First sentence

The first sentence purports a story's soul.

I learned that lesson from my high school journalism teacher, but my real favorite first phrases are in books. I'd quote some, but it's late and I'd want to do it right and I just started a new memoir called The Liars' Club. I found the first sentence stunning.

"My sharpest memory is of a single instant surrounded by dark."

It makes me want to keep reading, so back to the book.

Gone fishing

I never had to worry about my worm freezing before.

I just came in from my first casts with a fishing pole since last fall. The record early ice-out and an executive order by the governor two days ago means fishing season starts early this year, as opposed to the usual April 1. Hallelujah.

I bought trout worms earlier, but the sun was already behind the horizon when I untangled my favorite pole from the others and trotted down to the Sebasticook River behind my house. With all the rain and melting ice, the river is swollen and almost a foot higher than it'll be this summer and the water rushes by with force. Two navigational buoys downstream, one green and one red, whip back and forth in the current, pulled underwater for most of the time. It's hard to believe that I'll want to canoe this river a month from now.

Weeds, plants and sticks along the shoreline carried a thin layer of ice, like a crystal ceiling, three inches above the water. I figure that's how much the level has dropped since last night's freeze.

I grab my favorite lure, a soft rubber "shiner" with a golden spinner at its nose. It came from my dad's tackle box, so it's probably as old as I am. Dirty and chewed up, with its dull hooks and haphazard spinner, the lure has caught more fish than almost anything else in my box.

So I jumped atop my favorite rock and whipped it out there. In fishing I believe things happen for a reason, so the season's first cast is important. Hooking a fish on the first cast surely means a good season ahead, right? After the lure sunk for a few seconds I began to reel, playing the tip of my rod back and forth. I bent my knees and widened my feet, poised in a fish-slaying stance like the professional anglers on TV. About halfway in, I feel a little tug. I yanked the rod viciously, envisioning a lunker bass or brown trout. If there had been a fish on, I would have broken its neck, but there wasn't. A salad fish was hooked to the lure, meaning that little tug was not a fish, but a trip through the weeds.

A few casts later I hooked bottom and broke my line. That old lure's gone, but I'm not heartbroken. Loosing tackle and not catching fish is what I'm used to. I switched to a worm and bobber and kept at it until it was dark, but to no avail.

I suppose if I expected a fish on the first cast to prelude a lucky season, losing my favorite lure and having no bites must mean I'm doomed. Oh well. It's not the fish; it's the fishing.

Simple idea, huge impact

I think we can all agree that inventing the space shuttle or the combustion engine or the pacemaker were amazing feats of genius, but guys like Walter Fredrick Morrison impress me more.

Traveling to the moon, revolutionizing Earth-bound transportation or making the human heart beat regularly are all impressive, but the folks who solved those problem had the benefit of a problem to solve. Walter Fredrick Morrison had a plastic lid from a popcorn container and from that, he created one of the most famous toys there is: the Frisbee.

I'm not unlike anyone else in that from time to time, I'll have an idea for an invention that seems worthy and marketable. Like most everyone else, I wouldn't know where to start. Morrison had the courage to stick his neck out for a simple plastic disc, and I find that amazing.

Morrison died this week at age 90.

The worst shrapnel I'll probably ever see

There probably aren't many people who read my story in the Bangor Daily News today about a Jump Rope for Heart event at a local elementary school. A lot of journalists I know wouldn't cover such an event unless told to by an editor. In a world where there is corruption, greed and tragedy everywhere, not to mention an endless supply of positive stories, assignments like this fall by the wayside too often.

But I had a couple free hours, so I went. I talked to the teachers and a representative from the American Heart Association, but what I was really looking for was any reporter's biggest challenge in an elementary school: finding a kid who will open up a little.

