A FLY FISHING CAROL
Part I
The season was over. This must be understood if any good is to come from the tale I am about to tell. The fly fishing season was over. Micus had said so. And his word was as good for change as any man’s. The blitz was over; the strippers were heading south along the eastern coast. The fly fishing season was over!
Now there comes a time once a year more so than others when one should look outward towards there fellow man, instead of focusing upon themselves. So it was that on Christmas Eve in a fly shop in Old Boston Town that Mike Tuber, Micus’ only employee, sat tying flies at a poorly lit fly tying desk. The sign above the door read Micus and Benjo. But Benjo had died some seven Christmas Eve’s ago and Micus never bothered to change the sign above the door. Although time and the salt air had faded the lettering, it still said Micus and Benjo.
Micus was a tight fisted, nose to the grindstone, old curmudgeon. Who barely kept enough wood in the fire to ward of the cold and damp that seemed to find its way in through every crack, no matter how small. And there sat poor Mike. His fly tying desk was located next to the outside wall, so it was the coldest spot in the winter and the warmest in summer. Not very imaginative, he looked at the lamp on his fly tying desk and tried to in vision a roaring fire to warm his cold fingers. But even the bulb looked cold and bleak.
All of a sudden, the front door of the shop burst open and Chris Chin, Micus' nephew, entered the shop. His mere presence was enough to bring a bit of warmth to anyone’s heart let alone this bleak shop. Merry Christmas Chris! Ah and Merry Christmas to you too Chris, Mike meekly replied. Where’s my uncle? Chris asked. Just as Mike was about to answer, Old Micus peered out from his office. What do you want? Micus asked. A Merry Christmas uncle! God save you! Chris said. Bah! Humbug! Micus replied. What have you got to be Merry about? You’re another year older and none the richer for it. Shocked Chris replied. Uncle, why the anger? I ask nothing of you, I want nothing from you. Why can’t we be friends? Humbug! Micus said. Any fool who goes around wishing someone a Merry Christmas should be boiled in their own fly tying cement and buried with a one weight graphite fly rod thrust in their heart. But uncle! Chris cried. Good afternoon, replied Micus. But…Chris tired to say something but was cut off with another Good afternoon! With that Chris turned wished Mike the merriest of Christmas and left the shop. And a Merry Christmas to you Chris! Micus turned sharply on his heels, stared intently at Mike. One more word out of you and you’ll lose your situation. And with that Micus returned to his cold bleak office.
When the clock on the wall struck six pm, Mike Tuber rose from his fly tying desk. Sheepishly he approached Micus’ office. Without looking up from his Umpqua Feather Merchant’s catalog Micus growled, I suppose you’ll want the whole day tomorrow? Why yes Mike replied. That is if it’s convenient, sir. Convenient! Micus roared. It’s not convenient and it’s not fair. Why if I were not to pay for the day you would think of yourself as getting screwed. But, here I am paying for no work and you don’t think anything of that! But it’s Christmas, and it’s only once a year Mike said. With that, Micus mumbled something inaudible under his breath, flung Mike’s pay check at him and told him that he better be here all the earlier the day after.
Now Micus lived in an old section of Boston at the top of an old building that in its day had been a rum warehouse on the bottom with some offices and living quarters on top. Now there was nothing unusual of the door knocker on the front door. Micus had glanced at it thousands of times as he entered. It held the likeness of an Indian. No particular tribe of course, just the head of an Indian. Probably a tribute to a by gone tribe that had once occupied the land before the white man cheated them out of it, Micus thought. As he was about to open the door the appearance of the door knocker changed. Ahh! Benjo’s face. It was surely Benjo’s face and then it was gone. Hum bug! Micus said. But he swiftly entered and double locked the door from inside.
Being down in the back of late, Micus was somewhat surprised that he was taking two steps at a time as he ascended the long stairway that led to the apartment above. Reaching his living quarters, he sheepishly opened the door. Once assured that no one was there he closed the door abruptly and settled in for the night.
Not being very hungry, he decided to settle on a bowl of Boston clam chowder that had been simmering on the stove and washed it down with several pints of rum. The warmth from the fire, all be it little compared to most fires that were ablaze this Christmas Eve night, combined with the rum and chowder, made him feel sleepy. Just as he was about to doze off, deep from within the warehouse came a sound that sounded as if Hell itself were coming forth from the ground. Terrified and trembling he fell from his chair as Benjo’s ghost stood before him.
