Now growing up in southern Virginia, fishing was pretty common. All the male members of my family fished though somehow they neglected to take me along. So it wasn’t until I moved to Boston and met this quirky fellow who loved fishing that I finally held a fishing pole. That’s right, I held it. But to Steve’s consternation I didn’t move it. He tried to explain standing there with the line in the water watching the sunlight play upon the lake was not the same as actively trying to catch a fish. I told him, “I think I’m into the zen of fishing.” He just shook his head. Luckily for Steve, a good friend connected him with a group of men who’d been fishing together for decades since they were children. A spot opened up and Steve fit. About every two years they’d gather and make their way to a fishing hole in Canada. It was probably one of the most joyous experiences Steve looked forward to later in life. One of the gentlemen shared this photo with me in his memory.
Words + Images 