April 1, 2000
Dear Duane,
What can I say, old friend, two years have past since I last penned a letter with you in mind and thus, by my own negligence, I have placed myself in dire need of your mercy. Therefore, I plead for pardon knowing full well it will be given generously.
Much has transpired between 98 and now, most of which is hardly worth mentioning. However, and this you will find immensely intriguing, I fled Roman Catholicism, found refuge of sorts in the Episcopal communion, and married a women I caught off the west bank of the Swift River.
It seems our mutual friend, the insidious Mr. Fuller, took it upon himself to tinker with my theology by gifting me with several books by an old Anglican bishop named J.C. Ryle. Ryle's stuff is not the sort of literature I would have normally embraced. After all, I was a Catholic cleric at the time and, despite his Anglicism, Ryle was simply too Reformational for my taste. Nevertheless, I felt obligated to Mr. Fuller and pledged to read the volumes from cover to cover.
Surprisingly, I found Ryle to be a most able writer, profound in content, but so simple in style that any reader could run from word to word and never miss a step. Nevertheless, despite the readability of Ryle and his undeniable depth of thinking, the man's evangelical loyalty was highly irritating. His constant appeal was to the authority of Scripture, never to any Church Father or ecclesiastical dogma.
Page after page, chapter after chapter, book after book the good bishop pointed me to the Christ alone as the only mediator between God and man. No Mass, no Mary, no sacrament, no priest and no Pope could ever effect the necessary reconciliation between a holy God and a sinful humanity. My training and tradition positioned me against the truth for the longest time. I fought and fought with the bishop, but the battle was one I never had the slightest chance of winning. Let me tell you something, Duane: when Scripture seeps deep into a man's soul, his religious reasoning is doomed. Jesus is the Redeemer, not religion. Ryle's arguments were scriptural and, therefore, irrefutable.
Well, my friend, once a Catholic priest declares Christ to be the Savior, Jesus only, no one and nothing else, not many Sundays pass before he finds it needful to consider another place for pastoral ministry. Mr. Fuller would say there is not much difference between the Catholic and Episcopal Churches, and he would be wrong. Regardless of the many similarities, there are profound differences. If you do not mind, though, I would like save that discussion for another letter. The Episcopalians took me in readily and now I minister to a congregation in North Adams, a small hill town dangerously close to the Deerfield River.
Speaking of rivers, early last year I stumbled into a fish laden stretch of water in Great Barrington and the very first trout to be seduced by my Wooly Bugger was a monster brown, probably weighing close to five pounds. Fly fishing is not supposed to be a spectator sport but, as providence would have it, that day I had a small audience. The trout put on a show by coming out of the water more than a brown usually does, I put on a show by not losing the fish, and the crowd of three bait fishermen went wild. Congratulations quickly turned to cursings, however, when I gently released the big brown back into the river. When will fishermen understand that every trout they put back into the water today is a trout they may catch again tomorrow? Certainly, I am not opposed to keeping a few fish fish now and then, but the state's daily creel limit is just way too high. Conservation, common sense and, most of all, conscience ought to inform every fisherman as to how many fish he should put in the frying pan per month, not per day. Unfortunately, common sense, conservation and conscience are rarer than Atlantic Salmon in the Connecticut River.
Well, Duane, as I sit here typing this terribly long letter I am caressing the warm wood of a Hagley estate pipe. Recently, I ordered a fairly large Oom-Paul from him, dirt cheap, decent condition, and it smokes extremely well. This is a piece of briar you would dearly love to own. Too bad I got it and not you, eh? Generally, I blend my own pipe tobacco and will continue to do so, but lately I have been experimenting with a variety of tinned tobaccos. So, at this very moment, I am smoking something called IRISH OAK, distributed by Peterson. The blurb on the tin says, "A rich blend of Cavendish, Zimbabwean Orange, Thailand Burley and Black Perique, matured in Oak Sherry barrels." I like this tobacco and suggest you try it. For the ultimate Celtic smoking experience pack a bowlful in that full-bent Peterson of yours, park yourself in a cemetery on some rainy morning, and puff away in delightful misery.
Did I mention I am married? Well, I am. Her name is Sharon and I literally hooked her with an errant backcast while fishing the Swift one Saturday morning in May of 98. Before I get into the story, let me light up my pipe again. Now, I am smoking one of Mr. Fuller's blends, a little heavy on the Latakia, just the way I like it. If Perry could write as well as he mixes tobacco he might find himself in a new career. He pounds out a fly fishing newsletter, a monthly ordeal called THE CHURCHWARDEN. What can I say, Duane, our friend is hardly a wordsmith. Forgive me for being unkind, but I think people read Perry's newsletter only because they feel sorry for him.
Anyway, I married this woman named Sharon whom I accidently hooked with a Muddler Minnow. The Muddler was embedded in her left breast pocket, making its removal a spiritual matter indeed. All the while we were fiddling with the fly I kept looking down, lusting after her equipment, and boy this lady was equipped! She was carrying one of the finest pieces of Thomas & Thomas bamboo I have ever seen. I fell in love immediately.
Yes, she is a Christian.
In October of 98 Sharon and I were united in holy matrimony, the Sunday right after the opening day of pheasant season.
Our marriage is a little strange, I think. We fight as all newlyweds are prone to do, but our bickering is not about the normal stuff such as sex, money and household responsibilities. Not at all. Our arguments revolve around fishing. Supposedly, we only go to my streams and not hers. Sharon is a dry fly purist, I tend to drift nymphs a lot. Her way is better. Just ask her. Yet, despite our differences, we fish well together. And I do mean, together. I cannot throw a flyrod into the trunk of the car without finding her rod already there. If I am mid-stream she is always one pool above or below me. Now, Duane, I am not quite sure this is what the Lord meant when he said it is not good for man to be alone, but I am not complaining.
Sincerely,
