A Letter from Father McAllister

3 September 2002

Dear Bishop Hackle,

I suppose we'll have to respond to the rest home administrators in some conciliatory manner, assuring them I'll never again encourage their elderly toward "socially disruptive behavior." Yet, my dear bishop, we should also emphasize that I broke no house rules whatsoever, especially since the handbook for residents does not specifically prohibit "the sheer lunacy of angling in water obviously intended for non-recreational purposes."

Furthermore, I did not corrupt all the ancients by my bad example. That charge is blatantly false and ought to be vigorously challenged. Tossing terrestrials to the facility's finned fauna included participation by barely a handful. Only four gentlemen pulled the telescopic antennas off their boom boxes to fashion a dapping rod of sorts--a truly admirable display of creativity for which I can take neither credit nor blame. Moreover, only one person--with whom you may be intimately acquainted--actually dropped a line. Thus, at most, I'm guilty of mentioning a serviceable pattern and demonstrating its proper use. Otherwise, innocence clings to me like the plastic wrap of righteousness.

Oh, alright, Harry, here's the whole truth as honestly as I can tell it. My weekly visitation schedule includes Thursday evenings at The Sunnydale Home for Seniors, where I see a certain Mr. Kane and his cronies. Customarily, as the sun sets, we stroll around an expansive garden area whose centerpiece happens to be an artistically designed koi pond. Usually our chatting ranges from Scripture to strike indicators, with the former being far more prominent. However, fly fishing does dominate the conversation occasionally, stimulated no doubt by outdated magazines brought for everybody's perusal after I leave. Coincidentally, two weeks ago, three such periodicals included detailed articles on casting for carp. Behold the insidious nature of literature!

Koi: are they magnum goldfish or miniature carp? Apparently, if you're an institutionally enslaved fogey the game fish alternative presents a truly tantalizing possibility. So thought Henry Kane who asked me, "hypothetically speaking, of course," if a person wanted to catch those scaly creatures without getting caught himself, how could it be done? Playing along I explained a method of dapping involving low visibility roll-casting. Mr. Kane thought of using the collapsible radio antenna for a rod since it could be shortened for greater secrecy, completely hidden if necessary. Why not a trench coat for added concealment? "Too obvious," he said. "But an umbrella might do nicely. Hell, you can hide tons of crap in a jumbo version. Last month, yes sir, I smuggled Calvin's Institutes, a bottle of brandy and a weed whacker right into my quarters via one of them giant golf jobbies." He wasn't joking and there are some questions preachers probably shouldn't ask. I then proposed a hackle-trimmed brown foam ant to match the daily feed pellet hatch. "Damn fine idea," he shouted. When, oh when, will I learn to keep quiet?

Well, Harry, the internet never ceases to bewilder me. Though porno blocking protects the dirty old men of Sunnydale from self inflicted heart attacks, nothing prevents free access to the fantasy of flyrodding. Sure, the day room computer won't respond to requests for sexual content, yet a search for fly rods, fly reels, fly lines or just plain flies is guaranteed to net a staggering number of equally salacious web sites. When Kane realized a mere click on the keyboard could secure everything necessary for his little adventure, he went nuts. Credit card or check: which option do you prefer, sir? He opted for a money order instead. Had the goods mailed to, and delivered by, a relative whose name he temporarily borrowed for the purchase. When questioned, he mumbled something about limited traceability, minimal collateral damage and the value of paranoia. Did I mention the man is a retired FBI agent?

Ominous vibrations rarely afflict my life, but last Thursday's visit was preceded by an acute feeling of apprehension. Dark sensations suggested I was about to step into a seriously deep pile of doo-doo. Indeed trouble came quickly, like ten seconds after rendezvousing with Kane and his comrades. "Reverend, we're going fishing," he said. Accompanying him were three other codgers, each carrying a big umbrella and wearing baggy sweatpants. "We're naked underneath," they said. How come? Don't know, Harry, didn't ask.

I should have promptly left or demanded the whole affair be called off immediately. However, koi on "light tackle" seemed far too intriguing to ignore. Therefore, the five of us--a trio of sans underwear geezers, Henry and yours truly--shuffled our way over to the garden pond. Enroute we providentially crossed paths with a woman in a wheel chair who fired off the foulest burst of flatulence imaginable, then screamed, "Repent ya stinking sinners. The stench of evil covers ya'all." Given the prevailing circumstances I couldn't have agreed more.

The first cast belonged to me since previously I had been chosen to show the way. A remarkably beautiful fish, surely the prettiest of the pod, sucked the foam ant from the surface as neatly as a trout. Koi are not jumpers; naturally, I tied into the singular exception of the entire species. The final leap of the fight was a killer . . . quite literally. The stupid fish grazed its fat bulbous head along the rough edge of a rock protruding above the waterline--and died. "Ya reap what ya sow, suckers:" the wheelchair lady had rolled up behind us undetected. What else could I do, I had to report us before she did.

The rest home officials were incredulous, but not nearly enough. Now the matter sits squarely upon your lap, my dear bishop. After I humbly repent in sackcloth and ashes, if you're interested, I can take you to a particular pet store in Agawam--after hours. Bring your own antenna, please.

Sincerely,