What are you? Micus asked. Ask me who I was replied the ghost. Okay who were you then? In life I was your partner Ben Benjo. Can you set down asked Micus? I can, replied the ghost. Well then do it, instructed Micus. Look I don’t know who you are, or what you want so speak your peace and then get out. Barely getting the last words out, Benjo’s ghost let out a bone chilling sound and grabbed Micus by the collar. Do you believe in me? Trembling Micus tried to speak but couldn’t. Why do you doubt your senses? Still shaking with fear Micus replied, some things dull the senses. Perhaps you are a bit of under cooked clam or the effects of too much rum. Do you believe in me cried Benjo. Yes! I do, I must. Micus said. But why do ghosts walk the night and why do they trouble me?
Dave both of us were hard business men tying up flies and selling them all over the world. Guiding when we weren’t working at the shop, but what did it get me? Why nothing but more money to spend on new fly fishing and fly tying gear. But you know what they say about you can’t take it with you? Well that’s true. But you were always a good business man Ben, said Micus. Business! Business! Charity and forbearance was my business. Oh woe is me. Woe is me! With that Benjo’s ghost proceeded to tell Micus that he was headed for the same fate as his if he didn’t change his ways. Micus tried to blow him off, but Benjo was persistent and told Micus that he would be visited by three spirits, one each night for the next three successive nights.
Micus told Benjo he’d rather not and would just as soon take all of them and be done with it. In anger Benjol moaned and started to shake so uncontrollably that Micus thought he would surely break the Leonard and Payne bamboo fly rods that were tied to him with old silk fly line and gut leaders, along with the Wheatly fly boxes.
Looking at Benjo Micus wondered if the big Royal Wulff that was pierced through his nose hurt or if ghosts felt no pain.
"Remember," said Benjo, "look for the first ghost tonight when the clock strikes one." "Wait!" Micus said. "Look to see me no more," said Benjo and backing to the window it opened and out he went. "Hum Bug!" Micus went to his bed, threw the covers over his head and went fast asleep.
Part II
Ga Dong! Micus sat up in bed. One o’clock in the morning he thought. All of a sudden standing before him was a women dressed in fly fishing clothes. Immediately Micus realized that everything she wore was white. Her waders, fly fishing vest, shirt and wide brimmed hat. Even the Ron Kusse bamboo rod and AJ Forbes fly reel were white. Rubbing his eyes Micus realized that he was not dreaming but that she was there in his room.
"Are you the ghost that was foretold to me?"
"I am" she said.
"Do you have a name?" asked Micus.
"I am Ladyfisher, the ghost of Christmas past."
"Who’s past?" Micus asked.
"Your past you idiot," replied the Ladyfisher. "Touch my fly rod" she said.
So Micus did as he was told and out the window they flew.
They hadn’t been flying for very long when all of a sudden they were standing beside a pond and on its bank sat a young boy.
"You know this place," asked Ladyfisher.
"Know it! I use to fish here as a boy. I would catch bluegills and crappie and largemouth bass. You see that old stump in the water over there? Why I caught the biggest bass of my life there."
"And you took it home and ate it didn’t you?"
Hanging his head low to his chest Micus in a voice that was barley audible said, "Yes,but my old man would have whupped me for sure if I had thrown him back. And besides we didn’t do a whole lot of catch and release back in them days."
As he lifted his head, Micus saw that the small boy was older now, with long hair and sideburns reaching down to his chin. He was fishing in a boat off the Jersey shore holding onto a plug rod that almost double bent over. On the end of the line was a strong beautiful striped bass. Micus tried to remember the last time he had fought such a fish. Why did I ever release that fish Micus thought.
"What?" The Ladyfisher asked.
"Nothing," replied Micus. "It’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve been striper fishing maybe I ought to go to break out the 9 weight and a few Clousers or Bend Backs and fish the sound sometime."
"You had your chances," said the Ladyfisher, "but you let them all pass by you."
As she spoke the light that surrounded her became so brilliant that Micus could not bear to look at it no longer.
Laughing at him she said "but you let them all pass you by."
