Dennis note: Several humor stories were written for this column during the in the early 1990s some 24 years ago. My plan was to publish a group of them in book form for sale during this year's Christmas season. However, this plan must be allowed to slide a bit, with publishing plans now scheduled for early spring.

Just the other day, while looking in the tool shed, I found it. It was just hanging there, still on the hook, in all its glory. I grabbed the loop portion of the snelled hook and removed it from the peg board where it has been for the past..., well it must have been there for the past 55 years or longer.

Could this be the same one? It had to be! One end was missing and the teeth marks were almost visible. There, dangling from the hook where it had been threaded many years ago was Four-Fish Crawler.

I remember the situation well. Rich and I decided to go fishing. Now, sometimes we could just go fishing. I mean, sometimes we could just grab our fishing gear and head out the door.

As everyone knows, two young men in their early teens don't just head out the door. A stop at the refrigerator was always mandatory. Stopping at the refrigerator was so routine for us, it was a habit when heading out the door.

Not only did we obtain food for the outing we were about to undertake, but a stop by the refrigerator was necessary to secure our hoard of worms.

These worms were carefully placed there in such a manner so it was not to be readily known worms, in fact, inhabited the refrigerator. This was accomplished by placing said worms in a can with a covering of waxed paper, placing a rubber band around the can to secure the paper in place and poking holes in the top. Next the can, with secured top of waxed paper, was put in a paper sack with holes in the back of the sack.

The front was labeled to keep my younger sister, Denise, from inspecting and possibly destroying the contents. This had actually happened once and although my sister claims she did not remove the precious worms, I know she was the culprit.

The best label we came up with during our tenure as teenagers was: URINE SPECIMEN. My sister would never touch a sack marked in such a manner. Of course, we cleared the procedure with Mom. She didn't seem to mind about the worms unless the unquestionable odor of dead worms became apparent.

This particular day, Rich and I, grabbed the worm can and a few food items and were out the door before Mom could inspect the food items we had taken.

"You two be back here in three hours," Mom said through the front door that was closing behind us.

"OK Mom," I said.

Rich and I could stretch a three-hour time limit to four hours if the order came through a closed front door.

We rode our bikes to Moses Lake near the railroad bridge. Along the way we decided to dig a few more worms just in case the others hadn't survived. Rich owned one of those folding shovels purchased from an Army surplus store. He worked the large screw at the end of the handle, straightened the shovel portion of the tool to its full length, tightened the screw and commenced to turning dirt.

We were in a hurry. We were always in a hurry in those days. We uncovered several worms in a few minutes and placed them on the ground near the sack. When we had about a dozen, we inspected them.

An inspection was always conducted because the most outstanding creatures of the lot, there were always a few in this category, were honored with promising names such as Big-Red Wiggler, Four-Fish Crawler and Never Still.

"Come on, let's hurry," Rich said keeping with our always-in-a-hurry lifestyle as young teenagers.

I picked up the worms and reached in the sack. The waxed paper was slipped open just enough to throw the worms in the can and off we went.

We arrived at our fishing hole having just used up half of our time limit. We weren't worried; in those days, we could catch enough crappie and bluegill in one hour to keep us busy cleaning them for two hours at home.

We jumped off our bikes, untied our fishing rods and ran to the lake with worm can in hand. Rich, who had snatched the worm can from my hand when I stumbled, ripped the paper lid from the can and reached for Never Still.

A mournful groan came from Rich like I had never heard before or after for that matter. I looked up just in time to see him remove his hand from the worm can. His hand was wet and a liquid with a yellow tinge was dripping from his finger tips.

"I'll get her for this," Rich said through clenched teeth.

"I'll help you, but later," I reassured my buddy, "We only have an hour left. Now before you wash your hand in the lake, get Four-Fish Crawler out of the can before he drowns and would you put him on my hook for me?"

We did catch fish that day. Four-Fish Crawler lived up to his name, but suffered fish teeth marks and half of him was missing. He expired by the time we made it home.

I placed the still threaded worm on the peg board in the tool shed in honor of service above and beyond the call of duty.