My husband has wanted for so long to go fishing again–a simple and pleasurable aspiration belayed by his work as an attorney, and as a reverser of entropy in the four houses that have been our homes in the past 20+ years. Today, Memorial weekend Saturday, we went fishing at Evans Pond, just a few miles from home. We visit the pond fairly often, but never before with fishing gear. The pond is stocked with Rainbow trout.
My husband caught an 8-inch trout, sufficient for his lunch. He cooked it in on a charcoal stove in our back yard. Although I am violently allergic to fish, we shared the imperishable bliss of the fishing outing, and my husband’s catching of his lunch.
* Two late and very different poets, Richard Brautigan and Wallance Stevens, contributed the title of this post. The first part, of course, is the title of Brautigan’s famous novella; the second part appears in Stevens’s poem, “Sunday Morning.”