The light and laughter angered Micus that he grabbed an old tarp that was lying on the ground and threw it over the Ladyfisher’s head. Then looking at his hands he realized he was wrestling with his own old fly fishing vest. Hum Bug! He thought and with that went fast asleep.
Oh and how he slept. So deeply that when he first heard the bell chime, Ga Dong! Ga Dong! He thought that he must have been dreaming. But he was not dreaming and a brilliant light could be seen coming in under the bedroom door. Hesitantly Micus got out of bed and cautiously entered. There sitting on his couch was a tall jolly fellow.
"Come in! Come in and get to know me better man," said the ghost. Micus thought why do all these ghost talk as if they were from London England in the 1800’s?
"You’ve never seen the likes of me before?" said the ghost.
"I have not," said Micus.
"Nor my brothers before me?"
"No. Have you many brothers," asked Micus.
"Over 2000."
"A large family to provide for I’m sure," said Micus. Now they have me talking like that he thought. What struck Micus was that the ghost along with his watermelon fly fishing shirt held in his right hand a 9’ 9wt fly rod with a Valentine reel and in the other a big mug of hot buttered rum. Micus thought to himself that at least old Benjo had the good sense to send to him not only a ghost that was a saltwater fly fisherman, but one that drank as well.
"Do you have a name," asked Micus?
"I am the ghost of Christmas present. But you can call me Ghost Dude. Take hold of my fly rod," the ghost said. "Walk with me this Christmas Day."
"I’d rathter have some of that rum," replied Micus.
Not amused Ghost Dude again told Micus to take hold of his fly rod and this time he did as he was told.
As they walked the streets of Old Boston, Micus was struck at how happy everyone seemed to be. "Merry Christmas!" People would say as they passed each other. Homes were brightly lit and you could almost feel the warmth from the fire places out in the street. Carols could be heard through the church windows. The local fly shops were adorned with the newest and finest fly rods fly reels, new fly tying vises and the finest rooster and hen necks. Without realizing it, they had come upon his nephew’s house. The ghost led Micus in and told him that Chris and his family and friends could neither see nor hear them, but that he and Micus would be able to hear everything that was said.
"A hum bug? You can’t be serious Chris. Your uncle actually said that Christmas was a humbug?"
"Yes indeed," said Chris. "And he said that anyone who goes around saying Merry Christmas should be boiled in there own fly tying cement and buried with a one weight fly rod thrust in their heart."
"No!" he replied
Chris’ family and friends were shocked.
"Well," said Chris "I shall keep going to see him on Christmas Eve and inviting him to Christmas dinner for as long as he is alive."
Micus was touched at what he heard. He had been a little harsh on the boy when he had come to see him. I should have said "yes."
"What’s that?" Ghost Dude asked.
"Nothing," said Micus. "It’s just that I had wished I would have accepted his invitation that’s all."
"Accepted his invitation? An old curmudgeon like you doesn’t like Christmas," was Ghost Dudes reply.
Just then Micus noticed that Ghost dudes hair was getting grayer and that there was less hot buttered rum in his mug than when they first started.
"Come," said Ghost Dude. "My time is short and we have one more stop to make."
In a flash they were in the living room of Mike Tuber. It was a small meager home by Boston’s standards. Why it wouldn’t even serve as a useable carriage house up on Beacon Hill. Oh but what happiness there seemed there. Which was odd Micus thought because the Christmas tree would barely pass for pine bough and the Christmas feast, if you want to call it that was meager fare at best? No great turkey or ham, just a small roast and some potatoes. Oh but they were a bunch of happy Tubers. Over in the corner sat their youngest son Tiny Tuber. Micus thought it odd that they would name their child Tiny Tuber, but oh well. Now the boy sat there holding onto a Snoopy rod with a cheap plastic reel. There was barely enough line to make a cast of more than a few feet.
"But dad," Tiny Tuber sighed, "I wanted a fly rod for Christmas."
"Maybe you’ll get one next year son. Santa Clause has only so many fly rods that he can deliver. I’m sure he’ll bring you one next year."
"Tell me spirit. Will Tiny Tuber ever get a fly rod," asked Micus?
