Taliaferro

I suppose it shouldn't be much of a surprise why Great Uncle Elroy's pond had the biggest, best catfish in all of Taliaferro County. Hell, maybe even the South.

Unc used to say it was on account of the depth of the thing. His grampa had it dug as a public works project back in the New Deal. A crew was cuttin' a firebreak just east of his place, along the property line of Jenkins land.

Well, Old Man Evans, he went on down to the courthouse and had some words with a few county commissioners and a judge or two. As I understand it, they was pleasant words, with mentions of reelection and campaign funds, along with a couple of plain envelopes that never saw the inside of a mailbox.

Next thing you know, that work crew took a detour off the firebreak for a coupla weeks. Even the fellah from Atlanta in charge of organizin' all the labor, he seemed happy to help. 'Course, "helping" for him pretty much meant helping himself to quarts of the good stuff revenuers used to get all tied up about. He spent more than a few afternoons in a rockin' chair chasing the shade of the front porch while them fellahs went at the dirt to earn their keep.

Anyhow. That's the story as I've heard it told.

Old Gramps, he made em go extra deep on that pond. He swears it made for cooler water and better livin' conditions for them fish he had stocked before the War.

Times was lean when our boys landed in Normandy, 'cept over on Uncle Elroy's place. He always had plenty of ration cards, hell, he even managed to have chocolate and gas when everybody else was ridin' bicycles or walkin'.

Nobody never thought nothin' about it, not really.

But it did seem he always had comp'ny out of Atlanta a fair piece. Real city-slicker types. Greasy hair and easy smiles that never lit up them shady eyes.  I reckon it shoulda seemed odd, them folks always visitin' a country bumpkin and his ponds and pigfarm.

Anyhoo. Wasn't long after the war things picked up, so much as things've ever picked up in Crawfordville. Folks was comin' from all around, payin' a fee to fish the pond. Atlanta folks, especially; a whole mess of em always came out for nightfishin.

A right good business started to boom out on that place. It got to where he had to limit the number of tickets he'd let get out, on account of he didn't want to have to restock his pond any more than necess'ry.

Come to think of it, the whole thing was genius, really.

National Geographic came out one time in '64. By then Uncle Elroy was the only one left, runnin' the whole show.

Them magazine people came out 'cause of the catfish, see. They was big.

Goddamn, but they was big.

I remember once, I paid my fee to fish. Me! Family! Can you believe that? Anyhow, I just sat up on the bank with my cane pole. It was a slow day, maybe just one other couple out and about.

Before long, I hooked me somethin'. Damn thing near-bout broke my pole.

It was a monster. Had to be twelve pounds or so.

In a pond.

Goddamn anomaly, is what it was.

But I didn't mind. Made some fine eatin'.

I never spared too much thought on it, to tell th' truth; what fryin’ them fish meant, in a we-are-what-we-eat sense.

Not until that mess that came-to here a few years ago.

Worst drought we ever did have.

That pond, it dried right up. Damndest thing I seen. That thing been 'round long as any of us can remember.  The pig farm went sideways, too, once't Uncle Elroy died.

By then, the pay-to-fish thing had done played out. Folk had just lost interest, I reckon. So it took a while to catch notice.

The Eff-Bee-Eye, though. They sure paid attention when word got out.

It was the bones, see. Down in the mud. They eventually got bleached out by the sun. All these little white specks in the gray-green muck. 'Spite what my dentist says, turns out teeth are damn durable.

That's what started it all.

It's no wonder them catfish was so damn big, and less wonder that the place was always filled with Cadillacs and Town Cars.

For decades, they'd cruise in to town to feed those catfish. My uncle and his bunch charged every one o'those big city folk for the privilege of throwing things in a pond, and every one of us locals would pay to pull things out.

Goddamn, they was good catfish, though.