'That's big enough to pull in a shark', I said to the older man on the bench, about the thick fishing pole leaning against the railing just upstream of the dam. But he said nothing, being busy at work preparing another rod for service. His fingers were large but nimble, his clothes unkempt, the skin on his face black and saggy, his teeth few and randomly distributed. Yet this was a regular fisherman fishing. His appearance might have been of no account to him; age and its humiliations irrelevant. There was a line in the water and another soon to come: this is what mattered.
I thought of my vanities, the pride I take in my trimness, in the way I dress, in my grooming, my teeth, my studied alertness, and of how I might feel if I were he, looking as battered by time and trials as he did. But then, I thought, he's a fisherman fishing, that is, a person doing what he loves. To be wholly engrossed in something might also render me indifferent to my decaying appearance or powers, and hopefully will.
I thought of my vanities, the pride I take in my trimness, in the way I dress, in my grooming, my teeth, my studied alertness, and of how I might feel if I were he, looking as battered by time and trials as he did. But then, I thought, he's a fisherman fishing, that is, a person doing what he loves. To be wholly engrossed in something might also render me indifferent to my decaying appearance or powers, and hopefully will.
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