Catfishing Lore and Childhood Memories

Catfish. What do you know about these odd looking, slimy, and sometimes disgusting creatures? Like most people, you have at least heard much about them. Things such as they are slimy; their "horns" are sharp and can slice you wide open; they will eat anything, even people; some have been found to be so big that they can swallow a Volkswagen Beetle with little difficulty, or a scuba diver with complete ease.

It is true that they are slimy. The slime helps to protect them from infections and bacteria. If you catch one, the worst thing you can do is let it roll around in the net or on the ground. It is better to handle it by the mouth if you intend to release it. Their "horns" (actually part of their fins) are sharp when they are small. This protects them from predators. Around the weight of three plus pounds, they are too dull to really stab or cut. Catfish do not grow large enough to eat a person. The world record blue cat is currently around 140 pounds (Virginia), and the current record for a flathead cat is around 120 pounds (Kansas). So, the next time that someone swears there are fish big enough to swallow a man whole at the Cataract Lake dam, roll your eyes and say, Wow!

 In North America we have five basic species of catfish. Common terms are yellow bellies-- probably the most disgusting; this fish is primarily less than five pounds and actually will eat anything. Not a favorite at the dinner table, it tastes like river mud smells. The channel is the most commonly caught and ate. The flathead is the stuff that legends are made of. Flatheads eat live food, are voracious fighters, and have a clean fish flavor. Lastly, the blue cat. This species has the capability of growing the largest. Not particularly a favorite for the dinner table, the blue mostly eats dead food and has an oily flavor. Lastly, the spoonbill cat. This is a prehistoric looking fish that can grow up to 140 pounds (Kansas) but is protected in most states,  I really have no idea how it tastes.

Growing up, my family loved to begin catfishing when the dogwood trees bloomed in the spring. At this time of year in the Midwest, the river water temperature is rising and triggering pre-spawn behavior. The catfish feed aggressively until the spawn. When the water temperature is right, the female releases her eggs and the male fertilizes them. He then stays with the nest and fry, protecting them from predators and intruders. The bite is virtually nonexistent until the male leaves the young. For us Hoosiers, this is normally between the middle of May until the end of June. During July and August, the bite increases as the catfish aggressively gain back the lost weight.

On my favorite childhood catfishing trip, my two little brothers, Gordon and Danny, my dad, and I floated the St. Francis river in Missouri. I really don't remember if we caught catfish, but we did swim, eat, and try to fish. I remember that we boys had a bad habit of getting in Dad's tackle box and not latching it shut. Gordon had additional habits of hooking others and snickering when he was in trouble. We were sitting on the bank fishing by lantern light until it was time to run our trot line. Dad had walked a few steps away to relieve himself when his pole had a bite. "Dad, you have a bite," I said. "Go ahead and grab it," he answered. Gordon, Danny, and I looked each other in the eye and we each had the biggest of poop-eating grins on our faces. We were going  let the fish bite until he thought his pole would be pulled into the river.

 "It's really biting Dad."

"Grab it son."

"We'll it's your pole. I think you should be the one to get it. It's going in."

Dad, unable to see his pole in the darkness and unaware that we would grab it if necessary, ran to his pole. His tackle box was in his way. With what he thought was a Carl Lewisesque leap, his toe caught the tackle box. Dad sprawled forward onto the sandy ground, the tackle box looked like it literally exploded, spewing sinkers, hooks, and lures volcanically like a fisherman's psychedelic dream. Gordon, Danny, and I erupted in laughter. Dad was cussing and trying to recompose himself. Oh my God, he was so angry with us. For the next few hours we just sat and silently stared at our poles while Gordon made little whimpering snickers and snorts trying to suppress his uncontrollable laughter. Dad seethed. What a night. Believe it or not, Dad even loves this story. It was an heirloom; our last childhood trip down the St. Francis.

