Welcome to Just Old Flies

Welcome to 'just old flies,' a section of methods and flies that used-to-be. These flies were tied with the only materials available. Long before the advent of 'modern' tying materials, they were created and improved upon at a far slower pace than todays modern counterparts; limited by materials available and the tiers imagination.

Once long gone, there existed a 'fraternity' of anglers who felt an obligation to use only the 'standard' patterns of the day. We hope to bring a bit of nostalgia to these pages and to you. And sometimes what you find here will not always be about fishing. Perhaps you will enjoy them. Perhaps you will fish the flies. Perhaps . .


Part Thirty-five

Reflections

By Old Rupe


Of Whiffles and Truffles and fanciful things
There's born a love which maturity brings
Of Earth and Rocks and Rivers and such
Without which life wouldn't matter--------Much

Reflections-quoted by permission-
from The View From My Back Porch by T. Foster

Love doesn't happen at once. A new rod is never loved, it may be appreciated, but it takes forty years with that fine old rod to really love it.

A river is never loved after it has only been waded a few times. That river has to be waded year after year in all its seasons, often enough so that there are few secrets or surprises left to discover. A person almost has to become 'one' with the river to love it. Real love requires a person to grow old with the object of his affections.

Love doesn't happen from a distance. One has to rub against the object; handle the rod, wade the river, walk in the forest, kiss the girl. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt, it breeds love. One really loves only those thing which he has had an almost daily contact with. Be careful what you handle, you may end up hopelessly in love with it.

Love has to be constant. It has to be there year after year. It has to be counted on. That hatch that each year is so desperately awaited can't fail us, at least many times, for who is so strong that he can suffer disappointment after disappointment. The consistency has to be so strong that it's really never questioned. Like a good marriage the question can never be there.

One is stingy with those things he loves. I will loan my high tech rods but not my old Scientific Angler System 6. In fact I don't even travel with it. Emotionally it would be a hard loss to swallow. Rarely do I show the places I love to others, as their presence may diminish it in my eyes. Love is a very private thing, too precious to loose.

With love comes loss. Nothing is constant. Those things we love sometimes just are not forever. The rod breaks, the forest is diminished, the river suffers, the wife leaves. Maybe that is why in our later years we try to preserve those things we love, knowing that their loss is inevitable but still trying to maintain the consistency we depended on for the last decades of our life. Who wants to be left alone without the things he loved?

Everyone cries about his loss, and each in his own way is probably sincere. I wonder about those who failed to protect those things they loved, and yet decry their loss. Maybe they just never loved those things enough. With love comes commitment, not just for the short term but for the long haul.

I don't think I have ever heard loss expressed better than Fosters comments on the loss of a love.

For she's gone and never coming back
and that fact
makes the brightest winters day
black

Guard those things of Earth and Stone and Rivers well and maybe you will never feel such a sense of loss. ~ Old Rupe

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