If it’s not one thing it’s another …

Ellen and Reid have been subjected to a lot of whining these days. It’s either about my ‘part time’ work or more laments about yet another keeper-less down and back fishing jaunt to the South Carolina coast. The mostly faux-complaints aside, both things have their pluses. I’ll just have to navigate through the process and keep the bitching to a minimum.

May 2, 2016

Ellen/Reid: I am sitting on the couch in an utter fog at 8:35 p.m.. I piecemealed together one of the two papers I edit and it took nearly the entire day. The technical process is coming together bit by bit  but there’s a nagging little bugger in the back of my mind that keeps yammering at me to put a stop to the editor job and just be a writer. The coup de gras was this past Saturday when I cruised through town to photograph a couple of things, then stopped three times more for ‘spot’ news and interviews. It was three hours of news-news-news. I love it, but my brain is not turning off. It just will not turn off nor slow down when it comes to news. There is a constant mental assessment of what is the next story, what are the questions, how should it be written. It’s hard to let go of it. It’s one of the few things, other than my golf group, where literally I am all in. But there’s a toll to be paid and that critical mass is being reached. It’s not the writing that is bothersome – the creative process is just so delightfully enervating – but it is the process of tracking stories and who-does-what that is wearing me to the nubs. I’m trying to work up the nerve to give up editing but the people who run the paper are so fun and so committed. Makes me feel like a slacker. I so don’t want to disappoint them. I don’t know why in the hell I opened up my fat mouth about the editing position. Eight to 12 hours a week to write would be glorious.

Reid, I hired Cap’n Tripp this Thursday to see if the tide, no pun intended, can be overcome in terms of the lack of fish. We talked today and he said they slaughtered them (although he’s like Tim; release as many as you can).


Miss Emma and I boated some black drum, but not enough in size or quantty. Still, a day on the water beats a day at the office.

So I’ll slowly get pumped up for the down-and-back trek. Like the news, it is just so terribly enervating. He asked what we should concentrate on and my response was fishing the grass and the flats although truth be told, I will go anywhere the fish are biting. It seems something of a waste to hire him for four hours, but since no one goes down with me it will be good to have someone to chat with, and learn from, even if it will be an expensive lesson.

I’ve procured copies of the will and will send those to you shortly. Nothing about the document has changed. It’s the same as before.

Had people over for redfish and sheepshead last Friday night, and it wasn’t as good as it could be. The best part was the company, not the food. It would only rate a 4 on a 1-to-10. A grave error was made in not using your great-grandmother’s cast iron skillet set at very high heat. That would have truly blackened the fish slathered in Old Bay to a crisp, which is almost half the point. It was highly disappointing. There was fish left over and that was polished off tonight at dinner. No way in hell I was going to toss that stuff out so I ate every single bite. Actually, it wasn’t half bad when nuked adequately and more Old Bay was sprinkled on top. I like to have people over but my cooking skills need to escalate more than just a little bit. People were polite about it.

My next door neighbor to the north, Mary Beth and her absolutely adorable one year old, Evelyn, have become my good friends. Evelyn has flaming red hair and is just a beauty. She’s sort of my surrogate Emma-Georgia stand in in the absence of my two sweet peas. I’ve volunteered to babysit on Saturday nights when Mary Beth wants to get out with her girlfriends or with a guy she’s seeing off and on. She sells high-end medical equipment and appears fairly successful at it. Little Evelyn captured me when she called me ‘Da-da.’ That just got to my heart strings.

It’s 8:54 and duty calls. They’re having some trouble locating stories. This sill be another hour or two at the least. The pro-writing prosecution rests.

Love, Dad

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