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The fish caught were typical Southern freshwater species — bluegill bream, warmouth perch, large-mouth
bass and the occasional channel catfish. Because Greenfield Lake was a city park, a policeman
occasionally would circle the 5-mile circumference. If he saw you fishing from the bank, it became his
responsibility to get out of his patrol car, adjust his oversized trousers, and waltz over to inform you
that fishing was prohibited and to stop. That was done after he would ask the old question from time
immemorial: “Catching anything?”
After our little chat, he would issue his verbal warning, and off he would go. Then, all I did was slide
into another spot. But rest assured, it was not one visible from the road!
During one of my trips, I was approached by an adult who carried a couple of fancy fishing rods
and reels. He asked if the fish were biting and when given an affirmative response, sought permission
to join me. My scope of fishing was limited because of large tree limbs overhanging the area and
minimal open water due to the
waterlily population. Being
intrigued by the equipment he
planned to use, I said yes.
To this day, I am glad I did. He
geared up with a wooden topwater
red and white Heddon popper
that he called a Chugger Spook
and began to work the far edges
beyond my reach. On his second or
third cast, the water exploded, and
he hooked a hungry largemouth
bass. By the time he had the fish
to the shore, it was encrusted with
water hyacinth and other leafy
muck. When he asked me to assist,
I jumped into the water up to my
knees to help. My degree of excite-ment
was as if I had caught the fish!
By my standards the bass was quite
large, but my new friend said it
would “only” go around 5 pounds.
While cleaning his lure of exces-sive
weeds and other associated
gunk, he said, “I’m not keeping any fish today, would you like this one?” Of course, that just made
my day! After thanking him profusely, I put that monster on my stringer.
Later, due to the heavy water plant cover, he switched over to what he called a fly
rod. It looked like a split/glued cane pole with beautiful red agate guides and tip. It
had a funny looking reel that he described as only a line retainer. Regardless, I put
my pole down and followed him as he moved down the sloping bank. He would
flip the heavy line out with its braided taper, pop a brightly painted red and yellow
cork bug, hook a large bluegill and bring him to shore. Again, the fish went on my
stringer!
After about an hour “we” had a mess of fish, and he said he needed to leave. It was
sad because he was the one catching the fish. As much as I enjoyed his company, I
never saw him again.