The Fisherman
03-09-2009, 11:11 AM
This piece was originally intended for another venue, but I will share it here. :-)
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
By Steve Culton
© 2009. All rights reserved.
One of my great failings in life is that I have a hard time remembering people’s names. I am hopeless at parties. I have forgotten the name of the girl I was chatting up at the bar. I have even forgotten the name of the person who was interviewing me for a job. So it came as no surprise to me that I kept forgetting Norm Lindberg’s name whenever I ran into him on the Salmon River. Norm was also a member of the SRAA, and I’d see him occasionally at the meetings, but for the life of me I could never remember his name.
On a late spring morning last year, I headed out to the Salmon for a couple hours before work. I was hoping to fish the midge hatch, and I was depressed to see a car parked in the turnoff near my favorite spot. As I made my way through the woods, though, I could see that it was…I know that guy from the SRAA…I just can’t remember his name…but he’s nice and he won’t mind sharing the pool with me. Norm waved me in, and we began fishing.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “and I know I’ve asked you this before, but I forget your name?” He smiled and said, “Norm.” That’s when I thought to myself, just think Norm from “Cheers.” Easy.
It was one of those June mornings when the water is cool against your waders and the air is warm on your face and you know that when the sun gets over the trees it’s going to be a hot one. The midges started to come off, and I was getting into a few fish. Norm was curious about what I was using and how I was fishing, and we talked for a half hour about small flies and midges, and I remember being humbled that a guy who had probably been fishing longer than I’ve been alive was so interested in what I was doing.
I didn’t know that that was the last time I’d ever see Norm. When I found out a few months later that he had passed away, I was sad. Not because I kept forgetting his name. Not because we were close friends or anything. I was sad because Norm was a good soul and he loved to fish, and world was a better place when Norm was in it.
So when I walked into the January SRAA meeting and there was a pile of pheasant tails in a bag on the table, and Jeff Ives told me they were from Norm’s garage and anyone could take some, I grabbed a few. And I came up with an idea.
I’m going to tie up some flies — Norm’s Fly, I’ll call it — using Norm’s pheasant tails. I’ll occasionally hand them out, with the hope that everyone who gets a Norm’s Fly will fish it. Maybe you’ll catch a few trout, and then retire it to your box where you can see it and think of Norm the next time you’re searching for a fly. Or maybe you’ll use it, then pass it along to a stranger you meet on the river, tell them about the fly and what it means, and ask them to pass it on after they catch a fish on it.
What a wonderful way to remember your name. Cheers, Norm.
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
By Steve Culton
© 2009. All rights reserved.
One of my great failings in life is that I have a hard time remembering people’s names. I am hopeless at parties. I have forgotten the name of the girl I was chatting up at the bar. I have even forgotten the name of the person who was interviewing me for a job. So it came as no surprise to me that I kept forgetting Norm Lindberg’s name whenever I ran into him on the Salmon River. Norm was also a member of the SRAA, and I’d see him occasionally at the meetings, but for the life of me I could never remember his name.
On a late spring morning last year, I headed out to the Salmon for a couple hours before work. I was hoping to fish the midge hatch, and I was depressed to see a car parked in the turnoff near my favorite spot. As I made my way through the woods, though, I could see that it was…I know that guy from the SRAA…I just can’t remember his name…but he’s nice and he won’t mind sharing the pool with me. Norm waved me in, and we began fishing.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “and I know I’ve asked you this before, but I forget your name?” He smiled and said, “Norm.” That’s when I thought to myself, just think Norm from “Cheers.” Easy.
It was one of those June mornings when the water is cool against your waders and the air is warm on your face and you know that when the sun gets over the trees it’s going to be a hot one. The midges started to come off, and I was getting into a few fish. Norm was curious about what I was using and how I was fishing, and we talked for a half hour about small flies and midges, and I remember being humbled that a guy who had probably been fishing longer than I’ve been alive was so interested in what I was doing.
I didn’t know that that was the last time I’d ever see Norm. When I found out a few months later that he had passed away, I was sad. Not because I kept forgetting his name. Not because we were close friends or anything. I was sad because Norm was a good soul and he loved to fish, and world was a better place when Norm was in it.
So when I walked into the January SRAA meeting and there was a pile of pheasant tails in a bag on the table, and Jeff Ives told me they were from Norm’s garage and anyone could take some, I grabbed a few. And I came up with an idea.
I’m going to tie up some flies — Norm’s Fly, I’ll call it — using Norm’s pheasant tails. I’ll occasionally hand them out, with the hope that everyone who gets a Norm’s Fly will fish it. Maybe you’ll catch a few trout, and then retire it to your box where you can see it and think of Norm the next time you’re searching for a fly. Or maybe you’ll use it, then pass it along to a stranger you meet on the river, tell them about the fly and what it means, and ask them to pass it on after they catch a fish on it.
What a wonderful way to remember your name. Cheers, Norm.