All was calm on the river as usual as our poles, three apiece, sat braced against broken sticks with our hooks delicately baited with hot dogs and Velveeta cheese gracing the river bottom as far out as we could cast. No yield to speak of except a couple of mud cats and a few snags throughout the night, with only one true break in the monotony.

  A storm front was moving quietly across the river toward our peaceful perch. For the first time in my life, I witnessed the rain coming towards me and had plenty of time to prepare. As we were breaking out our coats and plastic bags, Frank turned and asked Brook the simplest question.

  "Do the fish bite when it rains"?

  My brother, without missing a beat, replied "why no Frank, they hide under the rocks to keep from getting wet".

  To my amazement, Frank just turned around and said OK. I still to this day wonder if he ever got it.