my careless contagion

Fishing used to mean a lot to me. I haven't been fishing in years. I'm pretty sure I can no longer tie a knot or pick the right lure or even cast correctly. But I have lots of memories of fishing. My ex-father-in-law was an avid fly fisherman, primarily in the Upper Peninsula. He even wrote a book about his experiences. He tried to teach me how to cast a flyrod. It is a delicate, dancing thing for which I had no patience. I was used to a different kind of fishing, the kind where you don't really catch stuff. No, I'm kidding. I caught my fair share of fish. And, once, I got to meet a guy my brother and I nicknamed "Rock Bass."  The above picture was taken at one of the many lakes in the Black Hills. I mentioned before my first fish was taken at picturesque Sylvan Lake. I'm not sure which lake is in this picture, but you can see the coffee can where I kept my worms. And that green tackle box? I still have it. It has tools in it now, one of ...

I'm going to try something a little different with my blog. Okay, maybe it isn't that different. I'm going to talk about some of my memories. They won't look like much at first, but pieced together over time, they will take shape sort of like a mosaic.  The above photo was taken the day after I caught my first fish. My dad got me up early (see my uncombed haystack of hair?) and took this photo along with one of me on my red bike (not pictured in the background; that was my oldest brother's). The picture was taken in the driveway of our Hot Springs home on the hill, so I was between seven and ten years old. I recall being very tired. Mornings, apparently, were not my thing.  My mom cooked the fish after I begged her. It really should have been thrown back, which my dad suggested, but I also begged him to let me keep it, it being my first fish. I believe it is a trout. The Black Hills waterways are stocked with trout, and this fish was caught at Sylvan Lake.  ...

Living alone again has taught me a few things. It's helped me to remember some things, too, like I'm not bad at taking care of myself, especially when I have enough time. I can make food. I can clean. I can shop for things. Most of my married existence was spent alone anyway, so my skills are not too rusty. Doing laundry is much simpler. It's only a load or two a week.  I can watch whatever I want to watch on TV. I've noticed that I have a hard time watching anything bloody or with a lot of swearing, though. Something in me is bothered by that. I don't know when that started. I enjoy psychological thrillers more than anything else.  Sometimes I sit in my recliner and watch Netflix in my underwear and eat my Haagen Dazs strawberry ice cream (which I think is my new favorite, supplanting pistachio gelato), and it's hard for me to think about the future. I'm simultaneously licking my spoon and licking my wounds.  Let's recount some of my rel...