This has been a bad year for colds. I got a nasty cold in January, finally got rid of it, but caught it again in February. I don’t know if a person can catch the same cold twice, but it sure felt the same.
I probably should have gone to the doctor, but you know how that goes. I grew up in the days of the old country doctors, and you didn’t go see them if you didn’t have to. Our doctors were always nice people, but they didn’t want to see you if you weren’t really sick.

We have to give the old doctors credit: They knew when to treat you and when to leave you alone.

That’s how it was when a bunch of fellows from town got together for a fishing trip on Lake Erie. Our town wasn’t very big, so it didn’t matter if you were a doctor, minister or a suspected horse thief – everyone was invited for the big fishing trip. Most of the men in town went, including my dad and brother, who provided an eyewitness account.

Spirits were high as the charter left the dock and headed for open water. Everyone chipped in with a dollar for the first fish, most fish and biggest fish. Doc suggested they have a pool for first sick, too, seeing as how he would probably get that money one way or another. This drew a big laugh from everyone.

Everyone except Dwight. Dwight came along for the camaraderie. He was feeling the sway of the boat more than most.

The captain cut the engine, and the boat began to drift with the waves. Dwight reached in his pocket for a little bottle of Dramamine. (His other bottle was emptied earlier.)

Soon they were into fish. Nothing big, but a few walleye and some perch. My brother, Kenny, caught a walleye and unhooked another for Dad. The second fish was hooked pretty deep, and Kenny got some blood on his arm. The blood didn’t bother him, but it had an effect on Dwight.

He had given up fishing and was sitting in a deck chair, staring at the horizon. Dwight looked kind of puny and his coloring was bad. His normally ruddy complexion had turned to ashen gray.
Soon it was lunchtime, and my brother got out the boxed chicken furnished by the charter. He took out a drumstick and began to gnaw on it.

Dad looked over at Dwight. The combination of fish blood on Kenny’s arm and the chicken leg in his hand was the last straw for Dwight. His gray turned to green. Dad yelled, “Hey, Doc. Do you suppose there’s anything you can do for Dwight, here?”

Doc put down his fishing rod and made a big scene of examining the patient. Then he said solemnly, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. What he’s going to do, he can do all by himself.”

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.