Dry, Dry, Dry

It's dry. I mean really dry. Desperately dry.

This is what we call the "Bar Pit".

Now that you are through snickering about what we call our fishin' hole, let me explain. The river is not very far from the Bar Pit. The Bar Pit serves as an overflow for the river.   During a very wet spring, I have seen the Bar Pit very swollen and out of its banks at times.  The Bar Pit is also where my brother and I about dunked our father's four wheeler. 

 

The Bar Pit is only about a 1/4 of a mile from my parent's house.  We fished there quite a bit when I was growing up.  I would sit on that barrel and swing my feet back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until my fishing pole started to move indicating that I had a bite.  I would reel my line in and then yell for my brother or dad to come over and get the fish off of the line for me.  I was/am spoiled.  I don't mind putting the bait (usually a worm) on the hook, but getting the fish off, nu uh, gross. 

The Bar Pit is as dry as a bone.  Ridiculously dry.  I have never seen it so dry.   A few weeks ago, I called my mother to see how things were and she indicated that it stunk.  Not understanding what she meant, I asked her what stinks.  She said that the Bar Pit had dried up and all the fish that were in there are now baking in the hot sun.  She said to make matters worse, the wind seems to be coming from the southeast and blowing all that stink over to their house. 

She is now scarred.  She can't stand the smell of catfish.  It turns her stomach.  I, for one, am pretty glad that I wasn't visiting at the time.  I can't imagine the stench, and I do like some fried catfish.  I wouldn't want to be turned off of it forever.  (Kind of like my distaste for Morel mushrooms, get a bad batch and you are ruined for life.)

Thanks for stopping by,

Carrie