by R. Colleen

Created on: December 12, 2008

I kept a fish once. It died. In fact, a fish my Grandpa kept outlived the one I had in my fishbowl. What a fisherman he was!

He never went fishing with his teeth in. That way he could work up a good mouthful of saliva as he sucked on peppermint candies. Grabbing a worm from the styrofoam container at his feet, he would wind the wiggly little thing onto his hook and pucker up, letting a stream of peppermint spit cover the worm. He figured it was the reason he always caught his limit before any of the rest of us. We would sit on the bank, letting our poor bait get waterlogged and Grandpa pulled fish after fish out of the lake. Most of them he threw back but he swore he never caught the same one twice. While my sister and I would squeal with any tug on our lines, Grandpa never made a sound. He just fished and fished.

Early one morning, we headed for the lake, all set to catch supper. Peppermint in his pocket, Grandpa headed a ways down the shore from us. We made too much noise, he said. Less than an hour later, Grandpa came back hauling the biggest catfish us two girls had ever seen. He was grinning from ear to ear and Grandma was just as excited! She loved nothing better than fresh fried catfish to eat. She began packing up our chairs and ice chest as Grandpa gently laid the big old fish in the chest he had packed with ice for his day's catch. That catfish was the only one in it.

My sister and I poked at it as it lay there, gasping, its mouth making gaping fish kisses.

"Don't ya'll get him riled none," Grandpa admonished. "I want that meat to be sweet and tender. You girls'll make him tough as shoe leather!" Closing the lid, he lifted the chest and placed it in the backseat of the car and that old fish rode home right between the two of us.

We heard and felt him flopping occasionally on the ride home. Once we had unpacked the car, we made ourselves scarce, not even remotely interested in the filleting process. When Grandma called us in for supper, we were surprised to find grilled cheese sandwiches, not fish, on our plates. Grandma looked pretty grim but not a word was spoken.

Later that night, I got ready to take my bath before bed. Pulling aside the shower curtain and reaching down to plug the drain, my hand hit something before my eyes and brain could register this anomaly in the tub. It was him - the fish! Now, I'm okay with fish in their proper setting - at the end of a rod or on a plate - but not in the tub! There was no bath for either of us girls that night. Grandpa shooed us off to bed.

When we heard Grandma scream half an hour later, we broke into a fit of giggles. There would be no bath for her either. She heard us laughing and sternly told us to "Git to sleep!"

The next morning as Grandma stood at the stove cooking breakfast, she said not a word as we covered the grins on our faces, remembering her squeal the night before. Grandpa, sitting quietly with his coffee, looked up with a twinkle in his eye and told my sister to get some oranges out of the bottom bin in the refrigerator.

Ann opened the fridge, bent down, pulled out the drawer and promptly slammed it shut. Grandpa got the reaction he hoped for. All three of his "girls" had now been properly introduced to his fish.

"I'm thinkin' of keepin' him," he mused.

Grandma turned, hands on her hips. "An' I'm thinkin' we're for sure having catfish for dinner tonight!"

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