Piedmont Porchlight Stories — March Edition
(Starring Jim Leroy and Jimmy Matthew)

If you have never spent a spring morning in Piedmont, Alabama, let me tell you the first rule of the season. Once the water gets warm enough to make catfish yawn and crappie turn frisky, the local menfolk gather at Terrapin Creek or the backwater with two missions in mind.

Number one, catch a fish.
Number two, lie about it.

It is not clear which of the two is considered more important, though I suspect if you took a vote, the lies might edge out the fish by a modest but respectable margin.

Now, you must understand that fishin’ lies in our neck of the woods are handed down like family heirlooms. Some of the best liars in town inherited their talent from grandfathers who once claimed to have caught a catfish so big they had to vote on whether to let it go or build a barn around it.

But the reigning champions in my lifetime have always been the same two fools:
Jim Leroy and Jimmy Matthew, the Bonnie and Clyde of pointlessly exaggerated sport.

If there was a fish anywhere in Alabama that didn’t fear their mouths more than its hooks, it had not lived long in these waters.

Most years, the contest was friendly enough. They brought lawn chairs, tackle boxes, and enough baloney sandwiches to constitute a regional emergency. But one particular March morning stands tall above the rest, the way a water oak stands above saplings. Because that was the year the two of them decided to concoct the biggest, wildest, most mathematically impossible fish story in the long, storied history of Piedmont.

And Lord help me, half the town believed it.

The Rumbling Begins

It started when Jim Leroy caught a bream roughly the size of a small biscuit. Now, any reasonable man would hold that fish up, admire it for its willingness to be caught, and toss it back.

Not Jim Leroy.

He eyed it, squinted thoughtfully, and announced:

“I believe this fish here is nearly big enough to block the sun if it held its breath and stood on tiptoe.”

Jimmy Matthew, not one to let hyperbole go unchallenged, leaned over the water and said:

“Jim Leroy, if that fish is blockin’ the sun, then mine is big enough to darken the moon. I betcha NASA’s already concerned.”

Then he cast his line, snagged a twig, and declared it a rare limbfish found only in the deep waters of Alabama creeks that also feature trees.

Now, ordinarily, the lies stop there, but for some reason, the spring air carried a particular charge that morning. Maybe the warm breeze put mischief in their bones. Maybe the fishin’ gods smiled wickedly. Or maybe, as I suspect, Jimmy Matthew had drunk a little too much of that early-mornin’ “therapeutic tonic” he kept in a Mason jar disguised as sweet tea.

Whatever the reason, the boys went to work.

The Birth of a Whopper

Within thirty minutes, they had invented a fish so enormous it required cooperation, scientific explanation, and a team of imaginary horses to haul it to shore. According to their evolving testimony, this creature possessed:

• the girth of an overfed hog
• the intelligence of a Presbyterian deacon
• the patience of a woman waitin’ on her husband to tell the truth
• and the eyes of a man who has seen the bottom of too many Mason jars

As the story grew, so did the crowd. Folks drifted over from other parts of the creek, curious why two grown men were arguin’ so passionately about fish measurements that defied geometry.

When someone asked for proof, Jimmy Matthew declared:

“Proof is for skeptics and tax auditors. This here is fishin’, and statistics don’t apply.”

Jim Leroy chimed in:

“Lies, damned lies, and statistics. Mark Twain said that. It applies double to fishin’.”

By lunchtime, the story had taken on local myth proportions. The fish now possessed a personality, a family, a mortgage, and an allergy to worms. Some say it even offered Jimmy Matthew a cigarette.

Naturally, no one caught it.
This didn’t interfere with the story’s growth whatsoever.

The Unplanned Twist

Now, here comes the strange part. Near about three in the afternoon, when the sun was hangin’ low, and the creek was turnin’ that sweet tea color it gets in early spring, a little boy named Toby Blythe came hollerin’ from downriver.

“Something’s floatin’!” he yelled. “Somethin’ big!”

Well, Jim Leroy and Jimmy Matthew puffed up like bullfrogs in mating season. They ran, splashed, and stumbled through the shallows until they came to a bend in the creek.

And there it was.

A giant, swollen, dead hog.

It had washed down from someone’s farm after the heavy March rains and settled right against a fallen log.

Now, most folks would have let that be.

Not these two visionaries.

Jimmy Matthew threw both arms skyward.

“Behold!” he cried. “The fish!”

Jim Leroy nodded gravely.

“Just as we described it. Girthy. Pinkish. Overconfident. A wonder of nature.”

Toby Blythe shook his head.

“That ain’t no fish. That’s a pig.”

Jimmy Matthew winked.

“Yes, but it is a pig with the spirit of a fish. A holy hybrid. A fohg. Or perhaps a pisg.”

And before the boy could contest the logic, Jim Leroy added:

“Son, sometimes the Lord works in mysterious metaphors.”

And so, the legend was sealed.

The Aftermath

By sundown, folks at the Huddle House were callin’ it “The Hogfish Incident,” and it entered Piedmont folklore as the day two men lied so convincingly that the creek produced somethin’ to reward their effort.

The hog was hauled out, buried respectably, and promptly forgotten.

The lie, however, thrived like kudzu.

To this day, if you mention the first day of fishin’ season, someone will say:

“Remember the hogfish? Hell, I know two men who nearly caught it.”

And somewhere, in the distance, if you listen close, you can hear Jimmy Matthew and Jim Leroy still arguin’ about whether it qualified for the record books.

*****

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