TR Bluegill to soothe the soul

That's the way dad wanted
it and I'm sure he's glad that I got to wet a line on the travel day.

--
Ken Fortenberry

My condolences. Well said.
Frank Reid

Condolences for your loss Ken.
Dave

"Ken Fortenberry" wrote in message
.com...
I stood by the bed at 4:08 Tuesday morning and watched my dad
take his last tortured

Ken Fortenberry

Ken, get yourself down here this Spring, and let me put you on some
beautiful scenery, trout, and thoughts.

Wishin' you pleasant thoughts about your time with your dad for the rest of
your days.

Op

Ken Fortenberry wrote:
I've been away from home goin' on two weeks so there's plenty
of things I should have done yesterday afternoon instead of
rigging up a fly rod and walking the hound over to the pond.
Like raking leaves for instance, gawd the yard's a mess.

But as soon as I'd hauled in the suitcases and cracked open a
beer I grabbed a fly rod and a leash and meandered on over to
the pond. Let the hound off leash to sniff his way around and
started tossing a little caddis into a stiff breeze. It wasn't
long before I tired of taking the little bluegill off the hook
and started casting to the unlikely spots so I wouldn't catch
a fish.

The physical act of casting a fine fly rod creates a rythym
in the body that can help the mind transcend consciousness for
a brief while and in that transcendence comes a comfort and a
soothing of the soul. That's my theory, anyway, and I was
casting a fine instrument indeed. I was using a little 6'6" 3wt
built of Tonkin cane on a Cattanach taper by Steve Zimmerman.
As fine a fly rod as the man who built it and for no good reason
gave it to me.

I'd always saved it for trout, wild, native trout, because I
thought bluegill fishing too vulgar for such a fine tool. But
yesterday I changed my mind. I needed to fish, my heart and soul
demanded it and there was only one fly rod that fit the occasion.

I stood by the bed at 4:08 Tuesday morning and watched my dad
take his last tortured breath and then spent Tuesday and Wednesday
doing the modern death dance with funeral directors, bankers,
insurance droids and other Alabama riffraff. Had a wake and a brief
Protestant service in Alabama Wednesday evening, flew back to
Chambana Thursday morning before I have to repeat the whole process
tonight and tomorrow in Illinois Catholic. That's the way dad wanted
it and I'm sure he's glad that I got to wet a line on the travel day.


Ken, my sorrow for you and yourn.... and my condolences.

I'm sure your little jaunt to the pond with a zimboo is what your
father would have wanted.

I raise my glass to your father and to your cherished memories of
him.

wally

"Frank Reid" moc.deepselbac@diersicnarf wrote in
:

That's the way dad wanted
it and I'm sure he's glad that I got to wet a line on the travel day.

--
Ken Fortenberry

As trite as it sounds by now Ken, I offer my condolences as well. My dad
passed away over 30 yrs ago and I still think of him at times when I'm on
the water.

Frank Church

On Fri, 21 Nov 2003 14:24:08 GMT, Ken Fortenberry
wrote:

[snipped]

That's the way dad wanted it and I'm sure he's glad that I got to wet a line on the travel day.

Condolences, Ken.

/daytripper (been there, had to work through that...)

Sorry to hear about your Dad, Ken. My condolences.

Steve

"Ken Fortenberry" wrote in message
.com...
I've been away from home goin' on two weeks so there's plenty
of things I should have done yesterday afternoon instead of
rigging up a fly rod and walking the hound over to the pond.
Like raking leaves for instance, gawd the yard's a mess.

But as soon as I'd hauled in the suitcases and cracked open a
beer I grabbed a fly rod and a leash and meandered on over to
the pond. Let the hound off leash to sniff his way around and
started tossing a little caddis into a stiff breeze. It wasn't
long before I tired of taking the little bluegill off the hook
and started casting to the unlikely spots so I wouldn't catch
a fish.

The physical act of casting a fine fly rod creates a rythym
in the body that can help the mind transcend consciousness for
a brief while and in that transcendence comes a comfort and a
soothing of the soul. That's my theory, anyway, and I was
casting a fine instrument indeed. I was using a little 6'6" 3wt
built of Tonkin cane on a Cattanach taper by Steve Zimmerman.
As fine a fly rod as the man who built it and for no good reason
gave it to me.

I'd always saved it for trout, wild, native trout, because I
thought bluegill fishing too vulgar for such a fine tool. But
yesterday I changed my mind. I needed to fish, my heart and soul
demanded it and there was only one fly rod that fit the occasion.

I stood by the bed at 4:08 Tuesday morning and watched my dad
take his last tortured breath and then spent Tuesday and Wednesday
doing the modern death dance with funeral directors, bankers,
insurance droids and other Alabama riffraff. Had a wake and a brief
Protestant service in Alabama Wednesday evening, flew back to
Chambana Thursday morning before I have to repeat the whole process
tonight and tomorrow in Illinois Catholic. That's the way dad wanted
it and I'm sure he's glad that I got to wet a line on the travel day.

--
Ken Fortenberry


Thank you for sharing the story.

May your father rest in peace.

John Coheley
Daphne, Alabama

"Johnshc2002" wrote


John Coheley
Daphne, Alabama

absolutely stunning name for a town.

wayno (and, of course, "daphne, new jersey" just would not even come
close...)

"Ken Fortenberry" wrote in message
.com...
I've been away from home goin' on two weeks so there's plenty
of things I should have done yesterday afternoon instead of
rigging up a fly rod and walking the hound over to the pond.
Like raking leaves for instance, gawd the yard's a mess.

//eloquence snipped --
Ken Fortenberry


Those who haven't yet had to face this situation, will. It's an eloquent
post, Ken, and reminds me once again of what's important in this life. Now
if I can figure out why I told my crew to leave at three today while I
stayed until six . . .

Thanks for posting. Come over to St Louis some time and let's entertain the
fish in the neighborhood.
Bob