Here’s the first thing my wife says to me today: “Brenda and Randy are in town and they’re going to stop by today. Want to grill some chicken for us?”
At this point I must choose my next words carefully. I know what I want to say. I want to tell her that salmonfly nymphs are on the move in the Blacksmith Fork River and I’d sooner grill chicken over the sulfuric fires of hell at a picnic for the damned than cancel today’s fishing.
But I don’t say that. I tell her I’ll grill the chicken. Then I hear myself agreeing to help her declutter the garage. That woman loves to declutter a garage, let me tell you. Doesn’t even have to be hers. Somewhere along the way we end up at Home Depot buying lumber so I can build grow-boxes for the garden.
I take some solace in knowing that Russ didn’t get to fish today, either. You should see his honey-do list—most Saturdays an army of zombie Bob Vilas wouldn’t be enough to free him up.
Brad’s the only one who got to go out. It was a great day for it. Cool, some clouds, mostly sunny. Around 10:45 p.m. tonight, Russ sent Brad an e-mail demanding to know about those salmonflies. “Alright, Brad,” said Russ, “let’s hear it. Report.”
There’s been no answer.