Salmon Derby

The factory I'm working in was built by Free Masons, and they seem to have aligned the building according to the ancient formulas. So, in the morning, at a certain hour, the sun shines through the bay door beside my saw, all but blinding me. Should I remain employed at my current post for the better part of a year--until the next summer solstice--I've been told that the sun will shine directly upon an otherwise conealed section of the drop ceiling, thus illuminating a spectacular fresco of dancing beavers enacting ancient Masonic rites.

I pray to Heaven that I won't be working there long enough to witness this marvel, but in the mean time, I have a more practical problem in that the blinding morning sun greatly increases the chances of my damadging an appendage in a grisly circular saw mishap.

To help prevent this, I have taken to wearing a fishing cap I found abandoned in a dusty corner of the shop:



I've never been to Whitby or Oshawa, and I have no idea what a Salmon Derby is. Once the sun has moved out of my direct line of vision, I place the hat on the work table beside my saw, and steal glances at it once in a while. I like to pass the seemingly endless hours fantasizing about playfull salmon riding jetskiis across Lake Ontario. Then, I imagine myself dressed in a large salmon costume, swimming upstream to spawn. Indeed, the Salmon should be spawing any day now, and I would rather be a pair of rosey gills, fighting, fighting, fighting the current to find my sweetheart in the lovely upstream spawing beds.

Alas, friends, perhaps in the next life. 'Till then, I think I'm going to hold on to this hat as a keepsake.