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Traditional Story from the Website of Bluegrass Storyteller, Chuck Larkin
When I was about fi ve years old, I was fi shing with a cane pole on a foot bridge over the Nassawanga creek. My line had just entered the water when the fl oat sank and a huge fi sh started to pull me right into the creek. I leaned back and started to pull him out. He leaned back and started to pull me in. I knew I was in trouble so I started hollering, Sally, Sally, Sally, hurry, help me. Sally was our old gray mule, and she was fi shing further down the bank. You do not see mules fi shing today, and to tell you the truth other than Sally I do not recall ever seeing any other mules fi shing. Sometimes she went fi shing with Rocky, our Rhode Island Red rooster. When she went fi shing by herself she would go down stream where she would not bother anybody and stand on the bank. When a fi sh came swimming by she would bellywop in on top and knock him out. Then she would just pick up the fl oating fi sh with her teeth and set them up on the bank. Sally always had the largest mess of fi sh after a trip. Well, that day Sally heard me hollering. She came running up the bank and out onto the foot bridge just before that fi sh pulled me in. Sally grabbed the butt end of that fi shing pole and together we pulled out of the water a humongous bass fi sh the biggest fi sh we’d ever seen. When you stood that bass up on his back fi ns, the top of my head only came to his shoulder (that is, if a fi sh had shoulders that is about where my head would reach). My dad was near speechless when he seen my bass. I do not recall the weight and measurements, but if you look up in the Guineas Book of Records you will fi nd that type of information along with my name and Sally’s, since that bass still holds the world’s record for being the largest bass fi sh ever caught, and that was back in 1936. My dad wrapped that gigantic bass up in newspaper and laid him up in the back of our horse-cart. We fi shed for a couple of more hours, but best I can recollect we only caught a couple catfi sh and some perch. By the time we got back home to our farm, that bass fi sh was all dried out, stiff as a board and stuck to that newspaper. My dad dragged him over to the watering trough. This watering trough was longer then a bathtub, and we kept it full of drinking water for our live stock (cows, horses and so forth). Daddy heaved the bass fi sh into the water to soak the newspaper off his hide when, you won’t believe this, that fi sh began to swim! He was not dead after all. My dad looked at him swimming and said, let’s not eat that old fi sh. Let’s just keep him out of the water and see how long it takes him to do die. Today, you’d probably call my dad a pseudo scientist. It was an interesting experiment. We’d leave the bass out on the ground. He would start fl ip fl opping around and panting, you know how a fi sh goes when they are out of water. After an hour or so he would stop breathing, get really still, not even a twitch. We’d walk over and nudge him with our foot. The fi sh would not move so we’d drag him over to the watering trough, put him back in the water and he’d start swimming again. The fi fth night, I forgot to put him back into the water. After all, I was only fi ve years old and in those days I sometimes forgot things (I still do but now it’s because I’m old). The next morning I went out and saw him on the ground, somewhat bowed a little bit, stiff as a board and dead as a door nail. He even started to smell bad. I do not understand how people eat dead fi sh! Do you eat dead fi sh? I dragged him over to the water, put him in and sure enough, he began to swim. I was so relieved! Later I fi gured out what kept him alive. There was just enough dew on the grass to help him make it through the night. You may not believe this part. In three days time we had taught the bass to breathe in the air. He did not have to go back in the water. My dad helped me to rig a block and tackle under a large branch of our Oak tree. I connected the line to Mr. Bass up about shoulder high just under his top fi ns. I’d started calling him Mr. Bass because he was so much taller then me and deserved my respect. With the line, block and tackle I could hoist Mr. Bass up on his bottom fi ns. At fi rst, he could not stand without the rope holding him. For the fi rst couple of days, he leaned this-a-way and leaned that-a- way, but he fi nally got his balance. On the third day I turned him loose. He leaned over and started fl opping his bottom fi ns until he hit a tree. He bounced off, leaned in another direction crossing the barn yard until he hit another tree. I watched him tacking back and forth through the yard like a sail boat. It was not quite walking, but it was not quite standing either. He probably would have had an easier time with walking if his fi ns could bend like legs with knees. I remember thinking at the time that he looked like he was