Musky Widow's Lament By T. Gayle © 2012 I am a "Musky Widow." Oh, my husband is alive and well, but just before and during Musky season, he "isn’t all there." He is concentrating on getting his equipment ready, on finding out when the ice went out, how the weeds are growing, and he actually goes to the gym to work on building his back and shoulder muscles so he can cast better. I, on the other hand, think Musky fishing is simply boring. I am inept with a casting rod, a magnet for biting bugs, uninterested in discussions about "drop-offs," and water temperature. Although I tried Musky fishing, we decided that our marriage would be better served if my husband went fishing and I didn’t. This suits both of us. I am a mildly interested bystander—with the emphasis on bystander. Musky fishing is his obsession, but it definitely isn’t mine. I have known several people who have what can only be termed an obsession. We used to have a neighbor who was determined that his lawn would rival any golf course green. A dandelion was a call to battle. He spent more time and money on seed, fertilizer and shaving almost each blade than any professional gardener would. His wife and I agreed that this was simply his way of having fun, so we adopted the call, "If it makes him happy…" Lately, however, I have been hearing about an apparently heated argument between two groups: one group thinks there is something less than "kosher" about current musky world records and another group is defending these records. I grew up around
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