Home again

As I prepare to write this column, it is a gray, cool day here in this part of the Lone Star state. Our trip back started out in the rain on Wednesday, October 16. The sun did not shine on us until we had reached Nanticoke, Pennsylvania. It ended in a Texas gully washer on Friday, October 18. At noon we had reached Texarkana, on the Texas state line and enjoyed beautiful balmy weather as we basked in 74 degree temperatures. However, three hours later, as we approached Dallas, we ran into a cloudburst. From this point it should have taken us less than an hour to reach Trophy Club. Unfortunately, the heavy rain resulted in a number of accidents, turning Route 635, a 65 mile-an-hour freeway, into a creep and crawl parking lot. It took an additional two hours and 15 minutes before we were able to pull into our driveway.

Our route home takes us past two small towns, the names of which always make me smile. In Virginia, we go past the hamlet of Scratch Gravel. In Tennessee, we pass the tiny town of Bucksnort. After passing these signposts, Trophy Club, Texas, does not seem to be such a weird name after all.

Once home, I was faced with the job of putting away all of the fly fishing gear, books and fly tying material that I lug back and forth each year. Over the years I have amassed an amazing amount of “stuff,” that I deem indispensable no matter where I am. Fly fishers as a group, seem to be world class, champion pack rats. Here in Texas, I have an entire room for my “stuff.” In that room I have crammed eight bookcases, one closet and the interior shelves of a grandfather’s clock. Nevertheless, it takes a great deal of ingenuity to have everything neatly stored away in this space. Last year, it became necessary to store a number of magazine files in our master bedroom closet. I thought I could get away with this by placing them somewhat out of sight underneath where my pants and shirts hang. Barb eventually became aware of this bit of sneakiness on my part.

Her howls of outrage would have done justice to a Comanche raiding party. I was forced to swear on the blood of my first born that any future “leakage” out of my fly-fishing room would be consigned to the attic. How could the woman I love be so heartless?

Now, I am faced with keeping a solemn promise that I made in front of the Graham brothers just before we left for home. I swore that all of our fishing gear, rods, reels, fly lines, fishing shirts and vests would be inspected and maintained, ready to be used the day we returned to the cabin. I also made some noise, as usual, that I would tie at least three gross of flies while down in Texas. Thus it would not be necessary to waste time that could be spent fishing, tying the needed flies while at the cabin. When they heard this, the Grahams and Barbara Ann were convulsed with laughter. They had heard this promise for the last four years and each year I failed to follow through. This year will be different. By April, I will be able to report in this column that the deed has been done. So help me.... Hmmm, perhaps I should not invoke HIS name in this matter. Stay tuned.