Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, our family’s mixed Lab.
A gray punk, what I call it, settled over the ice of the town pond in the last 24 hours.
I do not trust ice with that shading, so no strolls on the ice this morning.
As far as I can tell, nobody beat me to being the first to ice fish the town pond. And the open water under the bridge over the neckdown between the two old clay pit opened up more since yesterday.
When we moved here 14 years ago two old guys always beat me to being the first to ice fish on the town pond.
Funny how perspectives change with time. I think they were then only a couple years older than what I am now. And I don’t think of myself as old.
The last few years they, I would guess they are well into their 70s now, have not been the first to ice fish. In fact, I rarely see them out any more.
The guy who is first, or one of his fishing buddies, is a former south suburban tradesman who moved farther south a few years ago. He is a former top tournament muskie fisherman and just goes all over to fish, in any forms.
But I don’t think he even tested the ice on the town pond, yet.
Bland morning in terms of weather, barely cold enough to frost car windows, and wildlife.
At least the dawn dominated visually by casting a reddish undercoat to the slight cloud cover as dawn approached. It was catchy enough to spend some time looking at it and photographing it.
Back in town, the meathead chased a gray squirrel up the decorative fruit trees a street over. Near home, two blue jays squawked back and forth.
That was it for wildlife.
At least I could appreciate the memory of the first play–Eugene O’Neill’s “The Iceman Cometh”–a high school English teacher, Miss Brenneman, forced me to read. She said I would understand it.
Guess I kind of did. And it probably helped me along in my direction in life.