It was under a blazing sun and near 100-degree temperature when Neal Martin's fishing pole went "whang." To heck with the August weather, Neal said to himself, I've got me a real fish. And he sure did.
Neal pulled in a prize, a 10-pound Channel catfish using a 17 pound test line and shrimp for bait. It was the second big catch for him this summer. He pulled in a 10-pound Blue catfish about a week ago.
One of the things I like best about fishermen is their conversation. "Where'd you catch him, Neal?" I asked.
"In a farm pond," he answered.
. . . in other words, friend . . . he ain't-a-goin to tell anyone.
I have to point out the success of Neal to convince non-believers of the fish stories. You see . . . I have one, too. Actually it's not my story at all . . . I just repeat it.
A number of years ago I was visiting an uncle in the Los Angles area who told me that not only was LA the best place to live, but even the fish were friendly.
I remembered that ex-Kansan could spin a yarn so I went along . . . yeah, yeah.
"No," he said, "I'm serious. Even the fish at my lake come to me on calling."
Well ole' buddy Neal, I couldn't cotton to any such story and suggested that any fish that could answer the call of his "master" should have the opportunity to witness a human eating a hat.
There was a twinkle in the eyes of the uncle. I didn't trust him.
There was something about his smile when I said "if you can get those catfish to come to the side of the lake and eat bread out of your hand, the least I can do is eat your hat."
We walked the sandy banks of the sandpit-lake and witnessed the uncle in action. "Here Willie . . . here George . . . come on fellows . . . it's time for supper . . . (whistle-whistle) . . . come on boys."
I thought I would flip. Anyone living in Los Angeles who could put on a show like that should move into Hollywood.
And then it happened. The water swirled along the banks. Suddenly there was a catfish fin, or two or no . . . many.
The fish were in a school, maybe two or three dozen. They surfaced from the cool depths, swirled around the edge of the bank and opened their big mouths to nibble at the pieces of bread floating in the water. On at least one occasion a fish nibbled at the chunk of bread held by my uncle.
There was that twinkle in his eyes again as he tossed the last of the bread into the lake.
He walked up to me strutting like he had just accomplished something greater then Lindy flying the Atlantic and said: "Well, nephew, what do you think?"
. . . what else was there to say . . . "what size hat do you wear uncle?"
(and so help me, Neal, it's a true story).
If you haven't had anything to do this summer, or if you need a change of pace from a busy summer, we suggest a visit to the Otoe County Fair this week at Syracuse.
Orville Koch, president of the Fair Board, said early indications were that it could be a bigger-than-usual fair with entries in the many events.
That just proves that people like fairs and there are a lot of hard working moms and dads in 4-H and FFA.
We visited the Nemaha County Fair last week. The Scimitar Shrine club was in the parade with the three-wheelers and the Model T firetruck. I rode in the truck with Don Dammast, Judge Stanley and John Stocker. The man in control of the wheel was Bernard Ruby. (Yes, he knew which pedal was reverse.).
That was some parade. We were No. 79 . . . The parade took about an hour and 40 minutes.
Bernard and his co-pilot, John who sounded the siren, were a bit uncomfortable. Someone stole the cushion from the old truck after the parade at Sidney, Iowa.
Stolen
Johnny was frustrated on returning from his first day of school. Not only did he not learn to read and write the first day, he had doubts about his teacher.
" . . . and I'm not going back," the little fella snorted.
"Why not?" an amused mother asked.
"Because the teacher doesn't know anything. Whenever she wants to know something she asks us."