Catfish

 Catfish was always considered oily & not a firm flesh.  I learned it’s flavor from a colored family that took me in on my afternoon hikes away from home.  He had a truck completely covered with glued on dolls, toys, anything he found.  The sign in his truck said in hand painted lettering next to a phone number, said; “You call, we haul”. The white picket fence around their (mother, & two children, much older than me) front yard lawn was also covered with the most interesting finds. He & I were cool, his family always started & questioned me). Their white wood sided house was on the north side of the twin rivers that ran between St. Joseph & Benton Harbor (which was a commercial lake boat harbor & loading dock for goods & passengers). Just up from the river marches. I had to walk by it going & coming from the docks, that I loved to to just be on. Watching.  Waiting, waiting for the magic, which always surprised me with its serendipititism way of existence.

Carp was the common fish caught next to the large steamers, loading and unloading on ramps above our heads.  All black fishermen. Heads would turn at me and make jokes I didn’t understand.  (A short run away  cubby white boy always showing up to hear their story’s of river monsters, that they were trying to catch for the good of mankind.