Begging Your PatienceIt’s snowing out, and this blog is now ready for your reader’s comment. I won’t presume to tell you how to use it; rather I shall beat a retreat into cover and hope that your comments will not be as harsh as doubtless I deserve, Look at it if you will.
And bear with me as I try to get my bearings in this mode of publication. I scarcely know what to do with it. I would really like to maintain something of the four-times-a year quarterly publication of paper Bouldercreek Angler. But that may be hard to do. Still, I do not want and will not let it become a chatty, every day sort of account of what I presume to be of interest to you.
I want to show you pieces of writing that I have worked over, revising and rewriting them, until nothing casual or too heated is left. Just like the old paper gazette.
Being expert at being old, as I claim to be, probably ought to include knowing when it’s time to shut up….
In any case, let me work on it a while. It must have a discipline.
I’m told that if you subscribe to the blog, you will somehow be notified when something new is posted. ~~~
As the snow keeps coming on, let me tell you that a few days ago an old friend sent me an old copy of an old issue of Gray’s Sporting Journal for April/May,1976-- an issue in which I had an essay on catch and release. That was thirty-one years ago. I thought that anglers were not looking hard enough at the ideology of no-kill, and so I should do it for them. As I re-read the essay now, it sounds all right, but the penultimate sentence caught me: pretty much what I believe today, and it’s in connection with my proposal of a sixth, The New Period, in American fly fishing.
Here’s that sentence: “Now let us go a-stream more like our fathers-- individual, unself-conscious, unreconstructed, and quiet with our streamcraft and our love more important than our equipage and image.” But how, I wonder, can I both blog and, at the same time, in Walton’s use of Scripture, study to be quiet….?
It’s snowing now, those great, beautiful, sloppy spring flakes. For us Westerners they fill the air with promise-- and are superbly quiet.