My father loved bullheads. Before fieldwork began each spring, we would head as a family to Morristown, Minn. Once there, we would find our way to the dam. We would sit on the chilly dam and fish for the bullheads in the cold water. You need to catch bullheads when the water is cold if you want to eat them. Later, they become mushy.

My father was a self-employed farmer, but like all farmers, he knew that it was Mother Nature who was really in charge. You had to work in the fields when the time was right. So we went fishing in the spring. It was a time of the year when a fellow could sit comfortably without biting insects surrounding him like a soft cloud on a summer’s day. We would sit there so long some days that I thought the only way that my rear end could possibly get any colder was if it were made of steel. For a while we were free of chores and the obligations of a demanding farm. It was as close as we ever came to being leaves in the wind &045; but we always knew where we were going to land.

My father loved fishing for bullheads, he loved catching bullheads, he loved cleaning bullheads (a delicate operation that involved the use of a pliers) and he loved eating bullheads. When it came to bullheads, my love began with fishing for them and ended with catching them. I didn’t want to clean them or eat them. Cleaning them was a chore that usually caused me to be stung by those spiny appendages that bullheads are equipped with.

My mother would fry the fish up in an old iron skillet.

They smelled like bullheads. Eating bullheads &045; well, about all I can say about that is that they taste like bullheads. Fishing for bullheads was fun. Sometimes I even thought about fishing while I was fishing for them. Normally, I only think of fishing while I am not fishing. When I fish, I think of something else.

I guess catching wasn’t really the most important part of the whole fishing experience. The most important part was spending time with Dad and listening to the stories. The stories were of my family and my past. We were making memories.

One day, we had been fishing for a long time without a single nibble. If fishing requires catching, we weren’t fishing. The stories were good, but Dad was running out of wind and it would have been a real blow to the egos to not even snag one fish. We tried different locations. I tried different hooks, otherwise known as bent pins. I traded a washer for a nut as my sinker. Normally, such a trade would result in caught fish. Not this day. My attention began to stray.

I noticed a boy about my age fishing across from us. I recognized him as one of the kids from Morristown that I played Little League Baseball against. I didn’t know his name, but I remembered him as a rarity &045; a left-handed throwing shortstop. As we struggled to interest even a dragonfly in landing on our fishing lines, the little Morristown shortstop hauled in the bullheads left and right. The hook barely had time to get wet before a bullhead would take the bait. After a little more time passed, my father noticed the young fisherman on the shore. As Dad watched with nary a bullhead, the boy continued to hook fish after fish.

&uot;Will you look at that boy catch fish,&uot; said my father.

&uot;I wonder what his secret is?&uot; I shrugged.

&uot;Do you know him?&uot; Dad asked.

&uot;Sort of,&uot; I replied.

&uot;You do? Go over there and ask him what his secret is so I can catch at least one fish before I freeze to death.&uot;

I did as I was told. The boy and I howdied. He gladly shared his secret for catching countless fish. I thanked him and walked back to my father.

&uot;Well,&uot; said my father, &uot;what did he say?&uot;

I said, &uot;He said, ‘Meemp murr merns morm.’&uot;

&uot;What?&uot; said my father.

&uot;Meemp murr merns morm.&uot;

&uot;I can’t understand a thing you are saying,&uot; grumbled Dad.

&uot;I didn’t understand a thing that boy was saying either,&uot; I explained, &uot;until he spit out all the worms he had in his mouth.

Once he spit them out, I learned the secret to catching fish on a cold day.&uot;

&uot;I’m waiting,&uot; said my father. &uot;What did he say?&uot;

&uot;He said, ‘Keep the worms warm.’&uot;

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.