Good Ol' Boys ~ Catfishin'(Phil Whitley) “Wooo-hoo, Look at this `un,” Brother Hollis said as he pulled what must have been a three-pounder onto the bank. “Big ol’ catfish, ain’t it?”

The four old friends were lined along the bank of the Haney’s five acre pond, and having a great afternoon of beer drinking and fishing.

“That’s a keeper alright, Preacherman,” Big Tim agreed. Big Tim was Small Tim’s son; but because he was so huge, and Small Tim was so small, they had been stuck with the nicknames “Big” Tim and “Small” Tim. Big Tim’s name was actually Timothy Jehu Haney, Junior, but both he and his father hated to be called Jehu, both preferring “Tim”.

Brother Hollis carefully worked the hook free from the catfish’s mouth, tossed it into the cooler and re-baited. He was the idea man of the group—always looking for ways to make enough money to build a real church. He looked into the cooler containing their catch so far and said, “You know, if we could get us a really big mess of these by Saturday, we could have us a catfish fry. What do you think about that, Small Tim?”

“Well, Preacher, this here’s already Thursday. It `ud take us a week t’ catch enough fish fer what I thank you got in mind… but I shore wish we could get rid of most o’ th’ catfish in hyer. They’s too many, and th’ bass an’ bluegills er suffrin’ fer it.”

Small Tim was referring to Brother Hollis’ idea of a catfish fry. He knew that the preacher meant a catfish fry for the entire community, and using the event as a means of attracting a congregation for him to preach to. He didn’t have a church of his own, but he had a huge army surplus tent that he set up frequently, much to the dismay of his immediate family. They usually made up his entire congregation, unless he could come up with ideas to draw a crowd.

His previous brainstorm hadn’t worked out as well as he had planned. It wasn’t that it was that bad of an idea. It was just that there wasn’t enough people in the community willing to pay five dollars a plate for a “Soul Food” dinner of turnip greens and cornbread—and then having to listen to him preach for two hours. Brother Hollis had never attended a seminary, but had transformed himself into his ideal of preaching perfection by studying, then adopting, the preaching style of the more successful radio and television evangelists. More specifically, it was the ones that when ‘preaching in the Spirit’, altered their voices into that particularly annoying habit of adding several extra syllables to one and two syllable words.

In everyday conversation, Brother Hollis spoke in a normal voice, even having done away with his southern drawl. But when he got worked up behind the pulpit, he would begin jumping up and down, waving his lanky arms, and most annoying of all, begin adding those extra syllables to certain words. ‘God’ for example, became ‘GAW-ud-ah. ‘Jesus’ became ‘Jah-EE-zus-ah’. “GAW-ud-ah, sent His Son, Jah-EE-zus-ah, into the WO-ald-ah, to save MAY-un-ah from his SINS-ah.”

Some people really like that kind of preaching, but unfortunately, not that many lived in this particular community.

The fourth man of the group, “Red” Crawford, pulled another fish from the pond and brought it up to the cooler. “Sounds lak a good idee t’ me, Preacherman, but Tim’s right. We cain’t ketch enough `fore Saredy t’ feed evvabody… but I know how we kin do it,” he said, looking around the group as if he was about to tell a secret. “We’d kill two birds at th’ same time, too—have that fish fry an’ relieve Tim’s pond o’ soma these her catfish!”

“What is it, Brother Crawford? What do you have in mind?” Brother Hollis asked with growing interest.

“Hit ain’t `zackly legal, though, but Dubya an’ me did it lass’ summer jus’ t’ see if hit `ud work, an’ hit did!” Red said, still looking like he wasn’t sure if he should tell.

Brother Hollis was already planning his sermon for the fish fry, and wasn’t about to pass up a chance to make it happen. “Just what do you mean by ‘Not 'zackly legal, Brother Red?”

Red, seeing that he now had everyone’s attention, prolonged the suspense by pulling out a pouch of Bull Durham tobacco from his top overall pocket, carefully folding a paper and rolling a cigarette.

“Well, Dubya’s got one of those ringer thangs from outta his grandmaw’s old telephone. We run some wars from it into th’ creek behind his house an’ cranked on it,” he said, pausing to light his cigarette.
“Seems them catfish don’t lak 'lec-tristy an’ come a’swimmin’ to th’ top. We jes’ scooped `em out with a net.”

