Again, a story from the childhood of two little boys who grew to be wonderful men. Enjoy their antics and please leave the grapevines alone!
Part II
One of our favorite places that never was a disappointment for an exciting adventure was the fairgrounds branch. This small stream was a clear, rock lined creek that ran on the east side of the fairgrounds. I think God made it for especially for exciting boyhood adventures and exploration. We would often drink directly from the creek. It was not deep enough for swimming so parents had little concern for our safety, but we could wade up above our knees. It was secluded enough that occasionally we would overcome any inhibitions we might have and enjoy the clear cool water in our birthday suits. We could fish, catch crawdads, have water fights and all sorts of things boys could think of.
This little stream with big rocks along the edge made a perfect place for an infrequent but risky behavior — smoking grape vines. A dead grapevine made an ideal make-believe cigar. These unique cigars were not easy to light, but when you did succeed in getting them lit you could draw genuine smoke through them. There was only one problem, the smoke of the smoldering grapevine cigar would make your tongue and lips sting and burn. To remedy that unpleasant symptom of smoking grapevine you could lie of one of the big rocks jutting out into the water and stick your face into the water. This helped as long as your lips and tongue were under water and being relieved of the pain by the water’s coolness. Although we thought we were being “cool” when we smoked grapevine, the pain involved may have discouraged Bill and I from ever taking up the tobacco habit.
Once when Bill and I were at the fairground branch we found an old coffee can in the water. An old rusty coffee container may not seem of any value, but it wasn’t the can itself, it was what was in the can that caught our attention. In the can was a small catfish. Bill called it a “fiddler” catfish. This unique discovery immediately became a treasure. It quickly became so valuable in our eyes that we soon hurried across the fairgrounds to Bill’s house carrying the can full of water and the fiddler catfish. It was getting late in the day and time for me to go home. So, the question came up, “Who does the catfish belong to?” Bill and I usually saw “eye-to-eye” on most things, but ownership of this catfish became serious business and an unheard of conflict arose between us. We both adamantly laid claim to it. We stood at his back door several minutes with both of us holding and pulling on the can insisting on ownership. We were even glaring at each other. In the midst of this high level intractability his mother, Inez, came to the door. She immediately witnessed the deterioration of our normally good spirits toward each other and quickly became prosecutor, judge and jury, all three rolled into one. It didn’t take her long to make a determination of the case. Her verdict was to summarily award the catfish to me. Bill reluctantly and with look of disappointment and chagrin on his face, let go of the can. I sheepishly turned and started home with the fiddler catfish in my possession. Although I had won I felt like a loser. I never enjoyed that catfish. I felt guilty for taking it and I wished I had left it with Bill. Although the fiddler catfish ownership was a big deal for one afternoon, it was soon forgotten and Bill and I were as tight as ever.