Another lame Tuesday Bleat, and for the same reason: three columns due tomorrow. And I won’t even have the luxury of staying up until three AM to get a running start, because tomorrow my wife starts on a project that puts us back to the old schedule. Again, this isn’t going to be a permanent problem; when everything shakes out I’ll figure out a way to go back to the old nine-pieces-a-week schedule.

But I have to admit - I need a week off. Not because my life is so Horribly Stressed, and I cannot bear to rise each day and face another 10-hour shift lifting concrete blocks. No. Life’s still good. Any stress and bother I suffer is either self-made, or the sort of thing you’d expect to have in a moderately productive life. I don’t have to worry about driving a big rig all night and wondering if I’ll get pulled over and have my log books checked. I don’t have to worry who’s going to take care of the kids while I work the night shift at Denny’s. So don’t get me wrong; I am not pining for a weekend in the Hamptons because Manhattan is so hot and by the time you go from doorway to limo you’re just soaking.

I just want a week off. This last weekend was a break from the routine, and it was invigorating. It also kept the monthly family movie from being another compilation of Gnat-in-the-backyard pictures. While I don’t like travel, I like the end result - I like being someplace different, as long as it has running water and ice and cable TV and thick towels and ambulances that can be summoned in four minutes by stabbing three numbers on the phone. Ergo you will not find me backpacking across Botswana.

A lake cabin would be nice someday, but I’m not crazy about spending all of Friday night getting up there, spending Saturday fixing and cleaning, and getting stuck in traffic Sunday night. But a week at some rented cabin would be nice. Hard well water. Burgers on a rickety charcoal grill. Trips into town for supplies. Monopoly games. Taking a book from the old battered stack of paperbacks left by the previous generations (aw, not Leon Uris again), hot-dog and egg omelets, s’mores over the bonfire.

But what about fishing, you ask?

I agree. What about it?

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