Nobody's Fool Y'all

2

There were dusty cobwebs everywhere, but that did little to dampen the wave of emotion that rushed over her. Several fly rods were fastened to the ceiling of the shed. Harry's waders hung from pegs along the wall. Everything was neat and organized, just as Harry liked it.

A table full of spools, tools, a magnifying light, hooks, and feathers sat on a worktable in the center of the floor. A tall stool was positioned before the table in the exact spot where Harry had sat. The walls were lined with shelves of plastic tackle boxes full of handcrafted flies that Harry had lovingly tied.

In the corner was a hat stand where a vest and a light-green fishing hat decorated with flies of all colors hung. There were at least twenty of his creations hooked to that old thing.

She found a little step stool and climbed up. She wrestled a fly rod down from its perch in the ceiling and achooed a couple of times. Dust motes swirled around her, and she batted at an old mud dauber's nest glued to a nearby two-by-four. 

It didn't budge. 

She moved to Harry's work table. She tied one of his flies to the end of the line. She decided she would start practicing her casting technique immediately out in the yard. The videos on the Internet made it all look like child's play. Easy peasy. Nothing to it.

She went outside to practice casting. Her first attempts were nothing to write home about.

"A lot harder than it looks, Cooter Brown," she muttered. "At this rate, I'll be munching peanut butter crackers and watching Hobie reel them in! Ugh! That was awful! I need more practice."

She had been working for over an hour, trying to get the feel of the play in the rod and attempting to hone her skills at landing the little fly exactly where she wanted. But like most folks new at anything, Hadley stank. She screwed up her face.

"You got another thought coming, little bugger, if you think you're going to beat me," she said to the cute little feathery beauty at the end of her line.

She planted her feet and cast with all her might.

"Ayyy!" she yelped.

The fly landed squarely in the back of her head. Shocked, she followed her first impulse and jerked the rod as hard as she could.

"Yikes!"

It hurt like all get out.

"Well, this is about as good as a sharp stick in the eye!"

It was a badly fouled hook. She retreated to her bathroom, rod in hand and bleeding scalp. She cut the line and disengaged herself from the fishing pole. She dug out her first-aid kit and began to survey the damage. Her orange tabby, Onus, followed her, curious to see what his owner was doing. He jumped up onto the toilet seat for a better look.

"You better be glad I closed that lid, Big Boy! Or you would be taking a dip in the great cerulean blue pool right about now. Somehow, I don't think you and the bowl cleaner would get along too well, though. The color clashes with your coat."

Onus just looked at her, eyes half-closed. He was clearly unimpressed at her feeble attempts at humor. Did she think he would jump without looking first! Utterly absurd!

At least, that's what the look in his eyes implied. Hadley bent closer to the mirror. At least, the light was good.

"Look at me! I look like the losing side of a jailhouse brawl. I'm a mess."

She dabbed at her scalp, sucking in air and hissing with each touch.

"Hurts like the dickens. Well, Onus. I've put this off for as long as I can. Nothing to do but dive in and survey the damage. Hmm. Ugly as a mud fence. I really snagged that thing in deep."

The next several minutes were spent in front of the bathroom mirror contorting and bending and looking and pulling and trying to get the hook out of her scalp. It was a lot harder to do than it looked, for she was working with the backward image of her reflection. Finally, in desperation, she gave the hook a jerk, and it was free. As she expected, her scalp wound bled profusely.

"I wonder if a tourniquet would do the trick," she remarked to Onus.

That cat was no help. He just yawned and stared at her like she'd sprouted a second nose. He yawned at her, exposing his pearly white fangs.

"I was only joking, old rascal," Hadley said. "Lighten up. I'm the one hemorrhaging over here."

Surveying the damage in the mirror, she muttered, "Doesn't look like I took out too much skin or hair. What do you think Onus? Not a big enough bald spot for a toupee but maybe a nice comb-over might hide the damage?"

"Meeeoooow," Onus replied.

"Yeah, you're probably right. I think I'll just go with the bandaged look. It will garner more sympathy. And maybe, I'll wear one of Harry's old hats from now on whenever I carry a loaded fishing rod in my hands."

Onus turned his back on her and started licking himself. The show was over.

She cleaned up the wound and covered it with a dry dressing. It was time to go back outside to work on her technique some more. Perseverance and practice were the only ways she was going to learn. She popped a couple of aspirin to calm the pounding in her head, flopped on Harry's old fishing hat, and went back outside. Flick and reel. Flick and reel. About as exciting as watching mud dry.

Tired of yard casting, Hadley decided to pack some waders and a pole and head out to a real stream. She wanted to snag something besides her scalp or the overhanging branches in the yard.

"I need to try for the big one," she muttered. "My luck's gotta change for the better after this morning."

She wanted a nice, big fish on the end of a hook to give her a story to impress Hobie, and she knew just the spot that offered her the prospect of a prize-winning catch.