Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

The Bologna Wars

By Tanith Tyler

My younger sister and I were dyed-in-the-wool tomboys. When our family

moved from the small fenced yards of big city living to the freedom of the

country, we thought we had landed on our own little patch of heaven. We

spent

hours playing in the barn, walking the fields and riding our bikes down the

gravel road that eventually reached a tiny town if you went the whole five

miles. Near our house the road crossed a little stream that pooled on one

side

where a school of fish had made their home. The largest was probably only

about

six inches long, but to our childish eyes they all looked like twelve-pound

salmon.

On occasion we would venture into the small town library and check out

books. We would lie in the grass and read and then integrate the stories

into

our own adventures. Once we checked out a book about " The Pioneers. " That

one

really snagged our imaginations. The rolling Missouri farmland surrounding

us

was the ideal setting to hack out a life for ourselves with our bare hands.

So

with the exception of television and bathrooms, which we were sure the

pioneers

would have gladly used had they had them, we determined to renounce the

trappings of modern society and live off the land.

We rounded up all the fallen branches we could find and fashioned

ourselves

a log cabin. It was the perfect house in which to live a pioneering life,

at

one with nature, despite the trivial inconvenience that it had no roof.

Next we

addressed the food situation. Our mother kept a garden, so vegetables were

no

problem, but what about meat? My sister and I stared at each other, as the

same

thought dawned on us - the fish! It didn't matter that we gagged and whined

every time our mother made us eat it. Our fish would taste great because

they

would be fresh! Fishing could become our contribution to the family

welfare.

We'd bring some home every night and save our parents gobs of money on

groceries.

We scrounged around until we found an old badminton net pole and tied

some

string onto it. Then we filched one of our baby sister's diaper pins to use

as

a hook. Now, bait. It seemed mean and really icky to skewer a worm on that

sharp pin. Instead, we bummed half a slice of bologna from the fridge.

Since

it was a hot afternoon, we knew the fish would be dying for a nice cool

piece of

meat. With our fishing pole, bait and confidence in hand, we proudly made a

beeline to the pond.

Since I was the eldest, I solemnly informed my sister that I would hold

the

pole. Fishing was tricky business and since our family's fortunes

apparently

hinged upon our ability to master it, it should be handled by someone who

knew

what she was doing. Wide eyed, she acquiesced. So we baited the hook,

dropped

it into the water and hunched on the shoulder of the road, me holding the

pole

and my sister sitting quietly.

As we stared at the spot where our string disappeared into the pool, we

saw

a little shudder. In the heat of the moment, my sister grabbed the metal

rod

with both hands as the string gave a tremendous tug. We had a bite!

Excitedly,

we jerked the pole up with our combined strength and whipped the string hard

enough that the diaper pin sailed over our heads and landed on the road

behind

us. We spun around to admire our whopper to find not only no fish, but no

bologna as well. Perplexed, we looked at the hook, at the water, and at the

hook again. Then we gathered up our stuff and dejectedly walked home.

By the time we got there, we figured out that we must have pulled the

line

up way too hard. I pointed out that that's why it was best to have just one

designated pole holder. My sister saw the wisdom in this and promised to

work

on her self-control. We had fried chicken for dinner that night. We told

our

parents to enjoy that chicken because by the next day, it'd be fresh fish

every

night.

The next afternoon, with our bologna, we marched back to the pool. We

sat

on the hot road, dangling our feet over the water and waited for dinner to

bite.

Then my sister saw something move on the bank and we pulled our feet up,

mindful

of the snakes that roamed the countryside. It wasn't a snake though; it was

a

frog. And he must have been one of those nuclear-radiation-mutant kinds

because

he was about as big and round as a saucer. While we watched, he slipped

into

the water, swam over to our line and dove out of sight. Suddenly, the

string

started dancing and I yanked it out of the water. The pin swung in little

circles, naked as a jaybird. We looked at each other indignantly. That

big,

stupid frog had stolen our bait! We'd see about that.

We stuck more bologna on the hook, dropped the line back in the pond,

and

then bombarded the water with gravel, hoping to stone the thieving thing as

it

tried again. After a minute we stopped throwing rocks and, panting and

sweaty,

scanned the banks to see if the slimy critter had washed up anywhere. While

we

were thus engaged, the pole jerked in my hand. I lifted the pin out of the

water. Empty! We walked home bickering about whose fault all this was and

that

night could barely bring ourselves to touch our meatloaf and mashed

potatoes.

Like all serious pioneers, we didn't let our setbacks dampen our

spirits.

The next day we were ready to get at it again. We were determined to catch

a

fish because our mother had told us that this would be our last piece of

bologna

- we were apparently feeding all our dad's luncheon meat to the frog. We

prudently quartered the bologna, and after checking out the shoreline and

lobbing a few rocks for good measure, we dropped the pin into the water and

waited.

Ten minutes into it, we regretfully decided that the fish must not be

hungry and that we should save our dwindling supply of bait for another day.

I

drew up the line and, to our amazement, the hook was clean as a whistle.

This

meant war! We knew we were going to have to catch the frog or we'd get nary

a

minnow out of that pond. So we dangled our second piece of meat just under

the

surface where we could snatch it up the second that greedy frog got his

mouth

around our bait. We stared at that pin so intently, we saw the exact moment

the

frog floated up like some ugly Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon and

ripped

the meat right off the hook. As he sank back down, he seemed to waggle the

bologna at us.

A few weeks after this, we were driving into town with our mom. As we

passed our old stomping grounds, we looked over nostalgically and, lo and

behold, sitting nice as you please on the side of the road was Mr. Big

Stupid

Frog himself. On our turf! We screamed at our mom to stop the car, which

she

did, skidding on the gravel. We eased out of the car, thinking that if we

could

take the old croaker prisoner, we'd finally be the queens of the pond. We

circled the frog gingerly, step-by-step, effectively cutting him off from a

watery escape. Still he sat there. Inching up, we nervously squatted over

him.

The two of us posed in frozen uncertainty for a minute, then my adoring

little

sister looked up at me expectantly. I looked at the creepy monster. Terror

must have rooted him to the spot because he hadn't moved a muscle. Holding

my

breath, I was stretching one finger forward to give the frog a good poke

when

the totally unexpected happened. He attacked, lunging straight for my face

and

leaving us with no other option than to scream and run away.

We dove into the backseat, slammed the door shut and sat glumly,

contemplating our failure during the ride into town. Once there, we went

straight to the library and checked out a book on how to become space

cadets.

Living off the land was for the birds anyway, and dangerous to boot. No

wonder

all the pioneers were dead.