In 1969 my hometown of 18,000 had four grocery stores, seven liquor stores and one big box store -- Gibson’s Discount. But in the universe occupied by three Keenan boys, our city had only one of the most important business -- the bait shop. When you spent all day everyday outdoors like we did, you defined your self worth by what you could catch, clean and have mom deep fat fry. And nothing was more important that getting good bait. Minnows, frogs, crawdads, goldfish, salamanders, worms.
For most of the 70’s, the bait shop was on southeast edge of town; among the older neighborhoods. Ones with dirty, dusty back alleys. The proprietor kept his inventory at the back end of his house, adjacent to the alley. His back door had a bell – actually a buzzer – that when pressed would stir owner and inventory equally. He was in his seventies, at least, but we revered the man and his ability to maintain an outdoorsman’s Noah’s Arc.
His shop had more than bait. It included a refrigerator that displayed Polaroids of huge fish held by father/son teams. The photos typically depicted a huge belly; the fish were big too. Along the bottom they would scribble the weight, and often, the location. Coy responses like “Farm pond.” Or “South Barton County.”
On these bait runs, we had two objectives -- get bait and get intelligence. Fishing is a solitary adventure and great fishermen share their secrets with just one person -- the bait guy. Anything we could learn could turn an average day into a photo worthy of the newspaper – The Great Bend Tribune. My older brother Tim took the lead. And the conversation went like this. “What’s bite’n?” The owner would look up from minnow tank, make eye contact and in a low voice, almost a whisper -- say “Catfish. Mostly big cats. Off the bottom. On crawdads. Some goldfish.” Tim would nod, adjust the order accordingly, and off we go.
Delete-Merge Up Of all the bait, minnows are most valuable. Imported from faraway cities like Hutchinson, McPherson or Salina. Places with special skills at raising incredibly hyperactive minnows that could swim like Mark Spitz. Particularly when trying to escape from a “hawg” – code for a huge largemouth bass. Minnows were your partners, your buddy. If you took care of them – keeping them alive enroute to the fishing hole -- they took care of you –- making bass lust them. A collaborative arrangement like, well, nothing, actually. And at the moment you needed them, you hooked them behind the dorsal fin (“it won’t hurt ‘em” dad told us once) and tossed it into the water tethered to a red and white bobber. They went to work while you did things that kids did back then – like sharpen your pocket knife, hunt for turtles and snakes.
Before my brother turned 16, we rode our bikes to the bait shop. Ever tried to steer a bike while holding a minnow bucket with fifty minnows? News flash: you crash. But then Tim got his license and that changed everything. And on or about July 3, 1969, something happened that remains burned in my brain. My parents had a blue 1968 Plymouth Suburban Station Wagon. It was made of steel, foam and wood paneling made of plastic. We purchased eight dozen minnows in a Styrofoam bucket. On the way to the sandpit, with brother Marty holding the inventory, the car hit a dip in the road. The intersection of 8thand Heizer streets, for those keeping track. What followed was a disaster of General Custer proportions. You see, we forgot to train Marty on what you would today call the “Starbucks technique” – holding the bucket not firmly, but softly to move with the G forces.
Let me be frank -- Marty blew it. Gripping the bucket tight, the contents went airborne. Shiners became Sailfish. And then returned to earth at locations that even today remain a mystery. We tried to retrieve the little fellows but had no water and even fewer clues about their whereabouts. They disappeared in cracks, between seats and down those holes where the seatbelts are supposed to be. And in 120 degree heat – roughly the temperature of our car --their life expectancy was maybe three, four seconds.
In no time, the station wagon became uninhabitable. A pungent smell that was a mix of anchovies and stagnant water. Mom – who depended on that car -- went insane. When it came to punishment time, brother Tim and I did what any self respecting boy would do – blame the true culprit. The city. That dip violated city code. No question about it.