I have guided catfishing trips for years on Cataract and Raccoon reservoirs, and I will pass along what I have learned. 1) Use bait that is oily and/or bloody. 2) Fish close to structure. 3) Keep your bait off the bottom when pole fishing (Catfish have overbites. They do not "play" with their food, it may seem so, but they are trying to get it out of the sediment on the bottom.) 4) Fish when the barometer is high, or when it plummets before a storm. 5) Try to fish from late afternoon to midnight. 6) Take some snacks and enjoy yourself.

What do you know about cat fishing? What is your favourite bait? When do you think the best time of year is?

History of the Barber Pole

Barber Pole Quackery

I have a toothache, I’m depressed, and my throat hurts. I need to see if my barber, Zeb, can get me in.

When you see a red and white striped, spinning pole outside of a haircutting establishment, with the all too fun illusion of ribbons flowing upwards as the pole spins, have you ever wondered if the colors or the pole has symbolic meaning? I would say, who hasn’t? So, with an open invitation to double entendre and eye rolling smirks I will discuss the barber pole. Hm mmm, "That's what she said." I just couldn't resist. 

                I took some time to look up the history of the barber pole in Funk and Wagnell’s, dictionary of folklore. With information hardly more than a blurb, I searched further information through various reputable sites on the web.

                The barber pole was once a plain pole that was wrapped in bloody bandages to signify a place of medical practice. It later was a pole, painted red and white, with a basin atop signifying a bowl for leeches, and a basin below signifying bloodletting. You see, way before we acquired the much wiser knowledge of ear candles, colon cleansing, the “ped egg,” and detoxification, we were silly enough to believe that the body had four humors: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. We also believed that the blood did not circulate in the body but remained stagnate. When there was an illness, melancholia, or if you just felt lethargic, you would go to the surgeon (in this case the barber), squeeze the pole to dilate your veins, and have some of your blood drained from your body allowing the body to make new and cleaner blood. Even George Washington took part in this. On his deathbed with a throat infection, he allowed about 80 ounces of blood to be drawn from his arm. It is not a definite that this is what killed him but it surely didn’t help. How silly they were, if his doctors only knew that they could just detoxify his body through soaking his feet or by lighting a candle and sticking it in his ear they may have saved him. Ha! What fools!

So why did the barber become the surgeon? We have to look at the 17^th Century church. It turns out that the bloodletting was originally performed by the institutions of the Catholic church. Most doctors and medical facilities were owned by the Catholic Church, and the church forbade the practice in belief that the human body was sacred and nobody should see the “dirty” parts. It didn’t take long before the practice of medical care was picked up by others, in this case by barbers.

                Interestingly enough, barbers became known for this throughout the world. They would cut hair, shave faces, extract teeth, and perform surgeries.  This seldom bode well for patients. Unclean conditions and instruments caused frequent infections. Believe it or not, washing hands and sterile medical implements are actually relatively new inventions (late 19^th century). It was also the 19^th century when barbers ceased the medical practices for the sole practice of barbering.

                End of the story? No. Even after the separation of barbering and doctoring the barbers kept the pole. The pole is symbolic of the barbering profession. Thus, who gets to use the pole for representation is cause for argument and legal battles between stylists and barbers. Michigan has even proposed legislation that only permits barber shops to use the symbolic red and white pole.

                So would I let my barbers Zeb or T.G. extract a tooth or draw blood? If there were no other facilities around, yes, I would. They seem like nice enough guys. Why not? Next week look forward to a column about catfishing lore. 

Renewing My Mancode License

Renewing My Bro Code License—a trip to the barbershop

I am ready for a trip to renew my Mancode License, to the Mecca of Manliness, the Cultivator to the Code, the Gas Tank of Testosterone, to the . . . BARBERSHOP.

Once in a while, about every three weeks or so, I feel like I need to take a sabbatical from my daily life of political correctness and pleasing others. I feel a need to be real and honest; to forget about saying the right things to the right people; to drop my arms from their defensive position and relax and just be comfortable being myself; so, I go to the barbershop.

