When I was a hippie/radical
just driving around, I spied a road sign:
CATFISH POND: $5
Even then I could afford the fee
so I sped home, grabbed my pole,
wended to the little lake, paid my fiver,
stuck a frantic worm on my hook
and gave my bait a chance.
Disappointment. No catfish bit,
only tiny blue gills swarmed my worm.
Just corn or bread would work
to catch the little critters, too small to keep.
Discouraged, I looked around
and noticed all of the other anglers,
heard frequent splashes,
giant, fat catfish flailing
on the shore, laced on stringers.
Even though the sign said:
LIMIT FIVE–the cats kept coming.
Confused and amazed
I asked a man, dressed in faded overalls:
“How’re you catching them;
I can’t even get a bite.”
Without answering, he lifted up
his line and pointed to his hook,
an ugly, big, green worm
writhing on the end.
“Catalpa worms,” he said.
“Want one?”
“Sure.” and he passed me
a long, fat greasy one.
One cast and I was part of the club–
a fat, sassy catfish struggling
on my line as I reeled it in.
“These worms grow on Catalpa trees.
Every May, collect and freeze ‘em,
have catfish all year,
frozen’s as good as fresh.”
His wife and two kids came over,
a smiling woman holding a net
and a barefoot boy and girl carrying a blanket,
which they flung open to reveal
scads of tiny blue gill, flopping around.
I had to ask: ”Why the little ones?,
not big enough to eat.?”
The smiles widened:
“Oh, yes we do!
Deep fry, don’t have to clean.
Eat ’em whole, better than French fries?”
The kids giggled glee.
On the way home with my one fat cat,
I mused on my radical beliefs.
our attempts to save the world,
feed the poor, and was thankful
God provided ugly worms
to these people of ingenuity.
Originally published in Duck Duck Mongoose