At sixty-seven years old, this is my first time blogging.
My marketing agent advised me to write a few blogs for the website.
“What’s a blog?” I asked.
“It’s just a conversational communication, sort of like Facebook except it’s just from you.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I asked.
“Your readers may be interested in finding out more about you.”
She sighed. “Trust me.”
“What should I write about?”
“Well, you could start with your life.”
Okay, so here goes.
Yesterday, I tried to write this thing, let’s call it First Blog, but chose instead to go fishing.
I pulled on my waders, grabbed my fly-rod, stuffed my pipe and tobacco into my shirt pocket, and deserted my glowing laptop. There’s a pond I like, just down the road. It’s the one down by the ballfield with all the turtles and the pesky Great Blue Heron who insists upon following me around, hoping in vain for a handout.
My favorite times to fish are dawn, dusk, and when I’m supposed to be writing something I don’t want to do.
I enjoy using a floating, bright green popper and on occasion, catch a bass or two. They are always small in size but spunky and fun, and get released on their own recognizance, unharmed and perhaps a bit smarter.
Some of the other fishermen I run into down there tell me they catch eight-pound bass fairly regularly. Good for them. If you added together all the bass I’ve ever caught, they wouldn’t add up to eight pounds, but I have fun nonetheless. On time I accidentally snagged a carp of about ten pounds by the tail and it quickly became justifiably unhappy with me. I thought I had one of those legendary eight pound bass! It took off like a speeding bullet and swam in baseball-diamond sized circles until fatigued or dizzy; I’m not sure which. Eventually, I hauled it in and when I identified the beast attached to my fly, mumbled a few colorful words of disappointment. If the carp could have talked, it may have said something like, “How do you think I feel?”
Often, I fish by myself. I’ve been blessed with a handful of fishing pals whose company I enjoy, but there are times when I just want to be make a cast, puff on my pipe, and be quiet. Some particularly irksome and stubborn plots are sorted while fly-fishing, and I’ve pondered deep subjects while slowly wading in the shallow water near shore, but mostly, I’m thinking nothing. My brain waves are flat and my head is empty. And strange as it may seem, I usually come home refreshed after an hour or two of casting along the shoreline, and get pecking on my glowing laptop.
I’d like to write a bit more on the topic, and perhaps give you, the reader, more insights as to who I am but I’m sure you guessed it: I’m going fishing.