"If these shadows are not changed," said Ghost Dude "I see him growing up to be a bait fisherman for catfish and carp. He will never know the joys of casting a tight loop and delicately placing a dry fly to a rising trout. Nor will he ever double haul to cruising stripers or bluefish. He will never experience the anticipation of a bluegill busting his popper." With that, Micus hung his head.
But wait, He heard his name mentioned without any profanity to accompany it. Something Micus had not been accustomed to.
So it was with great joy when Mike Tuber raised his glass of Mad Dog 20/20 and said, "I give you Mr. Micus the founder of our feast. ‘
"Founder of our feast in deed," declared Mike’s wife. "Why if I had that old curmudgeon here I’d give him a piece of mine. And you of all people, Mike, you poor dear."
Micus turned to Ghost Dude and said, "Okay look maybe I was a little hard on him but you don’t expect someone to get paid without working do you?"
Micus was suddenly aware that they were no longer in Mike’s home but they were standing on the beach at low tide. Finally Micus thought to himself a place that I can relate to. Soon the tide would be coming in and if only he had his fly rod and kayak he could paddle out and maybe catch a striper or two. Maybe Ghost Dude will let me borrow his. As he turned to ask Ghost Dude was gone. He was all alone and for the first time that night he felt the damp and cold. And not wanting to admit it to himself, he was a little afraid. Sensing someone or something approaching him from behind he quickly turned and to see a dark figure. Micus wanted to run but his feet were affixed to the sand as if he were standing in cement. The figure drew closer and Micus realized that it was gliding across the sand and not walking.
There before him stood a spirit dressed all in black with two piercing red eyes barely visible from under the brim of his hat. "Spirit I know you are here for my well being, but of all the spirits I fear you the most."
A deep guttural sound came forth and for a minute Micus thought it sounded as if the ghost had said Aaaarrrggghhh!
"Please spirit I am not the same man I once was."
Aaarrrggghhh! Was all the Spirit said? Suddenly Micus felt a chill clear to the bone, to the very depths of his soul. Out from under his black watch coat the Spirit pointed in the direction that he wanted Micus to go.
Part III
"How did he die?"
"I don’t much about it. All that I know is he’s dead."
Micus found himself and the Spirit standing in a fly shop in Boston. There were three men carrying on a conversation near the fly tying materials display.
"I heard that he was casting in a strong cross wind and hit himself in the back of the head with a 2/0 Clouser. Knocked himself out and drowned. Body finally washed up around Plum Island Sound."
Why I know these men thought Micus. Why, we use to fly fish together.
"Spirit I know these men. They are business associates and old fly fishing buddies of mine."
Aaarrrggghhh was the Spirits reply. "
Well maybe we should form a committee and go to his funeral," one of them said. Another informed them that he would only go if they served lunch and served pints of rum. Another mused that he thought he might have been the dead man’s best friend since he was always the brunt of some of his jokes. All of them wondered what would happen to his fly fishing gear and were trying to decide if they might want to head over to the deceased man’s home and get what they wanted. So off they went sneaking in at night and rummaged through the dead man’s fly fishing gear. In horror Micus watched as the three men laughed and made jokes. Making fun of some of the flies the dead man had tied. They had determined that what they didn’t want they could take to a second hand shop or sell on eBay and get a good price for the rest.
Micus not knowing, or at least not willing to admit, whose death the men were talking about was disturbed that these men were not only taking it so lightly, but were stealing the dead man’s fly fishing gear.
"Spirit," said Micus, "Why do these men make fun of this man’s death? Can you not show me some depth of compassion and remorse?"
Once again they were at the house of Mike Tuber. There sitting in his chair weeping, Mike repeated over and over again, "My child, my child, my poor little child."
"There, there dear," said Mike’s wife. "We all loved Tiny Tuber and you know he is in a better place."
"Better place," cried Tuber. "He was abducted by pirates and is now serving as a cabin boy on a ship bound for who knows where." With that, Mike Tuber looked at the lonesome Snoopy rod in the corner by the hearth and began to weep again.
"Okay, I wanted depth of feeling and compassion and you showed it to me. But give me a break. How bad can being on a pirate ship be? Tiny Tuber will get to sail to different places and there is the daily ration of rum and pillaging. Don’t forget the pillaging."
The Spirit started shaking uncontrollably.
