(With apologies for the double-pun in the title.) I spent the first day of the new calendar year as I always have for the past thirty years: waist deep in trout water. At least I didn't have to contend with sleet and frostbitten pinkies this year, though the day was gloomy, windy, drizzly, gray. Though I'm suffering in the throes of a serious black ass for various reasons I will elucidate shortly, my mood was leavened slightly when I landed four scrappy little rainbows on pheasant tails. I dislike fishing nymphs, but dry flies don't cut it in January. I then spotted an adult bald eagle surfing the gusts above the blufftops. She shadowed me for the rest of the afternoon, warming me from the soul outward.
My angioplasty hasn't worked. If anything, I'm more winded than before the procedure. I had to wade two miles upstream in a rush to get back to the car before dark, and I was so exhausted I sat on the bumper for a full thirty minutes, gasping. I fear I may need the bypass.
And then, when I returned to the apartment, I met a young woman whom we all know at my doorstep:
Young Woman: (weak smile) Greetings Prof. Trout.
Prof. Trout: Imagine finding you here. (hug) Happy New Year!
Young Woman: Happy New Year.
Prof. Trout: What brings you here at this hour?
Young Woman: (looks around, then bursts out) I'm pregnant.
Prof. Trout: Goodness! Are you sure?
Young Woman: Yes.
Prof. Trout: Heavens! And do you know who the father is?
Young Woman: Yes, it can only be one person.
Prof. Trout: Heavens!
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