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Show RFVER town. The place was as big as a church and about as quiet. "You ought to see it on a Saturday night," said Fred. "Men get killed out here on a Saturday night." On the way back to the river Fred stopped at his house and went in. It was a tight, tidy house with new white aluminum siding and a box freezer on the front porch. Fred wasn't getting rich, but he was pulling enough fish out of the river to make a living. From what he said when he got back in the truck it wasn't enough of a living to keep his wife happy. It looked like he'd stopped to check up on her. During the rest of the ride he cussed his wife and told me all his troubles. If s strange how when you're traveling alone you run into people who'll tell you their deepest sorrows. They'll tell you things they wouldn't tell their best friends. We parked next to the Ohio and the talk turned to dogs and fish. "I've got awful luck with dogs," said Fred. "I can't keep a good dog these days, they're always getting run over, but a few years back I had a bluetick that was a real hound dog. I left him tied up to the house one Friday afternoon and took the family over to my brother's place in Kentucky. If s about ninety miles away. Come Sunday afternoon we were headed out the driveway, going home, and here comes that damn bluetick, loping up the road with his footpads all tore up. How he crossed the river, I don't know." I offered Fred a beer but he declined. We watched the massive Ohio slide by, gray and swollen under the dark sky. "How is it making your living off the river?" I asked. "It gets tougher all the time. There aren't nearly the fish there used to be." "Is the pollution killing them off?" - 8 - |