Another summer is winding down, and I still haven’t gone fishing. How I long to be sitting in a rowboat on some quiet lake at dusk with my spinning gear and old Jitterbug. To listen to the “glub,” “glub," “glub” of that surface lure waiting for a largemouth bass to break the otherwise stillness of the lake when he charged it.
It was the morning after Bobby Kennedy’s assassination when my brother Ken and I went fishing for the last time. We fished at Lake Mashapaug in northeastern Connecticut that morning.