Bugsy, Brent and I were three happy teenagers that Saturday in early June. Working chartreuse jigs around willow clumps, we filled two stringers with slab-sided speckled crappie. We couldn’t wait to be back on the lake at daybreak the next morning.
“Fishing on the Lord’s Day?” Mama hissed, glaring holes through our sinful souls. “Heathens! You will do no such thing. You’ll attend church, and when I look up in the balcony during the service, y’all better be listening to the preacher, not cuttin’ up. Now … eat supper and dress them fish.”