It's a big weekend at my house, or actually, on the shores of the Pretty River at a farm about six miles from my house.
It's Fishing Season Weekend.
If you weren't raised in a certain era or certain locale, it might mean nothing to you, but for those hundreds of men you'll see parked at culverts and bridges over the next few weekends, it's a very big deal.
At my house, Fishn' Season is a very very big deal. As far as I can estimate it, my sweetheart would rate it as more important than a combination of New Year's Eve, Christmas, his birthday, Easter, Festivus and Thanksgiving. For him, it's the most important weekend of the year, and neither hell, high water, snow nor an early spring will keep him from it.
At midnight on the final Friday of April, Ontario's creeks, streams and rivers open for trout fishing, and at midnight tonight, Sweetie will be fishing. Over the years, the Friday night party has waxed and waned, but the one constant has been my guy, out there no matter the weather or attendance figures. During this magical weekend. lifelong friendships are made and cemented. Stories of past glories will be re-told. There will be Caesars, hot dogs and this year, courtesy of my mother, pie. Fish is very rarely caught or served.
Whether I attend is immaterial, which would leave me miffed if I were the least bit interested in waking up in a snow-covered tent.
Happy Fishin Season, honey! I'll see you Sunday.