TLP (the little prince, my son) checked out a library book on fishing.  We had to read about each fish, length, weight, best bait and whether the species would put up a fight.  Also we had to go through the various baits (it WAS a how-to book, after all) and the only thing I could add was when we got to fly fishing.  I told him we could go on the Orville’s Fly Fishing School website (I silently prayed it had not gone into Chapter 11 or dissolved).

When it came time for me to read about a fish that was a pesky fighter, I recounted my family’s trip to San Francisco, circa 1968.  Mom and Dad took us to eat at the Fisherman’s Wharf, which — at that time — was an exotic dining destination.  My parents were dressed in evening wear, so I presume that after dinner we were being dropped off at the hotel with a sitter, but I can’t remember.  I do remember fishing for our dinner and Dad’s having caught a pesky, fighting fish that flailed in and out of his tuxedo jacket.  Mom and Dad must have eaten that fish (I think we kids stayed with hamburgers).

That was the first and last time we went fishing with Dad or anyone.  Too traumatic.  If TLP wants to go fishing, Uncle HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) or Cousin Gentle will have to take him.  Thinking back 43 years ago, I am still traumatized.