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#1
Honey, I do love you.
It's Mother's Day Weekend.
It's Fishing Season Opener.
What
about your mother?
I called her.
I'm a mother, too.
Say hi to the kids.
Jebb stood in the predawn cold warming his hands on the mug of coffee she got up and made for him. Louis drove up in his
brand new Excursion with some kind of hybrid cigar racer-bass boat on the trailer behind. The streetlights mirrored on the
sleekblack hull looked like the walk of fame.
Jesus, Louis. You win the fuckin' lotto?
#2
Gettin'
any?
Nah.
Cha using?
Worms.
Ona hook?
Lindy Rig.
No shit?
Yeah. Ya gotta inflate 'em.
Yeah?
With a syringe. Make 'em fat. Make 'em float.
Ross
fires up the twin 200 horse Mercs and veers toward the bait shop.
Darrel oars 200 yards from the drop off and throws
out a buoy.
He oars back and picks up his first marker, heaves into his boat a heavy stringer of walleyes.
Sucker, he says toward his boss's wake.
Slowly homeward Darrell rows.
#3
On Friday,
Henry, with a crowbar, chipped loose the shelter over his walleye hole and then slid the damn box over to the weedbed, augured
two six inch holes through four feet of ice so when the grandchildren showed up Saturday they fished warm with jigs for about
two hours while Henry pushed redworms onto #6 hooks, stoked the firebox and dehooked the forty-seven sunfish, pumpkinseeds,
bluegills, crappies, rockbass and perch he later deheaded, defined, scaled and deboned while making hot cocoa and cookies
keeping them out of the gutpile mess until Jane got home from Christmas shopping, happy, kissed her and they all sat down
to beer battered potato chip thin crispy white flaky tidbits deep fried in love.
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