I don’t know when this happened.
Perhaps it has always been, and my awareness of it has merely sharpened. Maybe it was birthed out of a personal tragedy…death, divorce or my receding hairline.
But happen it has, and now I must face it head on.
Hi, my name is Mark and I am a curmudgeon.
I noticed the genesis of my descent a few years ago. I tried to ignore it, thinking it a momentary affliction; merely a passing phase, like listening to an oldies radio station.
Over time however, a pattern emerged. The symptoms became most pronounced upon returning from a day afield or a-stream.
A nagging grumpiness began to stir in my soul an hour or so before my last cast, or upon descending the tree stand. The malady progressed to the point that I began to think up excuses for it.
“Some jerk cut me off on the highway”.
“I lost my favorite fly”
“Someone was fishing in my run”
“They ran out of big chops at Coopers“
Like most folks cut from the outdoor cloth, I yearn to be in the woods or on the water as much as possible, to restore my soul from the onslaughts of work, society, reality T.V., and encounters with candidates for the Darwin awards. And in truth, my soul is restored by my time spent there.
|Do me a favor. Put your lip over your head… and swallow.|
The problem is, I cannot stay in that never-land. I am compelled to return to the life of modern reality and responsibility. And that, gentle reader, pushes my Scrooge button.
So if you perchance meet me as I sojourn back from a clandestine meeting with nature, please extend grace to me if I scowl in your general direction. It’s nothing personal. I am, after all, just a curmudgeon.