As summer fishing approaches, a cautionary tale
If you need one more reason to crimp the barbs on fish hooks, let me admit to foul-hooking my brother's ear. It was 1958 or maybe 1959. But you'd swear it happened only yesterday, as Paulie still works that story into darned near every shared conversation we have with a new acquaintance. (And the older he gets, the more likely it is he's recalling and embellishing the same incident to relatives at every major holiday.) Okay it happened; took place on the muddy bank of Lake Wappapella, in the Missouri Bootheel. I don't recall how it came into my possession, but I was armed with an ancient steel, telescoping fly rod. Didn't even have a reel, just some thick flyline-like cord attached to the butt end, poked through the guides down to some kind of big old fly. Obsessed with getting that beauty into the water, I was flailing away while paying insufficient attention to Paulie, who was using a simple cane pole to my right. Wham! the fly slammed into the softest part of a ...