Well, taking a much needed break, here. Today, I've glued up 4 complete rods and cleaned up all of the sticky mess from that. After a wonderful late breakfast (I usually don't eat until this time of day, so no matter what time it is, it's breakfast, right???), I'm about to head back to the shop, brew a fresh pot of coffee and start making ferrules. I'll probably do that until about 7, eat again, then back to the lathe and reel seat time.

I'm not complaining! Not at all! I LOVE this life. Being in that shop, working on rods, smelling the glues, varnishes, bamboo, cutting oil, etc., is like a lifelong dream come true for me. I've been living that dream for quite a few years now, with one short break to run a business for an ex girlfriend (well, she wasn't EX at the time, but...). I made my first flyrod 19 years ago this spring and have loved it since the first one.

In that 19 years, I've gone from planing forms and a buying all of my hardware to a Leonard type beveller and making everything except the snake guides (I even make my own agate stripping guides when someone wants one). I've gone from copying other makers tapers to having a complete set of unique tapers of my own design (knew that Mechanical Engineering Degree would come in good for something).

I wouldn't trade my life now for anything. It's great. I make rods full time, I'm getting married to a woman that I was with 30 years ago and never really got over, and I'm moving to Mountain Home, AR, just about 5 miles from the banks of the White River and 12 miles from the Norfork River (both former homes of World Record Brown Trout). If I get bored with those, the Little Red River (present home of the WR Brown) is less than an hour away. Crooked Creek, some of the best Smallmouth fishing in the US, is less than 45 minutes away, and the place is riddled with small streams and lakes that might have anything in them. Life is grand.

Well, enough of this! I am just in a rare talkative mood and there's nobody here to talk to, so the BB hawkers just have to take the brunt of my yearning to ramble on about things.

Later,
Bob