My friend Jay is an electric fisherman. By electric I mean energized, I mean lit-up. Jay is the kind of fisherman to cast a line over the office water cooler; he takes a hawking look at rain barrels. The running water in a stand-up urinal makes him wish he had brought along tackle. He even thinks the deodorant puck is a lost bobber and that someone beat him to a choice spot.
All this is genetic. Jay is the grandson of Pope who lived in the quaint farmhouse south of the Maine Cemetery. Pope too was an arch fisherman as is both zealous and jealous. Pope would abandon spring planting to go quest after walleyes. Sometimes when the hay was right to bale musky fever would overwhelm him and he would light out for Sayner or the Namekogan, not at all the oath of a good hay-man.
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