Long, golden twilight glinting off the rustle of papery wings; ripples of rises and splashes and slurps; fishing ’til it’s too dark to see or your arm falls off or your hands feel on fire because the no-see-ums are out; nights redolent of wood smoke and cigars; whiskey and whisky and weapons-grade potations anonymously distilled in some far away holler; blue winged olives before breakfast, Hexagenias at dusk; caddis and hornbergs, white Wulffs and hare’s ears, skaters and spiders; sinking lines, floating lines, boats and oars and anchors; a tree blew down; the toilet’s running and we’re out of paper; we need more towels; a spider’s in the shower and a mouse ate my cookies!
Not even Quill Gordon can take much more than 67 straight days of that, so here’s something different:
I remember being told when I was young that some thing or another was going to go on my Permanent Record. At the time, I pictured a future employer actually looking at my school records, which I now know they did not do. It turns out that no one ever asked to see my diploma, either, but the concept of the Permanent Record still intrigues me. Continue reading