The youngest nephew is into fishing. The same way I am into ruining television and movies and roadtrips by identifying any typeface that passes in front of my eyes. I went out to the pond with him Monday afternoon and watched as he cast his line over and over into the brown water, only pulling back leaves and plugs of algae. Even his traditionally lucky spot behind the discarded tire yielded nothing, where the day before he’d caught the same fish twice.
Maybe his luck was busted by the nosy little pony that kept trying to eat whatever was in the tackle box.