Mudville

by Steven J Bingel

Overview

Although named Mudville, the main character, Pinky, who could be one of many people who have meandered through our life, will bring out laughter in any with his antics and personality;
Only Pinky could find it handy to have been born with a fly rod for an arm. “No, sireee, won’t catch me using any puny, pool-stick-of-a-fly-rod” sums up how he viewed the changing world and chose to follow his own path. His essence embodies a way of living.
Not bound by time or location, Pinky, finds a way to capture the spirit and essence of our childhood. Mudville is not only a place in time but a sensory memory that gets evoked when we suddenly remember a point in our lives when it was fun to have fun.
Timeless and sometimes ageless, these stories strike home for all ages. They help us to go back to a simpler point when being home on time was directed by the streetlights coming on, when the only worries we had were whether the monofilament we had chosen would hold that big bass.
Pinky himself sums it up best: “Sometimes, if you ain’t good you gotta be lucky!”
Sadly, the original Pinky now hunts woods, where every buck sports a ten-point rack, and fishes waters where the bass always bite. Many replacements have since kept his spirit alive.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781496931337
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	08/13/2014
Pages:	120
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.25(d)

Read an Excerpt

Mudville

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By Steven J. Bingel

AuthorHouse LLC

Copyright © 2014 Steven J. Bingel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4969-3133-7

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CHAPTER 1

Mudville

There was a pond in my childhood called Millville. Often referred to by us kids as Mudville because of the yearly draining that revealed it's mucky bottom. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty acres of lily-pads and old stumps, it was a veritable fish heaven. Even a budding twelve year old angler could do minor damage to the bass population with a six-inch plastic worm. Purple always worked best.

Occasionally, on a hot summer evening, Pinky would accompany me to it's fertile waters. We'd walk a half mile by blacktop then continue the last quarter mile on dirt road. Our favorite spot was a sandy point that jutted out into the pond from a small grove of white pines. We simply rolled up our jeans and waded the shallow point.

This particular time, as shadows lengthened, the day was replaced by the steady chugging of jitterbugs on the calm surface. It was Pinky's favorite way to fish for bass.

Now, you never fish a jitterbug by sight, even on a moonlit night. The trick is not to react, if that's possible, when a loud splash, equivalent to a 200 pound man falling into the pond indicates a strike, and only setting the hook when you feel the fish. To say the least, it's as risky as maintaining a cholesterol level of four hundred. By night's end your nerves are shot.

Pinky would maybe miss the first strike, giving in to jitterbug-jitters, but by the second one he'd recovered. For me it was impossible. I always yanked the thing at the splash part.

However, on the night I caught the twenty-dollar fish, I must have gotten lucky. You see, Pinky and I had a long standing bet. If ever I caught a bigger bass than his of seven pounds, he'd give me twenty dollars.

My fishing gear in those newspaper-route days consisted of a Zebco closed face reel and rod combo purchased from K-Mart. It worked well on the spawning spring suckers that ran in the Hitty-Titty brook next to our house. I went through a rod for each week they were running. Anything over one pound would be questionable on it's like though'.

Wading out to the edge of deeper water, I heaved the jitterbug out as far as my gear would allow. This was about ten feet, accompanied by the usual bird-nest tangle of line. Almost immediately a fish engulfed it. I worked furiously to unravel the tangle, stepping into deep water in the process. The fish took off.

Pinky still kids me about it today.

"Funniest damn thing I ever seen ... twelve year old kid barefoot water skiing without a boat....".

I pulled off a beautiful two-point landing down the shore a ways that the best Busch Gardens water-skier would have applauded, and managed to land the eight pound bass to boot.

On the walk home Pinky handed me a crisp twenty.

"Heck I've laid down more money for less entertainment than I've had tonight ..." he said.

My face beamed brighter than the full moon hanging above the pines.

Millville was often a source of entertainment. In the summer, news that it was being drained would spread like wildfire through the neighborhood.

I always knew first. The Hitty-Titty brook that drained Millville ran beside our house, and it would swell and overflow it's banks into our yard, much to my delight and my Father's dismay. It was an event we kids looked forward to every summer. There was never any warning, they just opened the dam and drained the pond, regardless of the havoc it created downstream. I would go through fifteen pairs of K-Mart Huskies jeans during the week it happened. All the boys did. K-Mart would stock up just for the event. Some mid-west towns close for deer season, our's for the draining of Millville.

