It was Mother’s Day, perhaps 1987, when my good friend John Miller brought his wife Theresa to a restaurant on Greenwood Lake in Orange County, N.Y., to celebrate. They were told they had at least a half-hour wait, so to kill the time John went back to his car and took out his spinning outfit.
“I had helped stock trout in the lake just weeks before,” John said, “and I knew that they would likely orient to a concrete wall along the shore, because they were used to concrete in the hatchery.”
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