Mike Cox April may be the best thing about living in the Deep South. Dogwoods and azaleas bloom, the smell of cut grass is everywhere, and pale young women begin to work on their tans. From city streets to country roads, you find girls catching rays and turning brown.

In college towns, the practice is more evident because the girls congregate at certain spots. Apartment pools, sorority patios, and dormitory yards are littered with coeds in bathing suits, enjoying the sun.

The streets around such places are congested with young men driving around. They appear to be working, but many are enjoying the sight of scantily clad females after a winter of heavy coats and long pants.

In Tuscaloosa, there were established routes where college boys and utility workers traveled each day, checking out the sights. At least, that’s what I was told. I never partook in such a sexist activity myself.

On the west side of Bryant–Denny stadium, where Alabama plays home games, there are three sorority houses. Legend was anyone who could get to the second level of the stadium ramp could watch the girls undetected for hours.

The man responsible for the upkeep of the stadium was a delightful, unintentionally funny codger named Herman. He knew more about the nooks and crannies of the Crimson Tide’s home than anyone alive. He also loved fishing more than football.

Herman told me a story once he thought was about fishing. A catalpa tree grew along the fence separating the Denny Stadium property from the closest sorority. One year, the tree was crawling with catawba worms. These little creatures feast on the tree and are in turn feasted on by certain species of fish.

Any true fisherman will go to great lengths to capture them when he happens upon them. Crickets, night–crawlers, and minnows work great as fish bait, but catawba worms are legendary among devout fishermen.

One spring afternoon, Herman was easing along the fence, picking worms from the leaves of the catalpa tree and placing them into a paper sack. He was trying to keep from being seen by anyone on the sorority property. He was afraid he might get into trouble, since the sorority girls probably wanted the worms for their own fishing expeditions.

As he crept along, parting the branches with care, he was noticed by some of the girls sunbathing in the backyard. The house mother, a no–nonsense matron, well–versed in how men behave, was summoned.

As Herman moved a branch to reach some prime fish bait, he was suddenly eye to eye with the irate housemother. Realizing he was caught, Herman took his tongue lashing like a man until she accused him of trying to peek at the sun worshippers.

He was flabbergasted when the woman refused to believe his story. Herman told me about it years later and was still bristling at the accusation. He never understood her rejection of his honest explanation.

“I bet she’s never been fishing in her life,” he said.