One such summer Pinky and I were on a small, grassy island midstream of the brook fishin' for catfish. There was a deep hole created by a beaver dam on the downstream side. We would wade the shallow side to access it.

We still argue 'bout it, but Pinky claims he was the first to notice.

"Water's rising ... they must be drainin' ol' Mudville" he said.

Our escape route to safety was quickly cut off by rapidly rising water. Then the Redfern's plastic wading pool came floating by, and we made a jump for it.

It was a wild ride, especially when I forgot to duck at the culvert that ran underneath the street in front of our house. Some three miles downstream we reached a quiet back-water swamp and slogged to shore.

After a couple more runs we got bored and headed for Mudville. As usual word had quickly gotten around. All the Haigh School sixth-graders were there, clad in Huskies jeans. K-Mart would make a killin' this year. Even some of the eighth-graders had ditched girlfriends to partake in this auspicious event.

"Nice welt ..." said Spider pointing to my forehead.

"Ain't it though'", Pinky chimed, "you should 'a seen that ol' pool spin when that culvert caught his head, man, we were out'a control, what a blast!".

Spider was introducing his kid brother, Eddie to his first draining. He was throwing pennies ever further out into the ooze. Eddie would run out and pick them up. About the fifth toss he just disappeared. He never screamed, mainly 'cause his mouth was full of muck. Now we knew how far we could go out.

The pond was nearly drained. All that remained was the old river bed winding through the middle of it to the dam. A state fisheries biologist had strung a gill-net across it and employed a few eager boys to wade the river and herd it's contents into the net.

It was about then that someone noticed the whirlpool near the dam. It was six feet across and thirstily sucking the remaining pond water, spewing it out in a jet on the other side to a pool many feet below.

Pinky kicked a stick into the water and we all watched it float toward the whirlpool. It went around and around until it disappeared. We all ran to the other side. Out it shot, landing in the pool below.

"Hot dog!" exclaimed Spider.

"Just like Niagara Falls!" yelled Pinky.

"We've got to get a barrel and someone's got to try it" he further stated.

A hush fell on the small gathering.

"Put them right up there with the first man on the moon" he said.

He looked at us all. Everyone averted their eyes, busy swatting at invisible mosquitoes.

"O.K. we'll do it the fair way ... scissors, paper, rock" said Pinky.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with this little game, let me fill you in. It consists of two fellas' facing each other with their right hands extended out in front of themselves balled up in a fist. To the chant of "scissors ... paper ... rock" in unison, they shake their fists up and down. Upon saying "rock", they either keep their hand balled up, display the index and middle finger, or thumb and all four fingers. A balled fist represents rock; two fingers-scissors and thumb and remaining four fingers-paper.

Rock crushes scissors, but is covered by paper. Scissors cut paper, but is crushed by rock.

This is done three times in succession with two wins winning the round.

Eddie was too young and Spider volunteered to round up a pickle barrel and football helmet for the lucky winner. That left Pinky and I.

We didn't call him Pinky for nothing. His right hand consisted of only one finger-his pinky. It never hampered his fishing though'. The best he could possibly manage was paper or rock, to which I would parlay paper every time and either cover his rock or tie his paper, and we'd have to shoot again.

It was a sure bet. I smugly agreed to the duel.

Oh, did I mention the players closing their eyes while doing this? Prevents cheating you know ...

We faced off.

"Scissors ... paper ... rock" we both chanted.

I threw my paper.

Imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes and ... there was his left hand with index finger and middle finger extended.

"Ha! Scissors cuts paper!" he barked.

The barrel was a little cramped, but if I cocked my football-helmet laden head sideways, it fit okay. They nailed on the cover and shoved me off. A bet's a bet.

Next day at school while all the kids were signing my cast, I recounted the story over and over.

Not once did my buddies complain 'bout the pickle smell. That's how friends are.

Then there was the time....

CHAPTER 2

Tree top laughter

When you're a kid you do a lot of stupid things. It surprised my Mother that I ever made it to my tenth birthday. My Father was making bets with the guys at his office that I wouldn't. I was a long-shot, forty-to-one if I remember correctly. I even overheard one of their conversations one hot, summer day. My Father was leaning on the lawnmower sipping iced tea and talking to the neighbor, Mr. Marson.

"That boy of yours, swell kid, but a little rambunctious...." said Mr. Marson.

