By Charles Raymond Hills
Christmas in my childhood was a simple celebration. My father worked until midday when he closed his gas station and came home. My mother, forever in her apron, spent time in the kitchen fixing our dinner while he cleaned up. Other than Thanksgiving, this was our other ‘big’ holiday meal – a smallish ham, her mother’s recipe for scalloped potatoes, green beans and the traditional mincemeat pie. Living in a small town, far away from grandparents, aunts and uncles, we celebrated Christmas alone. From the kitchen table where we ate in the early evening, I could see the simply decorated fir tree, and the few wrapped presents.
After dinner the three of us ate our pie in the living room seated on the old couch, warmed by an oil heater set against the wall as there was no fireplace in our post-World War Two home which backed up to the railroad tracks. Dessert finished, my father would say those words I anxiously looked forward to, “It’s time to open the presents. Your mother first.”
Unwrapping the present carefully, smoothing the paper as if it could be reused, she would see the new bathrobe her husband bought her each year from Sears. She’d comment how lovely it was, and how the color was her favorite, a robin’s egg blue. She’d hold it up then kiss him, saying thank you for the gift that replaced the one she got the year before. He would open his present which held two new pairs of socks and a small bottle of aftershave, exclaiming it was his favorite scent, then lean over and give mom a hug.
Finally, it was my turn.
With my present on my lap, I tore into the paper to find a large wool sweater.
“Just the thing to keep you warm this winter,” my mother explained. “You’ll grow into it.” My father nodded his approval. But they could both see the disappointed look on my face I tried to hide. I had hoped for something else.
I was remembering standing in front of Newbert’s Hardware store, near my father’s gas station, where I would gaze into the window when I walked home from school and imagine holding the flyfishing rod displayed there. I saw myself accompanying dad to fish for rainbow trout. In those thoughts I was no longer just standing next to him as he hooked them, watching the trout burst from the water in a dance of silvery spray. I was casting alongside him as well. It was my fondest dream.
“Son, . ..” I heard him say, “I see there’s one more present.”
I looked from him to my mother as she nodded, saying, “I believe it’s for you, Charles.”
From behind the Christmas tree, my father pulled out another package. It was long and narrow in shape, wrapped in brown paper with a red bow taped to it. Below the bow there was a card that read, ‘To a new angler, from Santa.’
Filled with apprehension and hope, I took my time finding the scotch-taped corner of the paper to slowly peel it back. Inside was the fly rod I had been dreaming about – a three piece, four weight wand to cast tight, magical loops in the air that floated down to the surface of flowing water. Holding the fly rod in my hands, still unassembled, I cried with joy and appreciation I didn’t know how to express. There were no words. Only tears running down my cheeks as I clutched to my chest the realization of dreams to come.
It’s been decades since Christmas, 1948. Both my parents are gone now and I am old. Nevertheless, every holiday season I think of that moment when I received my first fly rod. And I feel love and gratitude in my heart for parents who recognized their son’s yearning for a simple three-piece, four-weight. One which initiated a journey that continues to this day.
So, to fly anglers who cast onto the glint of sunshine on bright water and hear the music of the current in the river, I wish a Merry Christmas to All, and to All, ‘Tight lines.’