"Aaaarrrggghhh," he yelled and with a long scrawny finger, pointed at a tombstone. The words griped Micus as if the hand of death itself were upon him. These words were etched in the stone. Here lies the Old Curmudgeon. Dave Micus. Trembling he fell to his knees and implored the spirit.
"Why show me this if I am beyond all hope. I am not the man I once was. I shall keep Christmas all the year. The lessons of all three spirits shall live within me. Please spirit please!"
Micus reached out and grabbed onto the Spirit.
"Aaarrrggghhh!"
The sound was deafening. Micus closed his eyes in fear.
But when he opened them there he was in his own bed. He looked around and realized not only was he in his own bed, but his own room. Oh happy day Micus declared. Then from out on the street he heard bells ringing. Running to the window he threw it open. The ground was covered with fresh snow and the air though cold smelled clean. Just then he spotted a small boy running with a tip-up and ice auger in his hand.
"Hello!" Micus cried. Stopping the boy turned and, seeing Micus in the window, sheepishly replied, "Hello."
"Tell me," asked Micus. What day is it?"
"Hey," replied the boy. "Why it’s Christmas Day."
The boy thought Micus must have been a bit touched or had too much Christmas cheer the night before.
Whew! Micus was relieved that he hadn’t missed Christmas.
"Do you know the grocers the next street over but one?" asked Micus.
"I sure do" the boy replied.
"A delightful boy and remarkable boy," said Micus. Tell me then have they still got that big fat turkey hanging in the window?"
"What the one as big as me?" the boy replied.
A delightful boy a remarkable boy thought Micus.
"Go buy it and the rest of the items on this list," declared Micus.
"What!" the boy said.
"Go buy it," and with that Micus threw down a wad of bills. "Come back with the groceries and I’ll give you $5.00. Come back with the shop owner as well and all within five minutes and I’ll (oh this was hard for Micus) and I’ll give you a $50.00!"
The boy was off like a flash.
Micus went down stairs to meet the boy and the shop owner. As promised Micus gave the boy the $50.00 and along with Mike Tuber’s address gave the shop owner $50.00 as well. He chuckled to himself thinking how surprised the Tuber family would be when everything arrived.
Getting dressed he started for his nephews house greeting all he past with Merry Christmas. Then he came upon some gentleman from the Federation of Fly Fishers. They had stopped by to see Micus on Christmas Eve for a donation and were promptly shown the door. Not wanting another confrontation they turned to pass him by, but Micus implored them to stop. Apologizing for his rude behavior he handed them a check and told them there would be more in the days and weeks to come.
As he approached Chris’ home he hesitated and then reluctantly knocked on the door and a young girl opened the door.
"Hello my dear. Is Chris home?"
"Why yes," she replied, "and whom shall I say is calling."
Micus hesitated and then told her he would announce himself and knew the way. Sticking his head in the dining room Micus said, "Chris it’s me your uncle Micus. I’ve come to dinner if you’ll have me."
"Have you? Of course will have you," said Chris. So they dined and laughed and later Micus and Chris sat down and tied up some flies together.
Oh he was earlier the next morning he was. Micus wanted to catch his clerk Mike Tuber coming in late. Eight o’clock came and went and no Mike. Finally at around 8:30 am Micus heard the door to the shop open ever so slightly and heard quiet footsteps as Mike tried to sneak to his fly tying table without being noticed.
"Tuber! What is the meaning of this? You’re late."
Trembling Tuber approached his boss’ office.
"I’m sorry sir. I was making quite merry yesterday. It won’t happen again."
"It certainly won’t. You leave me with very little choice. Therefore, therefore, I am going to raise your salary and a Merry Christmas to you Mike Tuber."
Micus stepped forward to hug Tuber but in shock Tuber ran to his tying desk and pick up a pair of Dr. Slick scissors to defend himself.
Seeing the fear in his eyes, Micus assured him that he had not gone off his nut. And that he meant a Merry Christmas and that he would not only raise his salary but help provide for your family. Micus then told Tuber that they would discuss the details this afternoon over a bowl of clam chowder and some hot buttered rum.
Micus was as good as his word. And to Tiny Tuber, who had been released by the pirates, he became a second father. He bought him a new custom made Kusse fly rod. And it was said of him, that of all those that lived in the good old city that Dave Micus knew how to keep Christmas all the year.