"Yeah, he's handful alright, lucky he survived the beehive caper" said my Father, "he'll be lucky to make it to his tenth birthday".

He further extrapolated.... "Yup, odds are rising daily, forty-to-one right now, want a piece of the action?".

Mr. Marson said "forty-to-one huh?, sure why not, way he's going sounds like easy money".

So it was. Sure I did a lot of stupid things like I said. We all did at that age. We all thought we were invincible (although I had to look up it's meaning in Webster's dictionary). One of the more brilliant ideas I.... I mean Frankie Green and his brother Richie ever came up with was the Stop Sign Robbery.

My folks had just bought their first home and the mortgage was pretty steep. So, my Father worked his full-time job and a part-time job, and my Mother worked part-time also to help ends meet. The good that came of it all was that I got to spend many weekends at my Grandmother's house on Country Pond. Life with my Grandmother was easier than that with my parents. She understood the internal yearning of a rambunctious nine-year old. All I wanted to do was explore, sleep out under the stars and fish from the dock all night, to catch fireflies, and seek out the deep-throated bullfrog that always called from the swamp on the opposite side of the road. I always obeyed my Grandmother (mainly because she always let me do what I wanted). This was something that seemed to amaze my Mother when she came to pick me up on Sunday night.

"I don't know how you do it Daisy, he won't listen to a thing I say!" she would always exclaim.

That is until I hooked-up with Frankie Green and his kid brother, Richie.

It was Friday night, my Mother had barely cleared the driveway when I hit-up Gram.

"How about letting me sleep out in the yard in my tent Nana?" I asked.

"Okay" she said.

Just like that. Piece of cake!.

I set about erecting the tent and rigging my pole for the night's fishing. I was pounding in the last stake when a voice asked;

"Whatcha' doin'?".

I swung around and faced an oversized eight-year old kid, busy digging for something in his nose.

"Putting up my tent, what's it look like" I said turning back to the stake.

"Are you gonna' sleep in it?" he asked.

"Course I'm gonna' sleep in it stupid!" I replied. What did he think I was going to do?

"All night?" he inquired.

"Yeah, all night!" I said. My anger was welling up.

He placed whatever he'd been digging for into his mouth and licked his finger with great satisfaction.

"Could I sleep in it too?" he asked.

"I don't think so" I replied. Then I thought up a quick scheme to get rid of him.

"Haven't you ever heard of the little green man that lives in the swamp across the road?. He comes prowling at night, and just might decide to investigate this here tent. Who knows what could happen? Why, the last kid that saw him still hasn't regained his eyesight yet".

The kid's eyes were getting wider and wider. He even stopped the excavation, his finger pointing straight up in silent ready.

"Richeeee!" a voice beckoned. "Suppertime!, come in and get washed up!".

I never saw him leave, only a spray of gravel where he once stood. I snickered to myself, "works every time", and went back to work on the finishing touches to my tent. Another voice interrupted me. I turned angrily to really put the fear of God into him, only it was a different kid.

"You seen my kid brother?, he's gotta' come in and eat" he said.

"He's already eaten" I said mocking with my finger up my nose.

"Yeah, that's my brother, we call him Nose, say that an Arbogast jitterbug?" he asked.

I followed his gaze to my pole.

"Sure is, you like to fish" I asked.

"Sure, only we don't get to too much on account we live in the city, and only come here for a week during summer vacation" he said.

"Well, I'm sleeping out and fishing all night, want to come?" I asked.

"I don't know if my Mom will let me, but I'll ask, see you after supper!" he said. He turned and ran back to the summer cottage two places over.

"Frankie Green" he said in response to my question later that night. We were unfurling our sleeping bags, mindful not to squash the Twinkies and a six-pack of pop his Mom had provided. Unfortunately, Nose had accompanied him. One of his Mom's stipulations "You have to take your brother along" things.

"We're from...." began Frankie.

"Min-e-apples" chimed Nose.

"That's Minneapolis stupid" said Frankie

"My Dad rents the cottage for a week every summer. Only time we get to fish. He's always away in Boston working, but my Mom's here with us. He says it's a good change of environment for us" said Frankie.

"Yeah on account we get into so much trouble at home" said Nose.

He was busy at work in the left nostril this time. Oh well, at least he switched off.

"Wanna' go fishin'" I asked.

"You bet!" said Frankie and Nose in unison.

