CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN MY NIECE CAROLYN WAS ABOUT FIVE YEARS OLD, I took her out early one summer morning to teach her to fish. Just after dawn we climbed into the family Jeep, an old blue model with faux wood paneling on the sides. We drove to a freshwater pond near Nantucket’s cranberry bogs. I had packed two poles, some minnows for bait, and red-and-white plastic bobbers to go on our lines so we could see when the fish were biting. We found a good spot on the water, a weathered but sturdy wooden dock, and hooked our bait. “Spit on the minnow for good luck,” I said, just as my grandfather had instructed me to do when I was her age. We lowered our lines into the cold water ...
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