How the hell could you do this to me?Joel Blackstone stood at the back of the tiny church and surveyed the cluster of mourners gathered in the front pews. September sunlight filtered down through the stained-glass windows illuminating the inside of the A-frame structure with a glow. The minister's voice was strong and surprisingly cheerful, given the fact that he was officiating at a memorial service.“Charlie Thornquist was the most dedicated fisherman I ever knew,” the minister said. “And that's saying something, because God knows I've done a pretty fair job of dedicating myself to that noble pursuit. But for me it was an avocation. A hobby. For Charlie it was nothing less than a true vocation. A calling.”At the minister's right, an urn rested on a wooden stand. The small brass plaque that hung on it was engraved with the words GONE FISHING. Inside the urn were the last earthly remains of Joel's eighty-five-year-old boss, Charlie Thornquist. Several photographs of Charlie with some of his prize catches were displayed around the urn.