“I’ve heerd `bout that, Red,” Small Tim said. “Pap called hit ‘callin’ catfish, er sompin’ lak that.”

“That doesn’t sound all that illegal to me, Brother Red, and if Brother Haney wants the catfish out of his pond… and it IS his pond…” Brother Hollis said, looking from one man to another.

Small Tim pushed a couple of catfish aside to pull another Bud from the cooler and popped it open. “When Dubya gets hyer we’ll ask him `bout it. Catfish fry soun’s perdy good t’ me!”

“Speak o’ th’ devil, hyer he comes now,” Big Tim said as Dubya’s old army jeep appeared over the hill behind them.

Dubya’s real name was simply the letter “W” Jones, which had caused him a lot of grief during his military service. They wanted to know what the “W” stood for, and didn’t like his answer. He tried to explain that his mother wanted to name him Wilbur and his father wanted it to be William, after him. They finally compromised on just the letter “W”. He began spelling it “Dubya” on his military records and it stuck.

He climbed out of his jeep and gave them a “Hey y’all” and went straight to the cooler for a beer. “Y’all done got a few cats, I see.” Then he realized that everyone was staring at him.

“Whut? Y’all been a’talkin’ `bout me?”

“Naw, Dubya… well, yeah, matter o’ fact we were,” Red admitted. “I wuz jus’ tellin’ `em `bout you an’ me shockin’ them catfish with that telephone thang you got. You still got it, dontcha?”

“Yep. I got it, Red.” Dubya said, looking around the group suspiciously. “Why?”

“Well, Small Tim needs t’ get rid o’ some of the catfish in his pond, an’ th’ preacherman wants to have a big catfish fry. I… we… figgered that wuz a good way t’ get `em.”

Dubya reached behind the seat of his jeep and took out a six-pack of tall-boy Buds, pushed a few catfish aside and dropped it into the cooler. “Tomorrow be soon `nuff?”

“Preacher wants t’ have his fish fry on Sunday, so we need t’ get `em caught least by Saturday night… so I guess we best get started early tomorrow, Dubya. What all we need?”

“Just th’ magneto, some dip nets, an’ a boat `ud be handy,” Dubya said, reaching for another brew.

“Ain’t got a boat no more. Bottom rotted out,” Small Tim said. “Kin we make do without it?”

“Long as y’all don’t mind a’wadin’. How deep is it?” Dubya asked while he lit a Camel and squinted at Tim over the smoke.

“Hit’s mostly no more`n waist deep. Maybe ten feet at the deepest near th’ dam,” Big Tim said. “Thank we kin do it? We kin use long hannels on th’ nets fer th’ deep parts.”

“Sho, it’ll work. I’ll brang th’ ringer over tomorrow mornin’ an’ get us an early start. Now let’s fish!” Dubya said as he baited up his hook.

Dubya was a man of few words, but he hadn’t always been that way. Throughout his school years he was the class clown, and almost daily in trouble for talking and disrupting the class. Then, immediately after his high school graduation, he joined the Army. Within six months, he was in the jungles of Viet Nam. He returned a different man. He wasn’t especially moody, or depressed—he just didn’t talk much anymore. He had always been an outdoorsman like his father, fishing, hunting, and trapping—but since his military service he became obsessed with it and spent most of his time doing those things.

The five friends continued fishing and depleting the beer from the cooler until nearly midnight. Then they cleaned the nearly twenty pounds of catfish and iced them down. They had one more beer apiece, then left for their homes.

At dawn the next morning, Dubya was already at the pond when Brother Hollis showed up.

“We the first ones here, Brother Jones?”

“Yep, but I reckon th’ others be hyer directly.”

Brother Hollis picked up the magneto and examined it closely. “I remember my mother talking about using these things on the old telephones. She said that you cranked on it to ring the operator. So it really does kill the fish?”

“Hit don’t kill `em… hit jus’ stuns `em an’ they come up t’ th’ top. Don’t work on nuthin’ but catfish,” Dubya explained.