For the first several years of my life, my dad inflicted his personal idea of a good haircut on me. He was a soldier in the Army, so, he sheared my head in a “military” style cut until it would be hard to discern my head from the oniony head, just can’t keep from touching it, Chia Pet plant. Luckily, these years were on or around military bases, so, all the other kids had similar hairstyles. At around 7 or 8 years old, Dad became a part-time soldier and a full-time civilian. We lived in the same town as my grandpa, and Grandpa  took over Little Paul’s hair-cutting.

Grandpa took me to Buzz’s Barbershop in Desoto, Missouri. Buzz was a retired war veteran and ex-star athlete in Desoto. In the basement of his home, Buzz had plenty of chairs where the town’s old men could sit, gossip, and reminisce about times gone by. He also had a barber chair. In between sentences and during awkward pauses, Buzz would cut hair if there was a person sitting where the scissors work.  Buzz and a nice man named Basil Davis were who cut my hair while I lived in Missouri. Occasionally my Aunt Kathy would cut my hair in her salon, but I honestly always felt a little “girly” at the salon unless it was empty.

When I moved to Indiana, I had a hard time finding the barber shop atmosphere I was accustomed to. Moreover, there were fewer and fewer barbers to be found; the profession seemed to be dying off. I was forced to break the Man Code and get my cut at salons and boutiques. I still received good haircuts, but the salon had a feminine “ambiance” instead of a manly “feel or smell.” Now, I acknowledge this perspective is relative; I was simply accustomed to barbers. I know that many guys are accustomed to stylists at salons and boutiques. One of my best friends, Chad, had never been to a barber until I took him to one in Terre Haute. He had a good time listening to all the man talk in the shop, but he didn’t like the feel of a man touching his hair. He felt out of place, while I felt right as rain.

Barber shops are therapeutic to me. Two to three times a year, my wife treats me to a haircut and hot lather, straight razor, shave at Red’s Barber Shop in Indianapolis. Though it is a bit disconcerting to be so vulnerable with the business end of a straight razor touching my throat, it is relaxing, top notch, and pampering . . . and this man-spa pampering still is allowable under Man Code rules.

I primarily go to Timberman’s in Brazil, Indiana. I love it there. I like all the manly artifacts in the shop: baseball memorabilia, hunting tools, deer heads, and stuffed fish line the walls and start conversations for us customers. I also like that there is an ally close to the side entrance, it makes me feel like I could be on “the lamb” but could still sneak in for a quick haircut (childhood game). Zeb, T.G., and Mr. Timberman (the barbers) always seem to be in a good mood, and they are always rip-roaring ready for a good joke or story. Sometimes we may get a little carried away with our cutting up, but Parker,( TG’s son) is usually there to inject his wit and sarcasm and bring us back to a manageable level. For example, when Zeb asks me, “How do you want it?” and I say, “Make me look like George Clooney,” Parker is there to say, “I don’t think that is ever going to happen.” Haha—thanks Parker. The Man Code permits insults as long as they are witty.

The hair cut is over. As quickly as I leave, the next man sits in the chair and jumps into the conversation wherever it had left off. Once again, my license is validated and I am again a card carrying man with a great hair cut to boot. Next week, I will share information and research about the barbering profession. If you would like to comment on this column or on others I have written, you can follow me at paulharbour.blogspot.com

Human Touch

What is the human story worth? My family and I recently visited Spring Mill State Park just south of Bedford, Indiana. Nice weather was forecasted, and we had the time, so we quickly loaded up the tent and the bikes and took off. A couple of hours later, we were choosing the better spot to strike the tent, quite the decision since I do not like to sleep on a slope.

We then began busting camp while Jennie and I bickered about which bikes I brought and forgetting the rainfly on tent—I  temporarily forgot to prioritize what was important and what wasn’t.

