Spare The Rod by Mike Wilhelm When I was in my twenties, my Aunt Geneva gave me a fly rod.  It had belonged to her husband, my Uncle Raymond, before he passed away.  I have no idea how old it was or how long he had owned it.  The case was well worn and was coming apart at the seams.  The cloth sock containing the rod was dry rotting.  Some of the thread wrapping on the rod was unraveling.  The cork handle was dark stained and worn.  There was no reel.  I thanked her, took it home and put it in a closet for a while before eventually deciding it was of no value and disposing of it.  At that time, I was a bait casting, lure chunker having no knowledge of or appreciation for fly fishing.  (Ignorance is my only excuse) Actually, I have fond memories of times spent with Uncle Raymond who was an avid fisherman and outdoorsman.  In my childhood years, he had taken me fishing several times.  Those were great times and we had a lot of fun.  He had no children of his own so he took me under wing, a most difficult challenge.  One thing you have to know is Uncle Raymond loved to drink beer almost as much as he loved to fish.  Bream, bass and crappie were his prey and the more he drank, the more fish he caught.  He was very good at it.  I marveled at how he eased his line into the most difficult places.  The brush piles and logjams (which looked impenetrable) produced hand-sized bullhead bream and slab black crappie (which I still admire as a most beautiful fish).  Of course, Uncle Raymond accomplished this with a fishing pole in one hand, a sculling paddle in the other and a Falstaff between his knees.  The cooler at his feet served the dual purpose of holding the fish we caught and keeping his beer cold.  After a reasonable number of fish were caught and a sufficient amount of beer consumed (by him, not me), we would return to his house to clean the fish and prepare for the feast to come.   After chastising Uncle Raymond for drinking too much, my aunt would cook the fish for supper.   She had done this many times in a big cast iron pot reserved just for this purpose.  The fish, hushpuppies and fixin's were delicious though my arteries clog up at just the thought of the lard used to fry them up.  It was a fine reward for a good day on the lake.  (And a fine memory) So after all these years, I began thinking about that fly rod.  My uncle was a man of modest means so the rod likely had little monetary value.  It was likely a cheap rod he picked up somewhere along the way.  Since there was no reel, he probably never actually fly fished.  In fact, he may have used it like a crappie pole.  Nonetheless, I wish now I had kept it.  I could have had it refinished or just put on the wall as a remembrance.  I could have passed it on to my son, daughter or grandchildren.  In any event, it would have been nice to hold, reminisce and admire while holding a cold beer between my knees.  How many of us look back longingly at items we have scorned in the past?  Seems a shame now, doesn't it?  Maybe the lesson learned will help someone else in the future.  A real treasure doesn't have to be gold or jewels to be of great value.  Personal value is assessed in the heart.   Hatches Magazine Subscription Price: $6.95 for each issue The Premiere issue is ready for shipping & the Fall 2008 issue will be available September 1st.