Reeling

Last summer,
when my pal Alex was around
and the days were just like today

with long angled rays of sun
beating through the blanket of humidity
leaves on the spaghetti squash wilting in the afternoon blaze
artists puddling even in the air conditioned studio

I would hear a gentle ring of the hanging bell at the kitchen door
and there would be my Zen master.

Bronzed and bare chested
taught teenage muscles glistening
shorts and shoes dripping from the creek
lure of the day clipped smartly to the rod of the day
eyes sparkling and eyebrows arching with new stories
and always, that clever and confident smile.

When he stays with his Dad and Grandmother
Alex lives in the house down the lane
where my buddy Burnell used to live.
The ferns that Burnell loved are now sheltering sweetly ranging chickens
and their broods, and the garden he used to tend, on the hill up back
is now a network of corrals and barns for rescued horses…but I’m guessing
the odd sprig of Burnell’s mother’s rhubarb might still shoot up between the fences.

I wrote a while ago about how Burnell and his neighbor Russ used to sit
on a slab of a bench up by the rhubarb patch and solve all the problems of the world.
Hours on end they kept company, with barely a word between them.

Not so with my pal Alex and me.
We carry on like those chickens.

A pair of curious minds
with that summer porch rocking kind of time
and a world of topics to explore
adventures to listen to
and things to learn from each other.

One day he brought me an old pill bottle
with two shiny and colorful fishing lures inside.
He carefully explained the special qualities of each
and how they were designed to move differently in the water
and be particularly attractive to certain fish.

He’s responsible for the new batch
of old bamboo rods that kept arriving last year from Ebay.
And the boxes of those magical old brass reels
which have the perfectly pitched click…click…click.
So satisfying…one of his favorite expressions.

So, in the depths of this last winter
on one of those days which are the polar opposite of today
when I had set the Muses to the task of choosing props for a new teacup painting
I reached for the thin aluminum tube
which holds the canvas wrapped South Bend 9 footer
clipped on the antique reel
just like he showed me
and opened his pill bottle.

I have forgotten everything he told me about that iridescent green lure
and, after fetching the reel from the kitchen table
to see if I could find it’s maker’s mark
I fell into a rabbit hole
and have been clicking it round and round and round
it really is so satisfying.

Alex visited the studio while I was painting this
and reviewed the positioning of rod and reel
I passed inspection and, while I could see it in his eyes
he kept his thoughts to Himself as to his lure taking pride of place.

So far this summer
my studio bell has been silent.
His wanderlust is taking him on new adventures
which my teacups will be excited to overhear.

But my fly rod, Sister Bean, has lost her tippet
and I’ve got that book I want to tell him about
and, as it turns out, we just plain miss him.

Wherever you are pal…
May the trout be with you.