“Warms up mighty early this time o’ year” the voice said to me one predawn August morning this past summer. “Ye otta git yer carcass outta bed and on the water ‘fore it does” he chided. (The fishing gods that propel me to do as I do, the voices I hear, are always masculine.) This one had a southern, sort of backwoods, tenor to it. The sort you might have expected to hear in this part of Virginia three or four generations ago.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” I silently replied so I wouldn’t disturb my wife sleeping next to me.

“Well the bass won’t wait forever. You need to get ‘em while the gettin’s good.”

“I know, I know.” I muttered as my feet hit the floor “let up a little”.

“You gonna use it today” he asked,” or you gonna chicken out again?”

“Probably take the five weight” I replied.

“Oh fer Pete’s sake, you ain’t never gonna use it are ye? Puucck, puucck, here chicky chicky!

This last part of the silent conversation took place on my way to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee to take with me (us). He’d been asking about the William Read bamboo rod that had been sitting in its case in the garage since early spring. Not that I didn’t want to use it. I just thought it might be too old and fragile, though it certainly seemed to be in excellent condition considering its age.

William Read and Sons had been a firearms manufacturer in Boston, Massachusetts in the 1800’s that also made fishing rods and possibly golf clubs. That meant that the ten foot, three section, beauty resting in her case was over a hundred years old, the scarlet windings were tight, the ferrules in tact and solid on the amber cane. I yearned to fish her (I view all my rods, regardless of any name upon them, as feminine. My love affair with each of them requires this.) but every time I determined to do so, I relented at the last moment for fear of damaging her. This morning, however, I recalled the promise I’d made to the man from whom I’d obtained her.