Dog Days

The summer swelters are here.

Days that make me want to burrow

deep into the earth, praying hard

for the wet blessing of a rain drop.

Here in the South, there's a certain pace to things - or perhaps more succinctly, a certain lack of pace - when the heat arrives. Ambition melts like a chocolate bar left on the truck's dashboard and time lies suspended, shimmering like the watery mirage on distant blacktop. Life sits on the porch and pants.

Dog days.

Big Sky Bound

Just a quick and humble thanks to Trout Unlimited for their kind invitation to join them in Montana for some fishin' and a first-hand look at some of the fine work that they are doing on our behalf. Thanks, as well, to the Outdoor Blogger Network for participating and facilitating this wonderful experience.

I'm psyched.

Fathers and Sons

Summer 1982
Durham, North Carolina
Rice's Farm pond
My father, my son, a Zebco and a few zealous bluegills

Dad, I'm glad that we finally saw eye to eye
Glad that I grew to understand
Wish that those last five years could have been twenty-five

Son, I simply wish I could touch you one more time
Just one more time
I miss watching you grow into the man that I know you would have become
Miss it desperately

Don't let being Fathers and Sons get in the way
of being fathers and sons
Today is more precious than you know

My father, my son
on my mind this weekend


My love goes out to all of our boys - Greg, Freeman, Ben, and Amo, as well as dear Andy.
Thanks for being the fine young men that you are. I'm incredibly proud of each and every one of you.

The Best Trout Fishing Trip Ever

"… and as she’s releasing this big, beautiful brown - a fish she’d caught with G-Man’s setup and from the pool that G swore was as empty as Frank’s beer cooler - she looks up, gives him a wink, and says that when he’s ready for some real fishing lessons he should give her a call. Poor G-Boy couldn't utter a word."

Hearty laughter flares around the campfire, though G’s is understandably a bit forced, as another best trout fishing trip ever story draws to an end. It’s time for a brief nature-driven excursion beyond the fire’s bright glow, another pass of the flask, and the start of the next tale. My turn.

Hot

The phone rings. It's Cope.

Whatcha doin'?

Not much. It's hot.

Let's go fishin'. I can leave work early today.

It's 94 freakin' degrees Cope!

Yeah. It'll suck.

Yes. It will. 

What time can you be here?

Writer's Block

Standing knee deep in the comfortable, warm waters of my favorite bass river, casually casting a chunky cork popper in fat, lazy loops, I mentally rewind to the previous day’s writers’ group meeting. As has happened much too often lately, I'd brought nothing new, nothing to read – my pen strangely quiet. So, when my turn arrived, I apologized and suggested that we take my allotted time to discuss the dreaded writer’s block, for I was clearly experiencing one. With a wry smile and with great assurance, Catherine waded in. “I know the problem” she said.

“You’re happy.”

I laughed, at the time, both at the concept that a contented man is a writer in trouble and at the odd notion that I might be such a man. But here, a mere twenty-four hours later, as I blithely toss a fluffy fly towards a shaded riverbank, I realize that she’s right.

How could such a thing have happened?