Unintentionally One Fourth

I didn't mean to read the whole book.  I picked it up from the library yesterday afternoon.  I worked 9 hours, slept 8 hours, and went out to lunch with a friend. And I read the whole book.  Evidently, tempus fugit when you're reading a good book.
It wasn't on my list to read this month, but since I finished it (and the STP never returned the book I intended to read), I might as well count it. 

Time Is A River by Mary Alice Monroe

A two love story almost mystery novel wrapped around (believe it or not) fly fishing.  (that's not exactly the quote on the back of the book, but you get the idea) 
An short exerpt:

      He studied the river; then he pulled his pack of dry flies out from a vest pocket and opened it, revealing dozens of fuzzy flies of all sizes.  Maddie came closer to watch as he poked around the small compartments with his index finger, deliberating.
     "Look at all those.  How do you know which one to choose?"  Maddie asked.
     "Well, you--" he began.
     Mia interrupted him.  "You look at the river then you look at your flies then you poke around with your finger at the mess of flies in your pack, and then you just pick something small, brown, and fuzzy, give it a funny name like Mr. Big's Breakfast, and go for it."
      Maddie burst out laughing.
      Stuart lifted his sunglassed and met Mia's gaze.  They shared a silent, commiserating laugh.  He handed her a brown fuzzy fly.
     "Here you go.  Mr Big's Breakfast."

(Can't you just feel the tension here?  Doesn't the fly fishing innuendo make your cheeks flush?)

Some things this book made me want to do: 
1.  Fly fish with the STP.
2.  Fly fish with my sisters.
3.  Spend all summer in a cabin in the mountains.
4.  Tie some Woolie Buggers.
5.  Write a blog entry about the 'stories".
6.  Read The Four Seasons by this same author.
7.  Add the Latin phrase "Tempus fugit" to my vocabulary.

A Sparkle Dun Done

This is the fish-eye view of chapter 6--The Sparkle Dun. 

And this is the fish-eye view of my first attempt to tie a sparkle dun.

  I think the adptations I made will make this an excellent fly to use in heavy pocket water of mountain trout streams.  The loosely dubbed body will allow air to be trapped within the dubbing wraps and will aid floatation.  And the total lack of hackles will allow it to ride low on the water.  I plan to use it when I fish in less pressured wilderness streams. 
I am ready to move on to chapter 7, but first I need to locate a stripped goose biot. (I am not making this up.)  If you have an extra goose biot you are willing to send my way, I may be willing to strip it myself.  Just let me know.  Also, even though I have a hair stacker I (obviously) don't know how to use it.  And if you know what heavy pocket water looks like or what pressures a wilderness stream, I could use that information as well. 

Memories of Fishing

My sister took her kids (and her nutcracker(?)) fishing.  You can read about it here.  She tells them they go fishing "for the memories". And that makes me wonder why I have a fascination with fishing.  And I'm wondering if 'creating' memories is a good thing or not. 
When I was a young mother (read: a young women with young children) I did a lot of things with my kids. The problem with this, which I discovered much later, is that they have no memories of me as a young mother.  And moreover, they have very few memories of their own young lives. And another problem is that I have very little control over their memories. I once orchestrated a trip through New England, which included the Statue of Liberty, whale watching off of Cape Cod, and star-gazing at Acadia National Park, not to mention learning the shapes, names, and capitals of each of the New England states.  Along the way we took a few pictures, and had a very good time.  (I have precious memories of this trip.)  After the trip, when asked, they could recite and recognize all the states and capitals.  And when asked, they declared their favorite part of the whole trip  (which included eating lobster, catching hermit crabs, and Mystic Seaport Aquarium) was the day I did laundry and their Dad played with them at the playground. 
Today, they have no memories of this trip at all. 
What they do remember is the vacation I took them on to Williamsburg, Virginia which included 125 degree weather, lemonade without ice, a closed wigmaker's shop, vending machine candy for supper, watching junk yard wars on TV, and the fact that we DID NOT go to a water park or see fireworks on the 4th of July.  I was a middle aged woman, and they were middle-schoolers. (If we took any pictures on this trip, I'm pretty sure we never printed them.) 
I have memories of fishing with my Dad.  Once. They include walking a long way--through the woods with a troup of brothers, sisters, and maybe cousins.  A stream that is about a foot or a foot and a half wide.  I don't remember holding a pole, or seeing a fish.  I don't remember it being a particularly good experience. 
So what I'm wondering is if my Dad remembers fishing with me.  If my brother remembers catching a fish or if my sister remembers fishing at all.  Is my desire to fish an attempt to recapture or create my own memories?  Does my sister take her kids fishing because she has good memories of fishing, or no memories of fishing?  Will her kids fish with her grandkids because they have good memories of fishing?  Or are they too old already and will remember that they hate putting worms on hooks and taking hooks out of fish mouths, not to mention the look and taste of fish? 
This year I will take my last child to the Grand Canyon.  To look at a big hole in the ground as he describes it.  He will read a book in the back seat and glance out the window occasionally.  I am an older, wiser mother who will not put a lot of pressure on him or on myself to have a memorable time.  The really nice thing about being an older woman, is that my memories won't last for long.