The Inheritance
A fictional amalgam...
I couldn't avoid the sadness in his rheumy eyes. Gnarled hands shook with tremors as he set out the gear.
I was at the old house in response to an ad in a previously owned newspaper that caught my eye at the car wash:"Miscellaneous fly fishing gear for sale". It never occurred to me people still placed ads in papers. I figured all the online options had cornered that market.
I couldn't recall the last time read the news like dad used to at the breakfast table. I crossed my leg and mimicked the old man popping the pages to get to the sports section and then the funny pages. It felt nostalgic reviving the ritual. My news comes on a tablet; cold and aloof. No ritual.
"My wife has been after me to get rid of this old stuff for months. I don't get out to fish anymore...this Parkinson's makes me too shaky to fight the current. I kept bank fishing for a while, but I don't drive so well anymore. My old fishing buddies have either kicked the bucket or can't remember their own name. It worries Martha when I go alone. I hate to have her worry, so I just up and quit."
He looked away.
" I planned to give this gear to give to my son someday, but we lost him in Iraq."
The pause that followed had me looking at my feet as he regained his composure.
He cleared his throat and continued.
"Finally decided it was time to get it in the hands of someone who would use it. All it does here is gather more dust."
I looked over a lifetime collection of old fly boxes, rods and reels. None of it expensive, but all solid functional and cared for. I spied a few brands and models I recognized...Fenwick Feralite, Shakespeare Wonderrod, and a few Pfluger Medalist reels, with cracked flyline still spooled on them. An old pair of Red Ball waders. I felt like I was spying through the front window at a stranger's life.
"We didn't have a fly shop in the area when I was younger. Bought most of this down at the hardware store. Some from Cabela's by mail order."
"How much would you take for the whole lot"?
"Could you do $100"?
"Let's make it $200 and a conditional sale. You keep one rod and reel and one box of flies for now. I will come get them when you are really done fishing. If you are free Saturday, let me pick you up and bring you to our farm pond. The shellcrackers are bedding and I need to thin some out. I might need a few pointers on casting these glass rods. All my other ones are graphite."
He thought a moment, then reached out the trembling gnarled hand and shouted to the house; "Martha, do we have any sweet tea for company?"
I couldn't avoid the sadness in his rheumy eyes. Gnarled hands shook with tremors as he set out the gear.
I was at the old house in response to an ad in a previously owned newspaper that caught my eye at the car wash:"Miscellaneous fly fishing gear for sale". It never occurred to me people still placed ads in papers. I figured all the online options had cornered that market.
I couldn't recall the last time read the news like dad used to at the breakfast table. I crossed my leg and mimicked the old man popping the pages to get to the sports section and then the funny pages. It felt nostalgic reviving the ritual. My news comes on a tablet; cold and aloof. No ritual.
"My wife has been after me to get rid of this old stuff for months. I don't get out to fish anymore...this Parkinson's makes me too shaky to fight the current. I kept bank fishing for a while, but I don't drive so well anymore. My old fishing buddies have either kicked the bucket or can't remember their own name. It worries Martha when I go alone. I hate to have her worry, so I just up and quit."
He looked away.
" I planned to give this gear to give to my son someday, but we lost him in Iraq."
The pause that followed had me looking at my feet as he regained his composure.
He cleared his throat and continued.
"Finally decided it was time to get it in the hands of someone who would use it. All it does here is gather more dust."
I looked over a lifetime collection of old fly boxes, rods and reels. None of it expensive, but all solid functional and cared for. I spied a few brands and models I recognized...Fenwick Feralite, Shakespeare Wonderrod, and a few Pfluger Medalist reels, with cracked flyline still spooled on them. An old pair of Red Ball waders. I felt like I was spying through the front window at a stranger's life.
"We didn't have a fly shop in the area when I was younger. Bought most of this down at the hardware store. Some from Cabela's by mail order."
"How much would you take for the whole lot"?
"Could you do $100"?
"Let's make it $200 and a conditional sale. You keep one rod and reel and one box of flies for now. I will come get them when you are really done fishing. If you are free Saturday, let me pick you up and bring you to our farm pond. The shellcrackers are bedding and I need to thin some out. I might need a few pointers on casting these glass rods. All my other ones are graphite."
He thought a moment, then reached out the trembling gnarled hand and shouted to the house; "Martha, do we have any sweet tea for company?"
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Jimbo