The next day we visited the grist mill in the pioneer village. Honestly, we weren’t expecting much. We figured we would see a couple log homes and a mock-operational mill. Without saying, we were so wrong. The village is collectively many log homes, some moved in from different locations, complete with artifacts and antique relics. Each building is a museum in itself. The mill is fully operational and is fed only by the chute water that flows in from a spring in the forest. Running once an hour on the hour, you can watch the water turn the wheel, which turns the gears and grinds the cornmeal. The man working the mill is a historian and is kindly ready and able to answer all your questions no matter how trivial.

My wife Jennie enjoyed the weaver’s house. There, another historian sat and created handmade rugs on the handmade loom. (They sold for $20 at the apothecary!)The loom was a gift from the homeowner to his wife—2013, and we choose gifts for our wives just as badly now as men did then. She answered our questions while she worked and took the time to explain the work and its importance during pioneer times.

From the weaver’s home, we walked and viewed the schoolhouse; the tavern/inn; the still; another homestead; the potter’s house; and the garden (beautiful). Lastly, we visited the stables/blacksmith. Here we met Everett Rance and his daughter the potter.

While our boys played in the water and visited the church, we stood, watched, and talked. Jennie watched and talked to the potter while she imprinted maple leaves, freshly picked from the tree, onto her handmade pottery.  Commuting over two hours to work for the park, she is a wealth of information and a talented artist. Her friendliness and ease of conversation mesmerizingly delighted Jennie for quite some time.

Mr. Rance and I spoke casually about state parks and his travels. Mr. Rance looked to be in his seventies (forgive me Mr. Rance if I am wrong). He spoke fondly about pulling a pop-up trailer in his station wagon throughout the country and visiting state parks when his children were young. As he reminisced and spoke of when his family was making their memories, his sentimental smile and candor thrilled me into keeping my own mouth shut and making a conscious effort to write his words into my own mind while thinking of my own memories with my family.

“We always teased my son for going into each state butt first,” he said. He explained that his son claimed an allergy that could only be medicated with food. So, he was ever in the cooler getting out something to eat. He also talked about togetherness and how close his family was during those times.

“We never had a lot. Anytime we had a dollar, we spent it going somewhere. We didn’t consider it wasting money. We considered it making memories. One night, after our oldest daughter had left home, my wife and I were lying awake in the camper.  Our two daughters slept in the same bed. Our son had his own little space where he slept. The youngest girl was still quite little and this was the first time she had to sleep by herself. In the middle of the night, in the softest little voice, we could hear her calling to our son. She kept whispering his name over and over. He finally answered her and she said, ‘Can I touch you?’ She was so little; she just wanted to know someone else was there.” His smile was so sincere and real at that moment. It immediately grabbed my heart and forced an unswallowable frog to lodge in my throat.

What are emotions and human touch worth?  We can’t place a value on our travels or the moments spent with our families. Of all the money I have spent on frivolity, I, like you, wouldn’t trade a solitary dime for the memory of my family’s love.

Please share an interestingly "Human" stoy of your own.

LEGENDS AND LORE: How Necessary is Grammar?

LEGENDS AND LORE: How Necessary is Grammar?

I have went away for a while getting my Master’s, but now I am finished with it and have time to get back to writing.  While I was away, I done alot of homework and than I remodeled the kitchen.