About two o'clock in the morning the fish quit biting. We were sitting on the end of the dock, bare feet dangling in the warm water. Occasionally one of us would flip his jitterbug up in the air and watch the bats swoop at it, until Nose hooked one and fell in trying to reel it in. Funniest thing I ever seen. He could even swim with one arm, the other securely stuck to his nose with one finger inserted.

"So what do you do for excitement in Minneapolis?" I asked Frankie.

(Little did I know that by asking that simple question that I would almost fulfill my Father's prophecy and make him a rich man).

What Nose lacked in bat-fishing ability, he made up for in stealth and mechanical prowess. He had the stop sign off the pole with blinding speed and ran with it, only tripping once, to Frankie and I hiding in the bushes.

"Now what do we do with it?" I asked.

"I don't know" said Frankie.

"Sure is a beauty though', no bullet holes like the ones we got back home" said Nose.

We all sat admiring the shiny, red stop sign, unsure what to do next.

"I got it!" said Frankie snapping his fingers.

"We'll take it to the old culvert at the entrance to the grove" he further stated.

"Then what?" asked Nose.

"Well, we.... we...." Frankie looked at me for inspiration.

But they were the brains of the operation, and I could offer no input.

"We set it up in the middle of the road and get some toilet paper and string that across the bridge and stop cars!" he blurted it all out in one breath.

"At three o'clock in the morning?" I reminded him.

"Sure, it'll be a gas!" said Frankie.

I doubted his judgment, but Nose seemed eager, so I went along with it.

"Okay, but let me do it!" I said.

After getting it all in place we realized there was no place to hide. The only cover was a skimpy pine tree about eight inches in diameter next to the culvert. It would have to do. So we all shimmied up, myself last, pushing Nose from below as Frankie tugged on his free arm because the other was busy.

No sooner had we gotten in place when ... headlights! Our first victim! We could barely contain our snickering and chortling.

The car eased up to the stop sign, and just sat there with it's headlights illuminating the bright red paint.

"What's he doing?" whispered Frankie.

"Don't know" I replied.

Seconds drug into an eternity. Still the car sat idling.

"Well, I'm going down" said Frankie.

He proceeded down the tree.

"Ouch, watch the fingers!" yelled Nose.

Yeah, I thought, like a surgeon's hands, or a pianist's fingers, you don't want to mess with his livelihood.

Frankie dropped to the ground, and tucked and rolled into the shadows. He crept up the bank and onto the asphalt behind the car.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

He shrugged his shoulders in silent response. Then he pointed to the trunk and made the sign for okay with his fingers. Not quite sure what he meant, I signed okay back. Then all hell broke loose. In the blink of an eye with an Indian war whoop that would have put Geronimo to shame, he jumped on to the trunk and banged his fists up and down.

The car that had been idling came to life, and with a screech of tires and burning rubber it shot through the makeshift roadblock sending Frankie scrambling for his life. He dove for the bank, but misjudged. The railing caught his ankle and he fell into the culvert with a loud splash.

Nose and I laughed so hard that the tree started swaying back and forth out over the water, and with a loud wood-splitting noise, broke off just below our feet. One minute we were snug in the pine tree, next we were all treading water. Frankie and Nose were laughing their heads off between drowning.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Mudville by Steven J. Bingel. Copyright © 2014 Steven J. Bingel. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1. Mudville, 1,
Chapter 2. Tree top laughter, 6,
Chapter 3. Summer Rain, 12,
Chapter 4. Pinky, 22,
Chapter 5. Spring Suckers, 35,
Chapter 6. Mele Kalikimaka, 42,
Chapter 7. Hitty Titty Brook, 48,
Chapter 8. Jacques Cousteau and the Vacuum Cleaner, 52,
Chapter 9. Gravel-Pit Bass, 55,
Chapter 10. Banana Seat Chopper, 60,
Chapter 11. Josh, 65,
Chapter 12. If You Ain't Good You Gotta' Be Lucky, 71,
Chapter 13. Slingshot, 75,
Chapter 14. The Summer Cottage, 81,
Chapter 15. Combat Fishing, 88,
Chapter 16. Getting Lost For Dummies, 92,
Chapter 17. Kangamangus Highway, 96,
Chapter 18. Old Mill Pond Road, 102,
Chapter 19. The Yellow Jackets vs. Fruit of The Loom, 105,