First cast

Here’s a Christmas memory from long, long ago. This picture is from Stanford Avenue, near the turnoff to LSU. The area looks much different, now. The road is a 4- laned highway instead of gravel, there are large buildings to my back, and this is now a park with landfill, parking lots, lights. sidewalks, etc. But I stood at this spot on the lake a half- century ago and made my first cast with the brand- new, shiny, big- boy fly rod that Santa had brought me. We had hit the floor early that Christmas morning and I begged and badgered and dragged Daddy across town to try my new rod. Patient and proud, he brought me, and I’m sure it was against his better judgment. I hopped out of the warm car and the northwest wind was howling, across the lake, into my face. We rigged up, and I cast, quartering to the wind. The water was unusually clear for that shallow lake. Despite the wind- rippled surface, I could see my brand- new, shiny, hand- tied- in- India trout fly working beneath the surface. Of course, there were no fish. And I only lasted for a few casts in that miserable weather. But, wow, this was my very own fly rod. I had played a few fish and learned some rudimentary casting technique on my dad’s rod, but it ain’t the same. Much has changed since that distant Christmas, but those memories remain sharp; I’ve made many casts since then. Thanks, Daddy.