Proof that God Loves Pollocks
This weekend began with grand fishing plans, like always. Then three things happened, like alwaysÂ…
1. My wife hands me the honey-do list.
2. My wife says, "Gee, I haven't seen much of you lately."
3. I suddenly realize that I have been an insensitive jerk and that I have been derelict in many of my non-fishing duties.
Sigh, sounds like a typical weekend.
Not so! For I am one of those rare persons who are possessed of both a devious mind and a sound moral character. Plus, I had a new shore-casting rod sitting in my garage lying unused for the past two weeks.
So, I make a fair attempt at the honey-do list while keeping a watchful eye on my wife. I wait for a moment of weakness, when the boredom of watching me toil has nearly driven her mad. Then I utter the mellifluous words...
"I have an idea...why don't we go for a drive up the Shore. We'll hit Betty's pies and get a slice of seven chocolate heaven, have a cup of coffee and head back."
The wife, tempted by the double Satan of nature and chocolate cannot refuse, "Yeah, I think that sounds great!"
Yes, I rub my hands with glee, it was a done deal. The rods were already in the van along with the cooler and my tackle. So, I loaded my daughter into her seat, ushered my wife to the passenger side and roared out of the driveway like a dervish.
The March sky was cold and gray. Snow was spitting down on gusty northwest winds. There was a hint of spring in the light of day. Minnesotans know, intuitively when winter is winding down because it is proportional to the angle of the sun to the horizon. Despite this, we were stuffed into our warm clothes, cozy and comfortable. The vans heater was humming its warm breath over us.
I made it halfway over the Bong Bridge before my "darling" little daughter blew my cover. She lets out a peal of wicked laughter that causes my wife to turn her head and look behind her. Somehow, some curse must have been upon me. The hubris I have generated up to this point was too much and Karmageddon was at hand...
"Why are there fishing rods in the van?"
I couldn't think..."Uh, I don't know...uh, I thought, maybe we could make a few casts..." I shrugged sheepishly. The jig was up. There was nothing to be done.
My wife, rolling her eyes with utter disdain, reads me like a cheap tabloid. "So how long am I going to be stuck out there waiting for my pie?"
"Uh, we don't even have to fish, honey, you know me, that whole Boy Scout thing. Be prepared."
"Yeah right."
The drive through Duluth was silent. My hopes were dashed. My plans ruined. Of course, I told myself, if I would have gotten my two year old out there, she would have probably ran into the ice cold freezing water anyway. I wouldn't have been able to fish much anyhow. I couldn't rationalize it though. I knew I was beaten.
I made the turn on to old Hiway 61. It was gently snowing and my wife was staring out over the lake. We passed the French river and I asked if we could stop so I could see whether or not anyone else was catching any fish. She said fine and picked up her book. I steered the van into the lot, which was filled with big manly trucks.
Out of peer polish stubbornness, I opened up the rear of the van and grabbed my rod. I could hear my dear wife's eyes roll. Shuffling down the stairs to the lake, I found myself confronted by a phalanx of fishermen standing and sitting shoulder to shoulder. I walked to my place on the far flank and skipped over the river to the other side of the mouth.
On my first cast, the clouds broke and I heard a voice in my head.
"One more." A raven landed on a tree behind me.
I reeled in the old battered silver and blue Kroc spoon and let fly with an arc that cut through a shaft of sunlight. Scintillating, the spoon hit the water and was immediately engulfed by a fish.
The rod was bent. My heart was pounding. It tail danced on the tectonic flank and I was, for a moment, Beowulfski, with the Fire Wyrm on my sword. I reached down and landed my prize.
I walked to the van with the fish proudly before me. The eyes of my compatriots were filled with the frustration of knowing that this guy had just walked into their midst, made a couple of casts, and walked away with a fish. I knocked on the window, holding my prize, standing in the new golden light.
My wife turned to me and smiled with surprise. It was a look that told me that "Yes, God Does Love Pollocks."