Word: fishly
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...alone in this admittedly odd--but fun--game. A friend who I had not seen for a while just shared with me that she too had been playing this game with some of her friends. Her favorite Alternative band name creation, she said, was Sinister Fish. What...
...been patrolling the no-fly zone, and it will probably happen again. Waller points out that aside from some low-wattage grumbling this week, Iraq's recent behavior suggests a desire to cooperate with the U.N. With no casualties in the exchange but a few freshwater fish, it seems that both sides of this uneasy cease-fire would prefer to forget this exchange of jabs ever happened...
...learned. And grew up, calamitously and against long odds. Both achievements shine in a graceful sentence early in her story, as she explains her communion with unresponsive fish: "I had patience, the sort I suspect God has with people like me." Patience with her own demons came slowly. As a young woman, "a booze-sucking, pill-popping, dope-slamming druggie," she turned 18 in jail, jugged on a possession charge. She seems not to have known Grand-Papa Ernest well (and would say, no, no, not that Hemingway family, not me), though later she adored his younger brother, her great...
...father, Greg Hemingway, a short, oily, muscular man by her resentful description, was a brooding depressive, mostly absent, who tried desperately to be an outdoor guy like Ernest. Tried to be a father, at their first meeting in 10 years, when he took the 16-year-old Lorian marlin fishing off Bimini, lost his nerve and lost a great fish. She didn't know him, she writes, and wasn't able to comfort him, or help him laugh it off, or pretend that the failure was O.K. She certainly did not understand what became apparent later, that Greg's real...
...blamed "family history," her father, her grandfather. An old aunt, dying, said, forget that, you're a drunk. The author went through detox, then months in which her shaking hands shook less. And finally--family history, of course--learned to fly-fish properly. Taught, she insists, by a vision, possibly supernatural, of a naked man, fly rod in hand, drifting down a river on a raft. Sure. Anyhow, she is now able to cast a Royal Coachman so that the fly walks on water, "and the circle of fish shatters like beads in a kaleidoscope, bathing me in light...