I plunged down the hill at full speed. Never tripping, never stumbling, all the while with hands and arms laden with four fishing poles, a rusty tackle box, two bait buckets and who knows what else. (You can do all this when you are a skinny 14-year-old.)
Light as a feather, I bounced off the sandy riverbank and grabbed the old rope securing the ancient wooden john boat. The momentum drove the waterlogged boat, all the gear and the 14-year-old river rat out into the lazy river. This world was mine, I was going fishing, and I had the confidence of Caesar Augustus.
(READ MORE: Muskrat and magazine were life-changers)
I have decided to be a kid again. The advantages are off the charts; it is such a no-brainer, and I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this sooner. Think about it: all that youthful vim and vigor — which includes boundless energy — little or no responsibilities, and an outlook on life that may be somewhat naïve but is much better than what most of us now have.
Man! A kid, a youngster, no worries other than questions such as “Is it going to rain me out of fishing today?” and “Do I have enough shells to rabbit hunt on Saturday?” — along with the occasional tennis shoe blowout.