Nearly 60 years ago, I got my fondest wish for my 14th birthday, a fiberglass fly rod. I hadn’t a clue how to fish with it, though; neither did Mom or Dad. Across the street, fortunately, lived a quiet widower named Mr. Watson. After he spotted me clumsily trying to make a cast, I came to learn he was a terrific warm water fly fisherman, at a time and in a place (metro east St. Louis) where the sport was pretty much unknown. Not a relative, at the time not even a close acquaintance, he launched me on a path toward becoming the modest, legendary angler I am today. While we all struggle to find something to be thankful for in 2020, I have no trouble being thankful for my friend Mr. Watson. To make a long story short, not easy for me, Mr. Watson took me to a local bait store, bought me a handful of homemade, blackened cork spiders with long rubber band legs, and asked: “Could you be ready to go fishing about 3:30 tomorrow morning?” With Mom’s help, it turns out I could. Off he...