walking on stilts. After a few days he got better even to the point where he could fl ip himself up on his bottom fi ns. By the end of the week, I had him leash trained. When I came home from school, we would just walk every where. Of course, I knew he did not like the leash, but I told him it was necessary in order for us to go into town together. Mr. Bass was one of the best pets I ever had. The fi rst time we ever brought him into the house, we found he was already house broken. Mr. Bass and Old Blew, our hound dog, became the best of buddies. They would play hide and go seek, run and fetch and all kinds of games together. Ms. Calico was our cat and she liked to eat fish. But Mr. Bass was seven times taller then she was. Well, she learned to love that Bass like some of you young ladies love your brothers. Mr. Bass and I went everywhere together. We’d go to rodeos and wrestling matches and everything together. At home when we would play, Mr. Bass always wanted to wrestle because he could pin me to the mat every time. When it came to rodeoing, I was the best because I always bucked him off my back in under 10 seconds. I remember once when we were all in the house playing hide and seek. Mr. Bass slid under the couch and got stuck. We could not fi nd him, and he did not call for help. He did not know how to talk. After about three days, he got thin enough to slide out from under that couch. That is when we started to teach that fi sh how to talk. I ran into problems right away. As bass fi sh do not have any vocal cords, he could not make any voice sounds. I did teach him to swallow air and belch with a few noises that sounded like words. At least he could call your attention. Now he was smart, and he quickly learned how to nod his body yes or no when you spoke to him. We did fi nally fi gure out a way to communicate. Today, when deaf people need to communicate they interpret with their hands. They use both hands for words and one hand to make letters to spell words. When I was a boy, the U.S. Navy did not have the fancy radios they have today. The ships used to talk to each other by waiving fl ags that spelled words. This type of communication is called semaphore. Mr. Bass and I taught ourselves semaphore, but instead of using fl ags we used our hands. Well, I used my hands and Mr. Bass used the fi ns on his upper body. It was slow at fi rst, but we got faster and faster with practice. I remember that fi rst winter, Mr. Bass made himself a bed right behind our old wood stove. He did not like cold weather. The following spring, the warm weather had broken up the ice on the creek and the ice fl oes had washed down stream. My dad called out, let’s go fi shing and catch some supper. Hush dad, I said. Do not let Mr. Bass hear us talking about going after his kinfolk! Son, bass fi sh like to eat fi sh too. Just then, Mr. Bass had come in and over heard us talking about going fi shing, and he got excited about going with us. He was nodding yes, yes and signing away with his fi ns that he wanted to go fi shing too! During the winter my dad had taken some old leather harness straps, and made a chest rig so Mr. Bass could hold his own fi shing pole. I was surprised. My dad and I hitched Sally, our mule, up to the horse cart and loaded my sister, mom, Ms. Calico, Old Blew, and Mr. Bass. Then we headed off to the Nassawanga creek. Now you need to understand. At the time, I was about six years old. I did not believe in all them liberal ideas like justice and fair play, I was fl at out selfi sh. I knew that at the end of the old foot bridge was a deep hole where a bunch of fi sh always hung out. I knew that whoever got their fi shing pole into that hole fi rst always caught the fi nest mess of fi sh. So, before Sally stopped that cart, I jumped off the back end with my fi shing pole and started running for the bridge and that good fi shing spot. Well, you remember that Mr. Bass used to live in those parts. When he saw me jump out he knew I was cheating, because he knew about the deep hole at the end of the fi shing pier. He grabbed his fi shing pole and jumped right out behind me and tried to race me to that spot. But with my knees able to bend my legs up against his stiff fi ns, I beat him good. I got my fi shing line into the water fi rst, and went, na na na na naaa. I turned around just in time to see Mr. Bass trip on a loose board and fl ip off the dock into the water. Before we could get to him he had drowned. Mr. Bass had forgotten how to breathe in the water, and he never did know how to swim on the surface. I wish we had known about CPR in the old days, we might have been able to dive in and save his life. We did pull Mr. Bass out of the water, carried him home and ate him for supper. As I recall he tasted just like chicken. Fish that taste like chicken must result from eating grits. Grits was Mr. Bass’s favorite food that winter. AND THAT’S A SAD, SAD, SAD BUT TRUE STORY
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