He had attached a metal ring to the end of a long wire, and was now taping the ring to a doughnut-shaped piece of styrofoam.

“That oughtta float,” he said as he finished the taping. He carried it to the edge of the water and tossed it in. “Yep. Floats good.”

Brother Hollis was anxious to get started. There was a second wire running from the magneto and he asked about it.

“Ground war,” said Dubya as he pushed a metal rod into the soft mud at the edge of the water. He wound a few turns of exposed wire around the rod and taped it into place. “An’ that’s all there is to it. Hit’s ready!”

“I think I understand now, Brother Dubya. Any catfish between the end that floats and this here ground wire will get shocked, right?”
“Yep, you got it, Preacher.”

“So why don’t I get a dip net and carry this end out as far as I can wade? We may as well get started now!” Brother Hollis really wanted to have that fish fry.

“Ready when you are, Preacher,” Dubya grunted.

Brother Hollis put the coil of wire over one arm and put his other arm through the floating metal ring. He began wading out into the pond, playing the wire out behind him.

While Dubya was pushing the ground rod deeper into the mud, Big Tim, Small Tim and Red walked up behind him.

“Y’all getting’ an early start, Dubya?”Red asked.

“Yep. Preacherman wants that fish fry!” Dubya said, still not satisfied with the ground rod.

He was distracted by a loud, high-pitched, “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” that seemed to be coming from the middle of the pond. The sound was coming from Brother Hollis, who was standing waist-deep in the water—arms upraised—with the metal ring around one of them. He appeared to be dancing, making ripples in the water.

From behind Dubya, Big Tim said, “This thang really work?” He was cranking away on the magneto.

“Stop cranking, Tim,” Dubya shouted.

Big Tim looked puzzled, but stopped cranking. The “Yeeeeee” sound from the pond stopped at the same time.

“What’s Preacherman doing out thar?” Big Tim asked, giving the magneto a couple more turns.

“Yeeeeee,” said Brother Hollis, waving his arms again, but not nearly as long as before.

“You `lectrocutin’ the Preacher evva time you crank that thang, Tim. Put it down!” Dubya said.

They all looked at Brother Hollis to see if he was all right. He was still shaking and trying to get the ring off his arm. Several catfish were floating around his waist but he didn’t seem to be
interested in them.

“Anybody - so - much - as - touch - that – thing…” the preacher said between breaths, “… before I get out of this water,” now catching his breath, “…I will call down the Wrath of GAW-ud-ah upon him!” he finished as he stepped onto the bank.

“DAMN!” he said for the first time in over fifty years.

Big Tim set the magneto down gently and said, “Don’t guess I need me no God wrath this mornin’.”

Brother Hollis, who appeared quite shaken, pulled himself out of the pond and sat down on the bank. The other men gathered around him, concerned for his well being, but trying hard not to laugh.

“Are you alright, Preacher?” Red asked, barely able to conceal a grin.

“I think I ‘m going to survive, Brother Red, but I can see your amusement. Anybody laugh right now and I will wrap that wire around his private parts and crank on that Instrument of Satan until I get tired!”

“`Twern’t funny, Preacher. We jus’ happy hit din’t kill you,” Big Tim said. “An’ I really din’t know you wuz on th’ other end when I cranked it.”

“Well, I’ll be the one on the cranking end next time, if that’s agreeable to the rest of you,” Brother Hollis said, looking around the group defiantly. He had left the floating ring well out in the pond, so Small Tim handed him the magneto.

“May as well give `er a shot, Preacher!”

Brother Hollis seemed a little reluctant to even touch it, but soon he was cranking away. Catfish were coming to the surface almost faster than the other men could net them and dump them into the cooler; but the floating ring was drifting closer and closer to the bank.

“Big Tim, why don’t you wade out and take that ring out as far as you can?” Brother Hollis suggested.

Big Tim was already standing in the water with his net, so he obliged. “This far enough,Preacher?”

“That’s about as far as the wire allows, Tim,” Brother Hollis said with an evil gleam in his eyes.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” Big Tim screamed from the middle of the pond, in an almost perfect imitation of the preacher. “Son of a BITCH!” he added as he threw the ring down. “Guess I deserved that.”

