Some twenty years ago, our little family of five set out to camp overnight at a lake about an hour’s drive from home.

Expectations were high.

So high, in fact, that we stopped at Walmart along the way and bought two identical Scooby Doo fishing poles, both the same color, each about three feet long, and a Styrofoam cup full of slimy worms.

The sweet daughter, who had been helping me recently on the job, and, who had spoken of her deep love for salamanders when we found one under the valve box we were digging out, professed no love whatsoever for the worms.  (And, truth be told, when I tossed the salamander at her during the time of professed love, there was a deep gasp and shudder as she removed herself from thence.)

We got the tent set up.

 We got supper ready for when we came back to it from our fishing excursion. 

We set out to haul in fish.

I took each of the Scooby Doo’s and rigged them each with an identical hook from the same compartment in my tackle box.

I took a worm from the brown slime and tore it neatly in half.

I put one half on the one hook, and the other half on the other hook.

I saw a school of fish about 30 feet offshore top feeding and tossed the line of each Scooby Doo in nearby. 

Both bobbers were within five feet of each other.

Whereupon the one young lad began to haul in fish, and the other young lad stood disconsolately nearby, hauling in nothing.

And, I stood nearby asking, Why?

Why, when I had purchased the poles from the same shelf, rigged them with the same type of hook out of the same compartment, and cast both lines in myself, within five feet of each other, why did one boy catch fish and the other didn’t?

Why, later in life, whenever there was a raffle drawing, the boy who had pulled in the fish always won a prize and the other didn’t?

And the question remains, and although perhaps in a bit different format, the crux of it remains the same.

Why is it always me that prints the last page of paper in the printer and I am the one who has to restock it?  (Even though I’ve purposely held off my printing jobs when I knew the paper was getting low, it still landed on me to fill it.)

Why is it always me who seems to be the one who gets the last square of toilet paper and I have to try to turn around and reach the new roll from the back of the stool?  Or, horrors, be the one who finds out too late that the public restroom stall they are in is out, and there is no extra roll in sight.

Why is my group number always in the 7 to 9 range when it comes to boarding my flight?

Why is it always me sitting at the corner, and I see the vehicle approaching and it appears to be slowing down, but no blinker, so I sit and wait, until, of course, it turns just like I thought it would?

Why is it my soda that gets a full cup of ice and a half cup of soda?

On the other hand . . .

Why did the dude at the rental car counter upgrade me without extra charge?  Not once, but twice, in fact.

Why did I happen to be in the McDonalds drive through and when I pulled up to pay, they said the folks in front of me paid for mine?

Why did I find the exceptionally kind, generous and loving family to marry into that I did?

Why does my wife love me?

Why do I have two boys, (one who catches fish and the other who catches other things just as or more important) that make me feel like life is worth it?

Why did I happen to luck out with the daughters I got?

Why has it been that I have friends who stand by me, regardless of my disposition?

I’m suspicious this last list of why’s could be quite a bit longer than the first list.

Wait a minute.  Has anything I have typed up to this point made any sense?

. . . .I wonder how I could rig the toilet paper though . . . .