish.  And we just need to clean ‘em real quick before bed.”

 

“Hey!  It worked!” said Fred, as he headed out to the car to fetch the fish.

 

Okay.  We’ll help.  I’d done a fair amount of fishing in my young life and if I say so myself I was pretty accomplished – at catching and naturally, of cleaning fish.  And cooking them.  Bring ‘em on!  Trout… bass… crappie… bluegills… O Yum!

 

When Fred walked in carrying two wet burlap sacks, Hank, Pete and I all took a step back.

 

“What the heck?  How many fish did y’all catch?” I asked.

 

“A MESS of ‘em!” boasted Jerry, with a grin that was now white cheddar.

 

And then he and Fred upended the sacks into the sink as Hank and Pete stepped in front of me and made appreciative sounds.

 

I craned my neck and gazed at the sink.  But there were no trout.  No bass.  No crappies or bluegills.

 

The sink was full of catfish.

 

There must have been thirty of ‘em.

 

Did I mention how much I hate cleaning catfish?

 

Some of my earliest happy memories are of my granddad taking me fishing.  I loved watching him catch fish; and when I was older, we were fishing buddies.  I loved catching trout.  Bass.  Crappie and blugills.  Even tied into a sturgeon once.

 

But Grandpa’s fish of choice was catfish.  Which would’ve been okay, ‘cept he also drafted his oldest grandkid – me – as the official fish cleaner.  And I truly learned to hate cleaning catfish.  Especially after learning the hard way about the venomous spines on their pectoral and dorsal fins.  Damn, but they hurt!  Plus, it just wasn’t right having to use a hammer and nail and pliers to clean fish. 

 

So, when I looked at the mass of slimy, gray fish, my heart sank.  I wanted to just go to bed, but I’d said that I’d help.  I peeked at Hank and Pete; their expressions likely mirrored my own.  I sighed and shook my head, and said “Well… let’s get this over with.”

 

And then I noticed something.

 

“Hey!  Fellas!  These fish are all ALIVE!”

 

And indeed they were.  Now, catfish are a hardy critter.  They can live a long time out of water; some species have been known to crawl great distances from one body of water to another.  And the wet burlap sacks made for a perfect traveling environment for these slimy boogers.

 

Unfortunately, if there’s one thing worse that cleaning catfish, it has to be cleaning live catfish.  On this subject I know whereof  I speak.  (Thanks, Grandpa!)

 

All five of our faces sorta melted into expressions of dismay; no one wanted to be first to tackle the chore at hand.

 

Now, I have long known that God has a God-sized sense of humor.  And, of course, He is merciful; He has often bailed me out of bad situations.

 

At that moment, He came to my rescue and I had an epiphany. 

 

“Fellas!  I gots an idea!”

 

Four sets of eyes hopefully bore down on me.

 

“What?”  someone asked.

 

“Look!  Guys!  Let’s take these critters and dump ‘em in the bathtub up on the third floor!  From time to time we can toss ‘em some cornmeal to clean ‘em out, and whenever someone wants a fresh fish dinner all they gotta do is go fish one out, no pun intended.  That or wait ‘til we have some pledges about to clean ‘em all.”

 

I gotta tell ya – my idea was immediately and enthusiastically adopted.  Within ten minutes there were thirty or so catfish leisurely swimming about in the huge, 1905-vintage claw-foot bathtub, and we were all gratefully on our way to our warm, cozy beds.

 

Life was good!  The “Fish-Tub” was kinda fun, and a hit to show visiting girls.  They – the fish, not the girls - seemed to appreciate their new quarters, and would look up expectantly whenever someone would wander by to toss in a handful of cornmeal, and the pledges kept the tub clean.

 

And then the unthinkable happened.

 

About a quarter ‘til three one Wednesday morning (that’s Oh Dark Thirty in modern time) the entire house was awakened by Hank’s bellowing “EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! Everybody UP! EMERGENCY!”

 

If he’d hollered “FIRE!” we wouldn’t have been up any faster.  Actually, we’d been there before, and most of us expected to be faced with a wall of smoke or flames when we boiled out of our rooms.

 

But it was neither smoke nor flames that greeted us.