Now everyone laughed—even Big Tim… after he had caught his breath.

“I don’t suppose I could ever convince you that that was an accident, could I?” Brother Hollis asked innocently, then burst out laughing again.

By noon, the first cooler was completely full of dressed fish, and they had begun another one. Allowing enough room for ice, they figured there were two coolers full.

Dubya volunteered to drive to the nearest store to get ice and enough beer for the remainder of the day. On the way back, he had an idea. He went by his brother-in-law’s house and borrowed his aluminum canoe.

“All we got t’ do is connect the war t’ th’ canoe,” he xplained. “That way, we won’t be a’wadin’ an’ getting’ 'lectrocuted with that thang.”

By nightfall they had filled two more coolers with dressed catfish and even had a few beers left. They decided to quit fishing for the night and built a fire to dry their clothes, and just sit and talk.

“Pretty slim catchin’ when we stopped this evenin’,” Dubya said, poking at the fire with a stick. “Reckon we `bout got `em all?”

“They’s more in thar,” Small Tim said. “We jus’ got t’ keep tryin’, I figger.”

Dubya threw the stick into the fire and opened another beer. “Member when we usta throw Cherry Bombs into th’ creek? Sometimes they `ud brang up a few fish.”

“Yeah, I remember, Dubya. We taped `em to rocks t’ sink `em. I always wondered how them fuses stayed lit,” Big Tim said. “What you thankin’ `bout, Dubya?”

“I got somma Daddy’s dynamite left from when we wuz a’blowin’ up stumps,” Dubya said, still poking at the fire.

“Dynamite, Dubya?” Small Tim said. “Cherry Bombs `er one thang, but you talking’ `bout some serious stuff now!”

“Jus’ a thought, Tim,” Dubya said, squinting over a fresh-lit Camel.

Red was rolling a Bull Durham and balancing a beer between his knees at the same time, but paused long enough to ask, “Reckon how many Cherry Bombs hit take t’ make a stick of dynamite?”

Several beers later they had estimated the equivalent ratio. Dubya said that they were both about the same diameter, and that about fifteen Cherry Bombs placed end-to-end would be about the same length. According to Big Tim, the Cherry Bombs they used in the creek brought up about three fish each.

“An’ that means that one stick of dynamite ought t’ brang up `bout forty-five fish,” Big Tim said. After all, he was the youngest of the group, with the most recent education.

“An’ I got `bout ten sticks left,” Dubya said.

“An’ ten times forty-five’ll get us four hundred an’ fifty fish!”

Big Tim said with authority. You just can’t argue with a good education!

“Dang, we gonna have us a BIG fish fry, Preacher!” Red said. “You lettin’ everybody know `bout it ain’tcha?”

“I’ve put posters all over the community, Red, and my wife has been calling all the ladies, letting them know about it. With all our wives making slaw and hushpuppies, we should be all set,” Brother Hollis said.

With that settled, Dubya offered the first part of the plan. They would take all the entrails and heads from the catfish they had already cleaned, put them in a burlap bag, and sink it in the middle of the pond.

“By tomorrow, ever’ catfish in thar’ll be gathered `roun’ hit. Daddy called hit ‘baitin’ a hole’,” Dubya said.

Dubya was already at the pond the next morning when Brother Hollis arrived. He was taping the sticks of dynamite together and setting the fuse.

“Good morning, Brother Dubya,” the preacher said.

“Mornin’, Preacher. You ready to blow this pond up?”

“I’m not so sure after sleeping on it. Is this safe? I mean to us and Brother Haney’s pond.”

“Yeah, it’ll be alright. Dynamite underwater ain’t all that dangerous. Hit don’t even make much noise,” Dubya said with confidence.

“I just don’t want anyone to get hurt, Dubya… and should you be smoking while you’re doing that?”

“Probly not, Preacher. Thanks,” Dubya said, flicking his Camel into the pond.

The two Tims joined them, each carrying two large Styrofoam coolers.

“Thought we might need these,” Small Tim said.

“Those an’ mebbe more, if this works, Tim,” Dubya said. “Those catfish probly done foun’ that bag of guts by now.”

Big Tim saw the long fuse coming out of the bundle of dynamite and asked, “That fuse burn underwater, Dubya?”

