This time of year a fellow has to tiptoe around all those packages sprinkled at his door for fear he opens the wrong one and is accused of peeking …

At this late juncture there are no surprises under our tree, no inflatable love dolls or mysterious oblong packages that resemble a new fly rod.

The harsh reality is our Destiny is pedestrian; lumps of coal interspersed with socks – or tee shirts with the neck as yet unstretched.

All of us had them same meager roots …Older Bro and I would grit our teeth knowing we were getting designer underwear compliments of the Emporium basement sale, as Ma loved her Italian designer, “Irregulare’.”

Today was no different, as I tripped over all the accumulated packages at the back door, one rattled fetchingly as it rolled toward the planter box and I knew it was That Which Cannot Be Mentioned. The first of many sins I’ll commit against our beloved sport.

Naturally I spritz a bit of it on the doorjamb and note the piquant yet aged notes of over-ripe crustacean, and nod appreciatively knowing the Scent of Mashed Crayfish might feature prominently in my trips to the Pristine as well.

I keep thinking of That Guy, the fellow a friend invites that forgets half his tackle and ends up borrowing your toothbrush.

… and in the pre-Dawn blackness, he fumbles for his kit and finds his deodorant a couple of hundred miles South … and could he burrow mine …

Sure, I says, reaching for my vest …