mmmdclxxiii

Coin versus Catfish

I come from a family of
leisurely fisherfolk, so
even before I was born

I’d been cast by my folks 

and theirs and so on as the 

little buster who reels in the 

catch.  And so I was placed in 

all of the fishiest high-falutin’ 

perches known to exist by any

in the land of my youth, The 

Natural State, formerly nick

named, unnaturally, the Land

of Opportunity.  I picture myself,

peering as I would down the 

current from the banks of the 

Arkansas River, trying to en

vision the impossible to tell: 

whether or not any yellow-

gilled catfish were slithering 

along the riverbed floor in

this, a sport, which, like most,

I disliked, and yet into which I’d

be coerced: the grueling hours 

of minnow and worm finger-

puncturing activity.  I’d try hard 

to concoct ways to make such 

days go swiftly when stuck in this 

eternal family ritual.  But to no 

avail.  In fact, the harder I’d try, 

the longer the day would become.

A diversion was crucial, however,
was my heroic version of divining, 

which was another sport practiced,

and just as religiously, in those parts:
dowsing with a twin-forked twig 

(also a yawn-fest, in my opinion). 

In retrospect, there was a more
elevated hobby, that was popular 

thereabouts, if but a bit more 

modern, that swept my imagination,
and it, too, was performed quite
often along the same riverbanks

and creek beds where I’d spend
many a lamented weekend.  It
was most ordinarily performed 

by elderly numismatists, retirees
who’d get antsy if sunk in their 

La-Z-Boys for longer in duration 

than an episode of Wheel of Fortune. 

Now this was a worthy means of an
escape, I would think, as I sat in 

the boat.  For the men, it was 

solitary; no kids, grandkids
or wives would ever be seen 

accompanying.  These men
reminded me of zombies playing
miniature golf, but in slow motion 

and without any golf balls.  They’d 

swing those weird ground-hovering
machines to the left and to the right,

back and then forth and occasionally

directly in front of their slow-dancing 

gait, with that weird-wiggled walk that 

the undead, as depicted back then on

teevee, would have.  In those days,

metal detectors appeared in abun

dance, as if out of nowhere, and I 

was in awe.  I’d so rather have

been in what we called the city 

playing a round or three of 

miniature golf.  Occasionally
I’d get lucky enough, between

between reeling in minnows and
worms, of witnessing one of these 

grandpa zombies bend over, reach 

down, and pick up something, 

which’d be wiped a bit by a hand

kerchief and then glimmer at me 

for a moment before it disappeared

into a pocket.  And I can tell you for 

certain that, if given the chance, I’d

have traded my rod and my reel 

in a heartbeat for one of those gizmos

that looked like a weed whacker

attached to a UFO (and made all kinds

of UFO noises).  Instead, I was stuck
in a boat or on the bank under a 

glaring sun counting every second
until I’d finally hear “Let’s reel 

’em all in,” which I’d gleefully 

do, and help hitch up the boat

before hopping up into the cab

of the pickup for the ride back

home, during which I’d be 

nothing but fidgety and hungry, 

dreaming of what I would find 

in the sand or the soil if instead
of wasting my time with a rod 

and a reel trying to lure in a 

slippery fish I’d have had in my 

grip a metal detector, scooping 

up loot.  And getting rich, to boot.