Unperturbed, Lukas continued onward in his wet jeans, digging in his rusty, decades old tackle box for the right hook. Five minutes later, Luke pulled in a Dolly Varden, to excited shrieks from me on the other shore. Gortex man, who had probably been unsuccessfully fishing there for hours, spared another annoyed glance at my son, who deftly killed the fish with a whack on the head.
Gortex man decided that the spot he was fishing at (50 yards away from Luke) wasn't so great after all and walked over to Luke, never even saying Hello to him. He did some more fancy fishing moves downstream from the boys, and five minutes later, my son landed another fish. More annoying (bordering on incredulous) looks from Gortex man, more whooping and hollering from me.
The whole thing from start to finish had taken 20 minutes, and we soon walked away with two beautiful fish for dinner.
Gortex man never said Goodbye.
What's so cool about this story is not that my ten and almost twelve year old sons kicked a pro fisherman's ass, but that Lukas then proceeded to gut the fish all by himself at home, me standing by cluelessly, taking pictures and asking him questions about what he was doing. He wielded his sharp knife expertly, cutting out guts and all other kind of slimy innards without flinching. The dog and cat, attracted by the delicious fish smell, supervised.
Other news from the homestead: It's getting mighty Christmassy around here. I love the Christmas tree lights casting their warm glow in the gloomy, wet December weather. I adore the cozy fires in the wood stove. I am knitting my bootie off for my gift giving. And there is, of course, the baking. Pinwheel cookies. Vanilla wafers. Lebkuchen. The smell of grated orange zest, cinnamon, melted butter and vanilla. Sticky little hands forming interesting cookie shapes. Happy little faces sampling raw cookie dough. And a mother feeling blessed beyond words by her good fortune.