Of Patience and Hope

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We have just finished a wonderful Spring Break together here in the mountains. Captain and I always love when you visit…it certainly increases the energy level around here! For sure, one of the highlights of the week was the fly-fishing adventure that Captain and Boo enjoyed on the Elk River down in the valley between Sugar and Beech Mountains. Although Boo, you caught more trout (three Browns, I believe—two native and one stocked), your excitement paled in comparison to that of Captain.

For the days leading up to the trip…and now in the aftermath…Captain has been like a kid making a list for Santa Claus. He’s constantly watching fly fishing videos, reading up on the streams in our area, and researching the best brand of waders to purchase. This is a resurrection in interest of sorts for him. Starting probably 30 years ago now, he joined a group of men—lead by your great Uncle Bryant—every May for a week of camping in the Pisgah National Forest at the base of Mount Mitchell and of fly fishing on the Toe River. It was a most highly anticipated annual event for Captain and the ritual continued consistently for twenty years until Bryant’s untimely death in 2000 at the age of 55.  

Some point along that way, I gave Captain a fly-tying kit with the thought that making his own flies might be fun. I’m not sure how much he used it back then, but for quite a few years now, it’s been either idly tucked away in storage boxes or nestled among other “keeping this on the possibility of using again” stuff in the closet. Today…in line with all the other focus on fishing…Captain retrieved the kit from the closet and opened it up to inventory the contents. Among the hooks, feathers, beads and other paraphernalia that go into making an enticing lure for any unsuspecting trout hiding out under a rock somewhere, he found a folded single sheet of paper. It appeared wrinkled and fading in color, with one corner slightly torn.

Having no recollection of what it could be, he opened the folds to find a tribute entitled “Elegy for Rev. Dr. SBK, Fisherman.” It was written to honor your Uncle Bryant by Hayes McNeill, one of his closest friends…and one of the regulars on the May camping trips. Bryant loved everything about fishing—the challenge, the solace, the commune with nature, the camaraderie of friends. I know that his spirit is eternally exuberant at the prospect that you, Boo, are fast becoming quite a fisherman yourself.  And so, I want to specifically share Hayes’ words with you. I think if you pay particular attention to the first sentence, you will be a better one.

Elegy for Rev. Dr. SBK, Fisherman

(1945-2000)

More than in trout or in bass, fishermen deal in patience and in hope. So maybe your afterlife is flycasting Heraclitus’ stream. Enveloped in a chill tumble of light and suspiration, you officiate in full regalia, hip-deep in a mossy nave as the sun lifts shafts of mist under vaulting dapple.

Or maybe your eternity is bass-fishing—a perpetual fall afternoon in which breezes riffle the green chocolate lake. You sit in the warm sun, becalmed and utterly as one with water, wind and sky; you drift ever farther from us…but always remain in sight.