Marshall

A Guitar and a Fly rod

It had taken me two months to subdue sixteen bars of “Casey Jones” by Mississippi John Hurt.

As a suburban kid, I played marbles on dirt. My bag of marbles: cat’s eyes, clayies, steelies, micas, and agates.

I leaned my bike up against the building, walked hesitantly around to the back, and rapped on a screen door

In a galaxy far away, when I was in my 40s, I would fish with my son, my brother, and friends on the Big Piney River in east central Missouri.

What interests My Life’s Editor and me are the bookshelves behind the talking heads. We peer closely at the books,