“You cain’t hardly put hit out once hit’s lit. I got `er cut to `bout a minute, give ‘er take a few seconds, I figger.”

They were all set when Red appeared. His old pickup truck rattled to a stop and Red slammed the door twice before it closed. “Dang ol’ Ford,” he said grumpily, but everyone knew how much he loved that old truck. He had a practically new one at home, but preferred rattling around in this one.

“Y’all ain’t done blowed th’ pond up yet, didja?”

“Naw, we wuz a’waitin’ on you,” Small Tim said. “An’ hit looks like Dubya’s got evvathang ready.”

“Then let us do this thing,” Brother Hollis said. He wanted to go with Dubya in the canoe, and they had decided that only two of them would be on the water when they blew it.

Dubya sat in the bow with his dynamite bundle, and Brother Hollis took the stern and paddled. The other men watched from the bank as the two made their way out to the middle of the pond.

Dubya was watching the water intently, looking for the cork bobber they had attached to the bag of entrails.

“Hyer it is,” he said, reaching over the side for the attached line.

“Hold `er right hyer, Preacher, whilst I get this ready. Soon as I light th’ fuse and drop th’ charge over th’ side, paddle like hell!”

Dubya balanced the taped dynamite bundle on the side of the canoe while he fumbled for his lighter.

Brother Hollis was getting increasingly nervous as he watched Dubya light his Zippo, then hold it to the fuse. There was a sudden hiss and sparkle as the fuse ignited. Dubya waited a moment to make sure it was going good, then pushed the charge over the side. It was sinking slowly as he hollered, “Paddle, Preacher, paddle!”

Brother Hollis paddled so hard on his very first stroke, the paddle broke, leaving him holding only the upper half.

“Uh-oh,” the preacher said.

“Uh-oh, hell… use yore hands!” Dubya said as he frantically demonstrated from the bow as the canoe drifted directly over “Pond Zero”.

Just as he had said, it didn’t make an awfully loud noise. There was a hollow sounding “WHUMP” that the men on shore felt more than heard.

Then, a moment later, a ten-foot diameter column of water rose up from beneath the canoe, lifting it and its occupants twenty feet into the air. It seemed to the others as if it all happened in slow motion—the canoe rode up on a giant tower of water, with the preacher and Dubya still seated —their arms over the sides, paddling away at empty air.

The top of the water column then exploded and collapsed on itself, leaving the canoe momentarily suspended in empty space, but not for long. It tipped to one side, obeying the Law of Gravity and fell, along with Dubya and the preacher, into the pond.

Small Tim, Big Tim and Red never had time to run as the resulting tsunami wave hit them. One moment they were watching the explosion, and the next they were being carried nearly twenty feet from where they had been standing. Then the receding water swept them into the pond.

No one spoke for several minutes as they re-grouped on the bank and checked for injuries. Brother Hollis and Dubya were the last to crawl out of the pond—the surface of which was covered with dead and dying fish. There were even fish flopping around on the ground around them.

“Well, that worked,” Dubya said solemnly, trying to conceal his shaking hands.

Brother Hollis, who in one twenty-four hour period had nearly been electrocuted, then nearly blown up, just stood there, staring into the sky.

After a moment he said, “If you men will begin cleaning the fish on the bank here, I will get the net and gather the ones in the pond.”

He had the beginnings of a brand-new sermon for the meeting tomorrow and needed the time alone to think. It was going to be about the disciples of Jesus who were fishermen. They had used nets! He wasn’t planning on mentioning magnetos or dynamite, but he figured that they would have used them—had they been available.

Their wives had been preparing all the other food to go along with the catfish while the men were cleaning the fish. There were gallons of cole slaw, and the batter for the fish and the special mix for the hushpuppies were ready. Brother Hollis had his huge Army-surplus tent set up in the large community picnic area that was located beside the creek that ran from the Haney’s pond— the dam of which was about two hundred yards upstream. The fires were ready to light beneath the two huge iron pots of peanut oil.

Now all that was necessary was for people to show up. Brother Hollis had paid for an ad at a local AM radio station that specialized in Christian programming, and the ad had been repeated every hour for the past two days.