Ok. Ok. I can’t take it anymore. I must stop this disgustingly obvious bad grammar. I would bet that many of us did not even notice all the mistakes. Just to clarify, when using the helping verb has/had/have it often changes verbs to their irregular forms if they have one. I should have said, “have gone.” Done alot should be “have done a lot.”  A lot is actually two words, though most people believe it is one. Lastly, then vs. than—I see many of my friends and colleagues misuse these two little gems. Simply put, then has an element of time. The user is implying a future action. Than shows a comparison. There you go. Now  you can better outsmart your personal writing software. (grammargirl.com)

                What does all this matter? To the dismay of many of my English teaching comrades across the country who so enjoy raising their eyebrows and smirking while pointing out, “Ahem, you shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition;’ or,’Only you know if you ‘can’ do something. However, if you are asking me for permission, you must use the word ‘may."  it truthfully doesn’t matter that much. What’s important in language is comprehending the message. Understanding what is said and the meaning of what is said are what matters most. However, I admit that it is good to know proper grammar rules when writing, but even that knowledge must be taken with a grain of salt. Most formal writing is written on Microsoft Word or other writing software. Thus, autocorrect plays a significant role in helping to identify the more obvious grammatical errors. Frankly, anyone with a good writing software program can don the appearance of a decent writer.

The English language is dynamic and always changing (redundant—did you catch it?). Our language is saturated with colloquialisms, dialects, borrowed words, and figurative expressions to the point that grammar rules fall in and out of practice continually. Lately, mostly due to text messaging, acronyms have even crept into our language as actual words. The “word nerd” in me always chuckles when I read AWOL or sna*u in national newspapers; look this one up on your own and you too can smirk when you read it in the papers or hear it on a mentioned in the pulpit.

Where you are, the grammar, and the language/dialect used has little bearing on what you understand and comprehend of the language. I was once in an Indianapolis mall when a young lady asked me, “What time it isms?” I didn’t search for an interpreter, or ask her to use proper grammar so I could help her. I just replied, “7 O’clock.” Usually, the context of the conversation alone helps the converser understand the foreign phrase and conversation. I enjoy watching Swamp People. The dialect and the Creole English are fascinating to me. They switch their subjects and verbs, end sentences with prepositions, and often use the wrong tense. But, I don’t care. I love it, and I completely understand their meaning.

If you too are a bit of a “word nerd” take some time to check out “America’s Secret Slang” on H2, a sub channel of The History Channel.  Very informative, it helps explain where many of our figurative expressions come from—I ended with a preposition; is the meaning of the article now lost?

Hiking to Graveyards

I am trying to get back into the hang of writing columns for the local paper at The Brazil Times 

I know that I am a bit rusty, but I am sure that my writing will sharpen up eventually. :-)

A hawk screamed its unhappy welcome on a windy, grey, wintry day in Owen Putnam State Forrest. My wife and I went hiking on Monday. We talked about how we wanted to explore a new place on our way down snaky State Road 246. On a whim, we jaunted down a side road from State Highway 46 to the State Forrest’s office on our way to McCormick’s Creek State Park in Spencer. At the office, we grabbed some maps and discussed about whether or not we really wanted to hike on horse trails; if you have ever hiked a horse trail, you understand the argument. On the map, we saw landmarks of sandstone bluffs and Pleasant Hill Cemetery, and quickly decided on these destinations.

Down the trail we went. We hiked a handful of miles winding through the woods, up and down hills, and were forever in the mud. Jennie says that I fall too slowly to get hurt, thank God for that, as she watched me fall twice in the mud. We talked, and fell, as we photographed the ice covered 50 foot sandstone bluffs and then continued on to the cemetery.

The cemetery consisted of approximately thirty graves, most of which were put to use in the late 1800s. It was striking to note the amount of children buried in the cemetery; I can only imagine the depressing acceptance of life and death one must have during those times. We struggled to read the grave markers as many of them were marked with lambs, effigies, or epitaphs. Two stones were cast as vine choked oak trees. One grave in particular lay edged on all sides by enormous cedar trees. As I looked, I wondered how small they were or if they were planted by a family member on the day of burial.

I couldn’t help but think that the screams of the hawk were warnings to revere the sacred cemetery, and I did. I even felt a twinge of superstition as I carefully corrected my path as to not walk between the graves of family members. As it turns out, the cemetery is accessible by road, but the slippery, conversation-filled horse trails were worth it.