Standing In The River Under The Cold, Cold Rain
The fly fisher continued to gather his gear and take to the transport outside. Sitting on a kitchen chair, hands formed around her coffee cup, his wife watched him pace back and forth. Already, she had made commentary as to how wretched the weather was this day. Damp weather that was certainly cause for a man to fall ill. Her words of concern, however, seem to fall short of ear-shot.
As he made another trip to the transport, he realized his wives concern and decided to address her in order to calm her mind.
"My love, today I will stand in the river under the cold, cold rain and at that place I will weave a magnificent story of epic battles with the trout.
My expectation is high; my confidence swells; I fear not standing in the river under the cold, cold rain. I will return to you with great tales, grand stories of how on this day, on a level field of battle, I dispensed great amounts of Tom's Trickery on the unsuspecting trout.
The trout will look at my flies as grand gifts and they will attack them with a passioned intensity... impaling themselves on the sharp lance. Escape they will try, but, they will capitulate as they come to my hand. The number of trout fooled today will be staggering.
And, when I return home to you and tell the grand story you most assuredly will tell others and those others will come to our home to gather me and hoist me high to their shoulders. Then they will parade me down the road and call to yet others proclaiming "Here is the true trickster of trout. For sure, he is a jolly good fellow."
As the parade continues down the road, the fanfare will only grow and all will go to a central place. At that place the good food and fine wine will come forth and we will revel late into the night.
I promise you my wife, I will carry a warming ale with me today. The kind of ale that blocks the chill from the bone and makes jolly a man. The kind of ale of that great warrior Beowulf's time; the ale he drank at Mead-Hall after his great victory. My victory today will be similar.
I tarry no longer sweet wife, the trout await"
Standing in the river under the cold, cold rain it didn't take long for reality to set. The fly fisher had been standing in the river for an hour and half that more. To his credit, he had only four trout - not the kind of numbers grand stories are made of. Numbers that will not cause fanfare or a cause to be gathered and hoisted high to the shoulders. Not the numbers that will parade a man down the street where a grand celebration at a central place, with good food and fine wine will come forth.
The rain dripped from the brim of his hat. Rain drops exploded and burst upon his shoulders. His body shivered and quake, trying to warm itself. Rain found it's way to the nape of his neck chilling the spine. The ale, long since gone, was not enough to ward off the effects of standing in the river under a cold, cold rain.
He spooled up and waddled up the hill to return home.
At home, as he opened the door and stood in the threshold looking similar to a drown rodent his wife arose from her chair. She had words to dispense, words that she had been holding and would now release.
"The cough and cold medicine is on the table - I'm going shopping. See you later o' great trickster of trout."