Dennis note: Several humor stories were written for this column during the first couple of years of its existence, over 20 years ago. My plan is to publish a group of them in book form for sale during this year's Christmas season. These Rich and I stories are about outdoor adventures experienced by my school buddy, Rich Soden. I present this one in observance of the upcoming school term.

Rich was pulling in his third perch when he mentioned the forbidden subject: school. It was one of our unwritten rules: "Never mention school when fishing." Actually, we did write it down once, in blood.

We each took a number eight bait hook and jabbed the little finger of our left hand. Then, on the only paper we had available (a note from Miss Thomas to my parents stating that I would rather talk fishing in class than do my math), we wrote, "NO SCHOOL TALK WHEN FISHING!" "What ya gonna do about Miss Thomas' talent contest?" Rich asked.

I shot him a dirty look, unfolded the bloodied paper, and pointed.

"I know," Rich said, "but I don't know what to do. I can't sing, I can't dance, I can't even play a kazoo."

"It's a fact, but there must be something you can do. Let's think on it a bit," I said to reassure my friend.

Miss Thomas was a 21-year-old student teacher. She was very naive about the real world, especially about young boys in the fifth grade. She was less than impressed with the shenanigans we would pull in her classroom. Of course, Rich and I were always trying to concoct bigger, better and more impressive shenanigans for the sole benefit of Miss Thomas.

The fishing was normal this day with Rich and I taking 20 perch each. Rich dumped all the dirt out of the worm can and inspected it.

"There's only two left," he said. "Want to let these crawlers go? Look how far this one will stretch."

Worm stretching was an exercise we practiced to discover the best worms. We would hold one end of the worm in each hand and stretch it to a point just short of making two worms out of one. Rich was an expert worm stretcher. I looked at Rich stretching that crawler and the idea hit me.

"That's it," I said, "you're not a singer or a dancer, you're a hummer!"

"A hummer?"

"Yes, a hummer," I said. "You see, first you'll hum and then you'll take the crawler and ..., well, it'll further the education of Miss Thomas. It's important to her future students. It's your duty, Rich."

"If it's so important, why don't you do it?"

"I'm playing the spoons like my grandma taught me."

"OK, I'll hum, but only because it'll be a benefit to future Thomas students."

Our next few fishing trips found us practicing our spoon playn', hummn' and worm stretchin'.

On the day of the talent show, Betty Jean was the first contestant. She played the violin and sounded like a cat with its tail caught in a meat grinder.

Next was Joe. He picked the guitar, but could only play five notes. He played the same five notes over and over until Miss Thomas stopped him. This was the only time Miss Thomas and I were thinking along the same lines.

Rich was first on the agenda after lunch. He hesitated and glanced my way when his name was called. I reassured him with a nod. It didn't seem to help because he stepped to the front of the class like a condemned man walking up the steps to the gallows.

Rich looked at me, then at the floor, and began, "Miss Thomas, I'm not a very talented kid, so I'm just going to hum, 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' and do it country style, with a twang."

He then pulled a nightcrawler out of his pocket, stretched that crawler to the max, puckered his lips in an exaggerated manner, and commenced to hum and strum, "Mmaarryyy hhaadd aa lliittll llaammm-TWANG." He had to say the word twang because a stretched crawler does not actually make a sound when strummed across puckered lips.

The sight of the crawler was enough to make half of the girls in the room cringe. The first time that worm touched his lips, all the girls, including Miss Thomas, placed a hand over their mouth and their eyes enlarged to twice the size of normal eyes.

Rich continued, "Lliittll llaammm, lliittll llaammm-TWANG."

Crawler brushed across lips again and most of the girls looked away. The talent Rich was presenting didn't sound pretty, but the visual effects were incredible.

Realizing that he was producing a better-than-expected result, Rich really put some feeling into this new-found talent of his: "TWANG-Hhiiss fflleeaassee wwaass-TWANG-wwhhiittee aass ssnnooww-TWANG-TWANG-TWANG."

Next, keeping with the plan, Rich folded that crawler in half, smiled, and popped it into his mouth. Miss Thomas, followed by all the girls, left the room at a trot. I ran to my friend and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back.

"Nice job, Rich," I said.

Rich swallowed.

My friend complained of stomach pains and was sent home. Later he blew the whole thing out of proportion by contending he made some sort of sacrifice for future Thomas students. I called it a waste of a good crawler.

Rich refused to dig worms for the next two months.

The whole event was quite a learning experience for us. If we learned anything during the year it was the power of a single word. For the remainder of the school year, if either one of us mentioned just one word, we'd send the girls running in all directions, "TWANG."