Fred and Oscar enjoyed another day of ice fishing in their little shack on the backwater of the Tamarack River.
“Say Fred, you gettin’ any bites on that fancy new rod you got for Christmas?”
“Does it look I’m gettin’ any bites? You going blind as well as senile?” answered Oscar, who fished from a second hole within their little shack.
“Well don’t get huffy about it. Ain’t my fault your new rod don’t work.”
“New rod works just fine. It’s the fish that are the problem,” said Fred.
“Now it’s the fish you’re blaming.”
“Gotta blame something. Probably that lady game warden’s really the problem. She put a jinx on our fishing. That’s what happened. You get a lady game warden prancing around on the ice checking on fishing licenses, and you just don’t know what’s gonna happen,” said Fred.
“Kinda of a looker, she is,” said Oscar, smiling.
“‘Looker,’ what in hell do you know about who’s a looker and who’s not?”
“I may be old, but I ain’t blind. Underneath all that uniform and badge and stuff is a helluva good-lookin’ woman,” said Oscar.
“So now you’re like an X-ray machine, huh?” said Fred.
“Gotta use a little of your imagination, Fred.” Oscar touched his finger to the side of his head. “Keeps life interesting. Yup, it does. Keeps life interesting.”
“I don’t know about you, Oscar. You’re not only getting senile, you’re acting like you’re eighteen again.”
“Nothing wrong with thinkin’ that you’re eighteen. Helluva lot better than thinking that you’re eighty. Helluva lot better.”
The two old men sat quietly for a time. A stick of pine wood they had stuffed into their little box stove crackled and snapped. A stiff breeze from the northwest blew down the Tamarack River and whistled around the corner of their comfortable fishing shanty.
“What’d you think about the history piece in the Farm Country newspaper, Fred?”
“What history piece?”
“You read the paper, don’t you?”
“Every time it comes.”
“Well what’d you think?”
“About what?”
“The story about the history of the Tamarack River Valley,” said Oscar as he put down his fishing pole and reached for his thermos of coffee.
“Oh, that piece.”
“Well what’d you think?”
“It was okay,” said Fred. “You got any more coffee in that thermos?”
Oscar reached for Fred’s nearly empty coffee cup and refilled it.
“Just okay? I thought it was pretty damn good,” said Oscar.
“I wouldn’t go that far. That guy ridin’ around with the lady game warden is the one that wrote it. You knew that, didn’t you?” said Fred.
“Is that right? Nope, I didn’t put that together. Seemed like a decent sort. Name is Josh Wittmore, I recall. His old man is Jacob Wittmore— has a farm over by Link Lake.”
“Yeah, I remember Jacob.”
“Didn’t you read the fine print, Oscar? This guy Wittmore is writin’ a whole series on the Tamarack River Valley. Probably we’ll be in his next story, two sorry-assed ice fisherman that don’t catch nothin’.”
Both men laughed as they went back to fishing, intent on at least catching enough bluegills for an evening meal.
“Liked what Wittmore wrote about the Tamarack River Ghost,” said Oscar.
“Yup, he got that part right. Got that right for sure. That old ghost is still around and doin’ all kinds of mischief—mostly scaring the bejeebers out of folks who don’t know about him,” said Fred.
Fred stuffed a couple of sticks of oak wood into the little stove and glanced out the window of the ice fishing shanty. It had turned out to be a nice January day. A good day for ice fishing, even if the fish didn’t bite.
“Say, Fred. You thinkin’ on showing up at the big meeting over at the Tamarack Town Hall next week?” asked Oscar.
“What meeting is that?”
“Big meeting.”
“You said it was a big meeting before. Big meeting about what?”
“You didn’t hear about the meeting?”
“I may have; I hear about lots of meetings. Which one you talking about?”
“Geez , Fred. Some days you are dense as hell. Meeting about the big hog factory comin’ to the valley.”
“Oh, that meeting. Yeah, thought I might show up.”
“Thought I might come too,” said Oscar. “Before that I thought I might gather me up a few facts on how they grow hogs these days.”