A number of years ago, I made a killing at a local sporting goods dealer’s warehouse sale; emerging heavily laden with boots, waders, a graphite rod, a smoker and scads of minuscule necessities.  Unfortunately, my wife Lucretia was there to greet me when I entered the house with the sundries in tow.

“What’ve you got there, Sir Isaac?” she questioned in that somber tone of hers I know so well.

“Boy, did I get a deal,” I raptured, hoping against hope my infectious enthusiasm would be contagious.

The furrow in her brow was now so deeply rutted one could plant a row of watermelon in the seams.  “The kid’s tuition at obedience school is due again, I need a new pair of aerobic warm-ups, the house has been targeted for demolition… and you’re gallivanting about, indulging your every whim with fishing ‘stuff.’”  Lucretia has a great vocabulary – yet every reference to my fishing gear is “stuff.”

“Okay, dear, it won’t happen again.  I’ll consult with you the next time I’m in the market for additional tackle.”  And at the time I really meant it.  But, a few months later, when I told her about a Hardy reel I could get for a song at the estate sale of one of my recently deceased fishing cronies, she shut me off with another of her Borgian frowns.  The situation repeated itself one more time when I had the opportunity to corner the market on wood duck flank feathers.

At that moment, I figured enough is enough.  I’ll be damned if I’ll go through an inquisition (something inherent in every Borgian’s make-up) every time I want to make a purchase.  So, I adopted a policy of what Lucretia doesn’t know, she shouldn’t know.  For the past decade I have handled these matters thusly.

My first move was to install an electrified door handle on my basement retreat and secure the same with a 12 combination digital lock.  The combination is the proof of my favorite bourbon multiplied by its age, plus my social security number in reverse, divided by my favorite flow in cubic-feet-per-second at Bowleg Creek.  I told her the door must remain locked at all times to prevent my larval samples from infesting the house.

With a secure place to stash my treasures away from family intrusion, I began a steady campaign of assemblage.  Toys are purchased for cash.  I don’t want any checkbook stubs or credit card billings to rat on me.  Merchandise is always transferred from the rear of my 4 x 4 (protected from prying eyes by heavily tinted windows) to the basement vault, under the cover of darkness when Lucretia is asleep.  The reverse of this procedure is employed when embarking on a fishing trip.  I load the Pathfinder around 2:00 A.M.  I am less worried about this reverse procedure; possession is nine tenths of the law.  “Honey, I’ve had this old Sage three-piece since I graduated from college,” I’d counter with a resigned expression.  She’d be none the wiser.

My occasional E-Bay purchases are always delivered to the address of a friend.  I caught on to this idea in the very early stages of our marriage, after Lucretia belted the UPS deliveryman with a vacuum cleaner hose when he rang the doorbell with a Bob Marriott package in hand.

Lucretia loves flea markets.  Some 20 Saturday’s a year are spent with the two of us traipsing the aisles of the county fairgrounds in search of another household adornment.  This came about some years ago, when Lucretia was appalled at the dollar estimate for renovation presented by Toby Limpwrist, an interior decorator for Cherrywood Interiors.  “We can do it ourselves,” she fumed.  “I’ve got more taste in my little finger than he has in his entire being.  And we’ll save a fortune in the process.”

So, with a little Duncan Phyfe here, a dash of Hepplewhite there, a William in one corner and a Mary in another, we put together an interior best described as Victorian Rejectica.

However, I couldn’t help noticing an occasional cane rod of distinction, or some antique item of tackle, buried in the debris of a flea market seller.  This led to my inviting (at a price, mind you) Pottsy Hubbard to join us on our semi-monthly excursions.  He’d drive over in his camper and join us at the hot dog stand around noon.  Six chili dogs washed down with three steins of root beer later, I’d take him aside, slip him some green and point him in the general direction of the goodies espied in my morning meanderings.  He’d make the deals, out of sight of Lucretia, and we’d settle later in the day at my house.

Over the ensuing years, I complimented myself on my acumen.  Slowly, I had amassed a pretty imposing inventory of fly-fishing memorabilia.

I thought I had every angle covered.  My methods seemed to work flawlessly.  I was as safe as a nun in church.  Lucretia was as innocent as a newborn babe.  But, you all know the adage of “the best laid plans…”

This past Father’s Day, in a rare moment of – he must, after all these years of denial, need something in the fishing gear genre – compassion, Lucretia decided to surprise me with some “stuff.”  She went down to Wally Windknot’s fly shop, made a decent purchase and handed Wally a check.  Wally, the dimwit that he is, then proceeded to wax eloquently on what a great customer I was, once he espied the name on the charge card.

I must dictate these final paragraphs.  The broken wrist on my casting arm impedes my typing.  It pains me to go into the details of my encounter with Lucretia.  Suffice it to say, black and blue are not my favorite colors.  She was gracious enough to dial the 911 number and pack a basic assortment of clothing which she placed on my stomach as the paramedics stretchered me out the door.

I’ve established residence at the local YMCA.  I’ve been told Lucretia has changed locks at the house and bought a ferocious pit bull to assure her privacy.  I can’t even get a change of underwear.  I’m without transportation, so when the wrist heals, I must rely on the charity of my fishing buddies for conveyance to and from stream outings.  That goes for the loan of tackle too.  Mine is barricaded in the basement.

Is there any reader among you with the courage to help a crestfallen angler out of his plight?  Those with Green Beret insignia or SWAT training stand to be the most successful.  I’ll make it up to you.  You can take your pick of the vintage canes; there’s two Garrisons, a Pezon et Michel, three Leonards, a Payne and a half dozen others to choose from.  I’ll provide the address, the keys to the 4 x 4, a sketch of the floor plan of the house, a lock pick for admittance, some chloroform for the dog, and the twelve digit combination to my hobby room.  Your job, should you accept the mission, is to infiltrate the house, retrieve my tackle, fly-tying equipment and clothing, and deliver this to me in my 4 x 4.

I would be remiss if I didn’t caution the risk comes with a threefold element of peril should one not be successful:

1.Encountering Lucretia.

2.Meeting up with Chomp, the pit bull.

3.Making the slightest mistake with the combination in entering the digits.

The first, most likely, would send you to the hospital of your choice for an undetermined stay at your expense.  My medical plan has no provisos for non-family members.

The second could permanently fuse you to the vise-like molars of a cannibalistic canine, necessitating a jaws-of-life demo by our local fire department.

And, the third would send 10,000 volts of electricity coursing through your frame.

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