SNAKE DOCTORS

One of the unmitigated joys of growing up in Wright City included almost unlimited access to the ponds of relatives.

Ponds were the 50's (poor boy) equivalent of having the internet, ipods, cell phones, a mall, and a zoo (all rolled into one with no cost!)

You could swim or skip rocks on a glass-like surface. You could marvel at dragonflies (we called them "snake doctors") as they helicoptered to and fro with gossamer wings shimmering rainbow colors. Water snakes (we called them "moccasins") made occasional curious approach to liven our day. Bugs, spiders, nutria (we called them "beavers"), birds and all of God's creatures eventually came to the pond to drink from its life giving waters.

And there were fish. I dare say I have known no more pure and relaxing pleasure in my life than days a mere 45-50 years ago that I spent fishing in WC ponds.

Hattie's pond was in the pasture behind Grandmother's house. With a cane pole, a bit of fishing line, a cork and a hook, I would walk to the pond catching grasshoppers along the way for bait. The vast majority of the "catch" was bream, or a rare catfish. Feeling the electricity of those fish pulsing thru the bamboo pole was excitement in its purest form.

When I was nigh unto 12, Buddy gave me a "rod and reel". The rod was steel with the guides held on with wrappings of steel wire and the handle softened by cork. The reel was a level wind variety with direct drive (no clutch "drag" to ease the stress on the line). The line on the reel was black braided stuff that I guess was strong enough to tow a car if need be?

Many days I would hop on my bicycle with that rod/reel and go to Charlies "old" pond to fish (kids weren't allowed at the "new" pond as he had stocked it with channel catfish). I would tie a hook and a weight on my line, bait with either earth worms or trusty grasshoppers and cast as far a possible into the pond (likely not more than 25 yards). I would then use green sticks to pin the rod/reel to the ground so the anticipated piscatorial monster wouldn't drag it to the watery depths. All that remained was to wait for the inevitable "STRIKE".

I was never disappointed. It's my belief that on every trip I would return home with 15-20 bream and a few "mudcats" for the skillet.

When I was near 15-16, Buddy gave me a flyrod. I must have looked hilarious trying to cast that puppy effectively, but it worked. About that time, I was allowed to fish in the Lyles pond (catch and release only) and I near bout wore out that flyrod on the bass they were growing.

The neatest thing about all this: For the life of me, I can't remember a time I was fishing back then that I had a care, worry, fret, or even gave two hoots about anything negative whatsoever. Those times were when the world was a marvelous place and I couldn't see how things could get any better.

I gotta get back to fishing, and soon.