 

It was catfish.

 

I yanked open the door in my room – next to the bathroom – and was astonished to see catfish scurrying up and down the hall in about an inch or so of water. 

 

Water cascaded down the stairs; catfish were flopping down like pretend salmon navigating a reverse fish ladder.

 

There were catfish everywhere!

 

Evidently, one of the frat brothers had come home after having a few – or came home and had a few downstairs – then decided that golly gee, the fish need a drink, turned on the water and went to bed.  Of course, that tub did not have an overflow drain, so when the slimy little opportunists saw their chance they took it.

 

Well, it only took about an hour or so to capture the fugitives, adjust the water level, and sweep the waters down the stairs and out the kitchen door.  Thank God for pledges!

 

All was peaceful and in ordnung for a week or so.

 

And then, to borrow from Yogi Berra, it was “Déjà vu all over again.”

 

Three A. M. – “EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY” and so on.

 

Sure ‘nuff, another catfish breakout.

 

Enough of this nonsense!

 

“Okay!  I know what we’re gonna do!” I declared, and dispatched a pledge to the kitchen for a washtub.

 

In short order, we had all catfish corralled in the galvanized washtub.  I directed two pledges to carry the vessel full of squirming creatures to the backyard, with instructions to remain there and stand guard. 

 

“Fellas, I got this,” I said to the sleepy and grumpy brothers.  “Y’all get on back to bed.”

 

They did, and I headed to the back yard, pausing in the kitchen long enough to collect a large strainer and commercial sized spatula with about a 14” blade and a third pledge, who was just putting away a bucket, push broom and mop. 

 

“Okay, men!  Here’s the deal!  The house on the uphill side of us has a goldfish pond in their back yard.  It’s about a ten feet or so on the other side of the fence, just about… here!” and I pointed to a spot on the fence.

 

“So here’s what we’re gonna do: We are going to transfer these catfish from this tub to yon pond, and we’re going to do it aerially.

 

“We need one loader and one launcher; you men will rotate, and I’ll direct.

 

“Loaders, you are to select a fish and grab it by its lower lip and tail.  Beware of those sharp and venomous pectoral and dorsal fins!”

 

They all gave me looks of sleepy alarm.

 

“Launcher, assume the position and hold the spatula over your RIGHT shoulder – you are right handed, right? – and a loader will lay a fish on the spatula and tap your shoulder like a bazooka team.  Quick like a bunny, before it can slip off that spatula, you will FLING said fish through the air, over the fence, and into yon fish pond. 

 

“Ready?  Let’s do it!”

 

The exercise went surprisingly well.  The pledges got into a routine and in about twenty minutes or so the tub was empty.

 

Unfortunately, there were a few mishaps.  Most of the launches were rewarded with a happy ‘ker-Splash!’ from the unseen goldfish pond.  Sadly, however, maybe a half-dozen of the flying fish did not make a water landing; their flights terminated with tragic “Splats!” on the flagstone pond surround.

 

Our job was done.  Time for some well-deserved slumber.

 

Alas, it was not to be.

 

About an hour or so later, it seems as if ever cat within a two-block radius had gotten the word about free catfish dinners – and all they had to do was fight each other and wake up all the humans within earshot.

 

How fitting!

*     *     *     *     *

Post Script:

 

On an unseasonably warm weekend afternoon the following spring, a bunch of the guys were having a li’l barbecue in the back yard.  Steaks were grilling and beer was flowing, birds chirping and pledges “Yessir’ing!” about as they happily completed a variety of not-unpleasant assignments.

 

In the uphill neighbor’s back yard, children were playing, laughing and shouting as they scampered about on the first nice day of the year.

 

Eventually, they became conspicuously quiet.  After a few moments of silence, we could hear a couple of them speaking softly and conspiratorially, then with excitement.   

 

Suddenly they began to shout; their childish voices screaming “Mama!  Mama!  Aunty Tilly!  Mama!  Come quick!  Hurry – Come QUICK!  It’s a MIRACLE! We gots CATFISH!!”

 

 

                                                                                                                                  Catfish.jpg.8447ac7428ceb54c093f0c42fcafcd85.jpg

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