Foreword: If you folks can indulge me, I'd like to share with the poetry people, three interesting incidents from the past.

I recall an incident some years back, when I worked for a weekly newspaper in a small rural community. I was an avid fisherman and my friend, Steve, was a driven, nuts on, muskellunge hunter. Well, anyway, Steve was our lead writer at the rag. He had met a fellow, newly retired, that had settled in our tiny hamlet. Having left the bright lights of scheduled stress back east, this man was now free to spend his days (I'm not exactly what it was that he did through the nights) pursuing pleasures of his interest. His love, talent, hobby, was creating fishing lures. He would craft them in his basement shop. There were all manner of different size and style of artificial fish baits soon available for sale by this master craftsman. He had opened a small shop to sell his wares. Never one to look a new business in the mouth (the lifeblood of small newspapers is to sell advertising), Steve went to interview the new proprietor and photograph some of his various wares. He found that this man would actually forge the metal hooks and accessories himself. As well with the plastic and rubber coatings of whatever. Well, he took the pictures and wrote a story on this man and his fledgling business. The headline read "Master Baiter Sets Up Shop in Town". Now, we peons down at the paper loved it. But, as we were to go to press that week, the publisher stopped by and quickly put a stop to our fun. Drat! Now you tell me? How dry is "Expert Luremaker Open for Business"?