Having trouble taking the bait

AT a recent bothy night at Castlehill, I shared this story from my childhood in Indiana, given in my original dialect. If ye dinna ken the words, next time you see me just ask for a translation.

My child-size vision of the universe extended only as far as the edges of my neighbourhood – my own yard; the school a short walk down the old road next to the turkey farm; the pond where we skated in the winter and collected samples for viewing under the microscope in the summer; the part of Fall Creek that ran beneath an old iron bridge now closed to all but the smallest of vehicles; my neighbours’ houses, and remnants of the village that had existed before suburbia invaded.

The largest remnant of this old lifestyle was a bar and a bait shop.

My brother, who went on many years later to open the first computer store in Indianapolis, saw the bait shop as an opportunity for earning some money. And without question I was cheerfully recruited into his adventures.

By the time the fat round sun of a blazing July day finally slipped below the horizon, all living things heaved a sigh of relief.

The heat shimmered and the scent of hot tar gave way to the twinkling lights of lightnin’ bugs and cool wet grass.

Pale moths and iridescent June bug beetles rallied to the porch light or clattered on to the screen door, announcing the start of the night shift for the natural order of things.

Less conspicuous and less alluring than the lightnin’ bugs and the moths and the June bugs were the nightcrawlers.

These were the large earthworms which emerged from their burrows deep in the earth, where they had been hiding from the heat of the day.

Nightcrawlers were highly prized as bait for fishing and that was where my brother saw his commercial opportunity.

As willing assistant, my job was to hold the flashlight. Dressed in my nightgown or PJs tucked into my rubber boots, I trundled without hesitation out into the back yard behind my brother.

He knew why June bugs were called June bugs even though they arrived in July, how to prepare slides for our microscope, where to buy the best comic books, and the story behind the little blue characters in the China pattern, so I accepted that he knew everything worth knowing.

My brother accepted, sometimes reluctantly, that it was his duty to look after and to instruct me. He could be very dutiful.

My job in our nightcrawler huntin’ adventure was to shine the flashlight onto a likely patch of ground and then before the worm turned – or returned in this case into his hole – to avert the light.

My brother would then snatch up the trophy and deposit it in a container, probably a leftover jam jar.

It sounds simple enough. At first I was diligent, but then as now I could be distracted by stars or mysterious scritches in the darkness around me.

My brother would bring me up sharp with a word or a rap on the head – ways he often expressed his duty to enlighten me.

One evening he was so dissatisfied with my flashlight handling that he demanded to change roles. I was faced with the task of touching these slimy little money makers.

Not for love nor money could I bring myself to touch them. I don’t remember how long our partnership carried on or how successful our enterprise was, but whenever I see an earthworm in the garden – where I am content to leave them – I think about those nightcrawler safaris into the back yard.

My brother grew into an entrepreneur of sorts and I wonder if he ever gave credit to those hard-working nightcrawlers as an inspiration.

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