Eventually, All Things Merge Into One, And

One Of Life's Quiet Excitements Is To Stand Somewhat Apart From Yourself And Watch Yourself Softly Becoming The Author Of Something Beautiful Even If It Is Only A Floating Ash.

As I Get Considerably Beyond The Biblical Allotment Of Three Score Years And Ten, I Feel With Increasing Intensity That I Can Express My Gratitude For Still Being Around On The Oxygen-side Of The Earth's Crust Only By Not Standing Pat On What I Have Hitherto Known And Loved. While Oxygen Lasts, There Are Still New Things To Love, Especially If Compassion Is A Form Of Love.

In Our Family, There Was No Clear Line Between Religion And Fly Fishing. We Lived At The Junction Of Great Trout Rivers In Western Montana, And Our Father Was A Presbyterian Minister And A Fly Fisherman Who Tied His Own Flies And Taught Others. He Told Us About Christ's Disciples Being Fishermen, And We Were Left To Assume, As My Brother And I Did, That All First-class Fishermen On The Sea Of Galilee Were Fly Fishermen And That John, The Favorite, Was A Dry-fly Fisherman.

If Our Father Had Had His Way, Nobody Who Did Not Know How To Fish Would Be Allowed To Disgrace A Fish By Catching Him.

Eventually, All Things Merge Into One, And A River Runs Through It.