Wildcat Creek Journal

Right now, a construction crew is working on demolishing the bridge over the South Tyger near my house. My son and I walked past the Bridge Out signs last week, just to take a look at the progress they'd made so far. The guard rails had been torn down partially, and the crew had put up erosion barriers to hold back the little bit of dirt they'd pushed around. The water under the bridge is shallow there, as that portion is being silted in. We talked about how great it would be if they would do a little dredging there, deepening the run like is was years ago, back when the bridge was a killer catfish hole. About twenty-five years ago, I would stand on the bridge and catch channel cats by the dozen. Chicken liver slime marked the spot on the concrete rail where I'd cut chunks of bait, because that's the only bait I knew to use then. I'd drop my line down beside the pilings and wait to set the hook. With a jerk and a bowed rod, I would play the fish out from under the

He got me up early that Saturday, said the corn needed hoeing and weeds had to be pulled. I slid a shirt over my head and found my shoes. The old man was frying sausage and the smoke was thick in the kitchen. Biscuits were browning dark in the oven and I could hear the clock ticking in the hallway. My brother and sister, still laying in their beds, didn't have to wake yet. They would take their breakfast later, an hour or so after I would be hanging my sweat-soaked shirt on a locust post in the edge of the field. I protested as he laid out the list of what he expected me to get done with before suppertime. But with the threat of the belt around his waist, I just looked down into the little saucer at the black piece of meat, then I split the biscuit in half and folded the hunk of sausage inside. I kicked the screen door open and stomped down the back steps to the barn. The hoe was leaned up in one corner beside a sack of feed. In the shed on the back of the barn was the old flat-