I was also the photographer, so I threaded my way through the gymnasium taking pictures. Jump ropes twirled and slapped the floor all around me as the kids rotated between four jumping stations. At one point I saw a girl I'd interviewed starting to jump over a long rope swung by two friends. Next to them was another team. Hoping to find a position in time to take the girl's picture, I tried to squeeze between the two swinging ropes. One of them hit me on the right shoulder and the other struck my left ear. Both teams had to stop and start over.

At that moment I thought of some reporters I know who cover wars and natural disasters, or who have spent time in prison. I know an African reporter who has been tortured and an American who has been held hostage. I'm honored to know those people and proud of how they represent our profession. They're heroes.

I don't know whether I'll ever see a war zone or natural disaster, but I do know that yesterday I was grateful that the worst shrapnel I've ever seen consisted of two jump ropes.

For a dog I've never met

I've never met Mabel the dog, but this week I sent her a small donation.

Mabel is the beloved pooch of Mandy, a member of my high school class. I can't say that Mandy and I have ever been close friends, but I've always admired her for many reasons. To start with, she was and is beautiful, which will catch the attention of any adolescent or teenage boy, including me. She was popular and definitely a member of what I considered a brat pack of girls and guys who resided in the upper crust of popularity.

Mandy was different than some of them, though. Despite the fact that she could choose her friends, Mandy is the type of person who judges people on a single criterion: their heart and how they use it in the world. After reconnecting on Facebook, she and I worked together a little last summer to organize our 15-year class reunion. I wasn't surprised that she hadn't changed.

Mabel, pictured above, was a frequent character in Mandy's Facebook posts and it was clear that my old friend was smitten with her four-legged roommate.

A couple of months ago, Mabel fell ill. Cancer. One of her rear legs was recently amputated. You can read Mabel's story here.

I've never met Mabel and it'll probably be years before I see Mandy again, but I was compelled to throw a few dollars their way. Though it was undoubtedly too small to pay for much of Mabel's treatment, I considered my donation to be a little nudge to the wheel of what comes around goes around.

Maybe you'll give the wheel another push?

When he grows up

Caleb and I were listening to some blues by Keb Mo yesterday while driving to the store. He tells me to turn it down so he can say: "Daddy, I'm going to be in a band just like this when I grow up and I'm going to play the organ. Do you know what I'm going to name it?"

"What?" I say.

"Beetle O. Beedle Um Bum."

I laugh. "That's a good name."

"Yeah. I don't think Keb Mo is a very good name for a rocking band."

I trust his judgment.

The wilds of Somerset County

Today I traveled to the town of Bingham in central Somerset County. As I'm prone to do, I took the back way.

Out of Hartland, Route 151 takes you to a wide spot in the road known to locals as the town of Athens. A store that sells groceries and hardware, a couple churches, many farms and a factory that makes wood pellets for heating are the main attractions. Instead of heading west toward Solon, which would have brought me to busy Route 201 and quickly to Bingham, I stayed on Route 151 north through Brighton Plantation.

For a good ten miles, there is almost nothing, not even telephone poles. The first part of the journey brings you steadily uphill, the second back the valley that contains the mighty Kennebec River. Picturesque views peep through the forest on both sides of the road, but they were quickly forgotten when I crested the hill. Suddenly, an expansive blue landscape stretched out in three directions. Lakes and small ponds could be seen looking down, but the eye is tugged toward the horizon, where a series of snow-capped mountain peaks loom toward the sky. These are the White Mountains.

The sudden beauty, as cliche as it sounds, took my breath away. My tires hit gravel on the shoulder of the road until I regained composure and jerked the car back to tar. If I wasn't trying to stay on schedule for my interview, I would've stopped and took it in for a while. I might have even taken some photos. For me, there's something in common between distant mountain ranges, empty oceans and crackling campfires: I could stare at them for hours.

When my family made the move last fall from beautiful coastal Bath, some people wondered why we'd trade that pristine environment for ultra-rural central Maine. If they could see a view like the one that startled me today on an barren road through out-of-the-way towns, they'd have their answer.