My sister played softball. My brother played football. I played the cello.
Music has always been there. Longer than I can even remember hunting and fishing. Or maybe not. Maybe just as long as I can remember walking through the woods. And Kenny Rogers Greatest Hits.
The Big Chill Soundtrack. Lionel Richie. White cassette tapes rattling on the floor of Dads suburban. In a brown vinyl coated case with a ridiculously over-engineered chrome buckle.
Smokey Robinson. The Temptations. The Four Tops. The truck is parked at the beach before dawn. It smells like Fish-Fly weather. Humid. Late July. The trolling motor hums. Water silently cut by the V-hull. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to fish without a life-jacket.
DMX. Dr. Dre. Just out of college. Hell, just out of class. A parking lot near a swamp on public land. Doors open. Navy blue standard cab S10 pickup. Speakers trying to keep up. I’m painting my face for an early season goose hunt. A dirty look from a fellow hunter. I could care less.
And there’s always Gordon Lightfoot for the drive to North Dakota. There just can’t be one without the other. It somehow makes the duck hunting even better.
Today, I’m just down the street from my friends house. Lacing my boots. Zipping up my Carhartts. We’re hiking to a spot that should have some decent ice. Bluegills. Crappie. Bass. On tip-ups. On jigging rods. On both at the same time. 2Chainz jamming on my phone.
I’m jigging, yeah I’m jigging. Pull up to the lake with my ceiling missing!