This poem appeared in Gray's Sporting Journal, "The Fly Fishing Book,"
in February 1997. The incident it treats occurred 55 summers ago. And,
no, that doesn't seem like yesterday. The Lloyd of the poem was at the
time my closest friend. He died twenty years later while still in his early
forties. The poem, however, wasn't meant as an elegy but as a comedy
evoking the way things were, in something of the spirit of medieval
shepherds' plays which favored a mix of the secular and the religious and
which got me thinking of this "modern" version. But don't worry. It wasn't
intended to make a convert of you either, just to encourage you to keep
fly fishing bamboo even when circumstances make it difficult. If you do
that, you will honor my friend and fishing partner Lloyd.
I have posted it in the past when taking various leaves from the forum, but
thought I'd give it this last airing before putting it away once and for all
with other bamboo fly rod fishing memorabilia.
In case you wondered, the rod Lloyd had under the tarp was a Heddon
#17 8' Featherweight, a gift from his stepfather. Stepfathers, despite the
conventional bad rap, can be very decent guys. His was. We were both
blue-collar at the time. But neither of us thought the rod was.
--Bill