Realizing his mistakes from his earlier ‘Soul Food’ event, he had decided to offer a free dinner to those who attended his sermon. Those who came only to eat would be charged five dollars, but that was for ‘All You Can Eat’ as the ad had promised. Southern dining at its finest!

They lit the fires at dawn on Sunday morning. The folding chairs were set up in neat rows beneath the tent. Outside, the picnic tables and benches were cleaned and ready. Brother Hollis was pacing nervously between the tent and the picnic area, watching the drive for cars, and praying that they would come.

The sermon was to begin promptly at 10 AM, but by 9 AM the first people began arriving. They continued to arrive until soon the parking area was full and the drive was lined with vehicles along both sides. The preacher’s fears subsided as the grounds filled with people. The kids were playing in the creek and running wild, and the atmosphere was one of a joyous family reunion, even though very few were related.

Brother Hollis then gave what was the best sermon of his life. He was inspired and eloquent in his delivery, and the ‘Amens’ and the ‘Preach it, brothers’ from the congregation inspired him even further. Even those in the crowd who weren’t seen inside a church except for their own funeral were impressed.

Even more amazing was that at the ‘Alter Call”, old J.D. Scroggs, moonshiner and chief partaker of his own product, asked to be baptized! Brother Hollis, who had never been asked to baptize anyone in his entire career, was near tears of joy when he led J.D. down to the creek after the service. Just as he and J.D. waded into the creek, there was a distant rumbling sound and people looked up, expecting to see rain clouds, but it was a clear, sunny day.

The preacher placed his hands on J.D. as he prepared him for a good old-fashioned creek-dipping and said, “I baptize you in the name of the… GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY!” as a ten foot wall of water surged toward them from upstream. Apparently the dam had been more affected by the dynamite blast than they realized; or maybe God, in His Infinite Wisdom, figured that old J.D. needed more than just a dipping to wash away a lifetime of sins.

Whatever the cause, Brother Hollis and J.D., together with a few kids who were playing in the creek, were swept nearly a hundred yards downstream. The two men were still clinging to one another when the wave passed. Standing up in the now knee-deep water, Brother Hollis completed the ceremony by adding, “… Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

Fortunately, the fish, already fried and piled on the tables on platters with the rest of the food, was safe. The fires were extinguished, the tent was gone, and people’s shoes were soaked.

The kids made a game of throwing the few stranded fish into the creek. They seemed to think that the whole thing had been part of the planned entertainment, and the ones who had not been in the creek wanted to know, “When is it going to do it again?”

A wet and bedraggled Brother Hollis stood in the ankle deep water and said Grace over the food. There were over three hundred people served that day, and not a single one complained or thought of it as a bad experience. Most of them had heard a superb sermon, enjoyed a wonderful meal and above all, had gained a memorable story to pass on to future generations.

The Federal Flood Relief Program received word of the tragedy. They sent funds sufficient to not only repair the Haney’s dam and re-stock the pond, but enough to “rebuild the little country church that was swept away”, the accompanying official report read. Someone had failed to mention in the initial report that it had been an Army-surplus tent. Brother Hollis considered the omission as an Act of God.

His dream of having a real church with a returning congregation that loved him was fulfilled. He even had a creek-dipped deacon who idolized him. It turned out that old J.D. had a magnificent baritone singing voice and doubled as the song leader.

But most of all, he still had his four Good Ol’ Boys who listened to his ideas—the latest of which was presented to them one afternoon on the bank of the newly-stocked pond. “You know, deer season is almost here. Reckon we could have us a big ol’ venison barbecue?”

© 2007 Phil Whitley. All Rights Reserved.


Phil Whitley was born on January 1st, 1943 in the rural community of Pine Mountain Valley, Georgia, and now resides in Riverdale, Georgia with his wife and daughter. Recently retired after thirty years as a hospital Biomedical Equipment Technician, he now spends his time researching and writing.

Keechie was his first full-length novel of historical fiction, based loosely on his childhood in the 1950’s south. Granny Boo was his second novel published in December, 2009. His love of southern humor led him to write several short stories based on characters from that time period, capturing the southern dialect as it was, and still is, spoken.

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