When I asked Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor, to go fishing the next day with my pal Dean and me, he said, “Shoot naw, hit’s a mean-lookin’ cold front’ full o’ bad storms comin’ ’cross.”
“Bad weather doesn’t scare real fishermen like us,” I sneered, “especially when striped bass are running in upper Lake Ferguson.”
“Befo’ dis day is done — y’all’ll be runnin’!” the old black man warned.
