The Missourian Fisherman

 

by William Crisp

 

Recently we got a visit from a new member of the family, my niece’s fiance’ fresh off a year long deployment in the Middle East, courtesy of the US Army. He honored us with a visit; to fish. I’ll call him Luke because he said his name was Luke. Luke is an angler and is a native of Missouri so I figured this quasi fish guide gig I was selected for would be a cinch. My first clue that this would be a little harder than I thought was when we had to explain to the young lad why he needed to buy a fishing license. It was also at the same time that I also realized I could be as much of a bad choice of a guide as a good choice.

“But I catch lots of fish back home on my farm and don’t need a license there.” He lightly protested. “That’s why Missouri stinks,” I diplomatically explained (Bad Guide Bill came out). When we told him he’d be fishing streams for fish stocked by the state and raised on license dollars, he nodded and accepted his fate to become a license buyer.

After going through the process of getting him in the system and a new CID number, my brother said he felt a little bad, like he branded a new calf or something. I picked Luke up by saying, “You won’t regret it at all, Luke, we are going to have a blast.” And I meant it. (Good Guide Bill came out).

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