Early fly-fishing trip ends in the kitchen
"Look at this article," I told Cousin as we sat on Granny's porch one sunny spring morning in 1966.
He took the Field and Stream magazine and studied the pictures. "They're tying flies. We don't have trout here."
"We have bass. I think we could have some fun tying big ol' bass flies. Uncle Bill showed me how to cast them."
"Where are we going to fish? No one will take us out to the lake," Cousin argued, still looking at the pictures.
Knowing my limited casting abilities, I had just the solution. "The pool."
Also known as a stock tank, the muddy puddle about the size of a municipal swimming pool was always an option.
"It says here we need animal hair, large hooks, a vise, thread and hackles."
"We have all that right here," I said, excited.
"We have animal hair?" Cousin asked.
I pointed at the highway. "There's a dead squirrel right there, and I bet we can find something else between here and the creek if we need it."
"What's a hackle?" he asked.
"Feathers. They're the ones from around a rooster's neck."
"How do you know that?"
"I read the entire article instead of just looking at the pictures."
"You're not thinking about killing Granny's rooster, are you?"
We knew the repercussions could be painful. "Nope. We'll just catch him in the chicken house this evening, and while you hold him, I'll pull out a few hackles. We don't need many."
The plan was coming together. Cousin brought the magazine along as we trotted down to the highway. Most of the squirrel was flat, but the tail still had some fluff. I gingerly pulled on a few hairs, and the whole squirrel came off the concrete like a flattened cartoon character.
The smell washed over us, and I threw it back down. "They won't come out."
"Just a minute," Cousin said and ran back to the house while I guarded our squirrel. A car came by and mashed it a little flatter, but it didn't hurt the tail. Cousin returned with Granny's scissors. "Cut them with these."
We tailored the squirrel for a while, gathering a good supply of tail hair with some other parts thrown in for good measure. We had no idea what part of a squirrel would come in handy tying flies.
Cousin quietly returned the scissors to their proper place by the sewing machine. I put the hair on a plate and left it on Granny's table. Then we went looking for a tying vise. After digging in the smokehouse for an hour, we finally located the treasure.
"Huzzah!" Cousin shouted and held aloft a greasy, work vise. We carried it back inside and, using the handy turn screw on the bottom, affixed it to the kitchen table beside our other fly-tying materials which, other than the hair, included some of Granny's thread, a couple of sequins from her sewing room and a bottle of glue.
"There," I said. "This is starting to look like a fly-tying table."
"What's that smell?" he asked.
"Aged squirrel, but I bet the bass will like it."
"What next?"
I looked through the screen door. "There's the rooster by the chicken house right now. Let's get those hackles."
The wise, old bird fixed us with an evil black eye when we approached. To throw him off the track, I picked up a couple of discarded white feathers from the ground. Not buying the ruse, he ran inside through the small side door.
I slammed it shut, locking him inside. "All right! Now when I open the big door, you run in and grab him. Then I'll make sure the door is closed and when you get a good grip, I'll ...." I looked at the magazine and read outloud: "carefully stroke a few of the loose feathers from his neck."
Cousin rushed inside. Shocked that he agreed with the plan, I looked through a crack in the door as he chased the rooster across the fragrant floor 6 inches deep in chicken fertilizer. He made a running dive and grabbed the bird. The rooster immediately swelled to the size of a large turkey.
A beak slashed.
Screams.
Flashing rooster spurs.
Feathers fluttered.
Wings flapped.
Blood and hair flew.
Cousin hit the floor on his back. The rooster popped free like a fumbled football, resumed its original size and charged at me just as I opened the door.
The rooster escaped.
Cousin stood, wobbling a bit on his feet.
"I hope you got us some hackles," I said.
He held out a handful of neck feathers. I whooped with joy, started to slap him on the back and thought better of it. When we returned to the kitchen, we were met by irate parents.
Screams, feathers, hair flew ... you know the drill.
Later that evening, after a thorough scrubbing, we found our fly-tying materials had been burned.
"I think digging up worms might be easier," Cousin said, standing in the living room and rubbing his recently paddled rear end.
"It's your fault for using Granny's scissors," I accused, and used those same recently washed scissors to cut out the fly-fishing article for use at a later date.
You never know when you might want to start tying flies again.
Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is reaviswortham@att.net.
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