There seems to be something in the human psyche that makes each of us reluctant to eat the last cookie on the plate, especially if the cookie is part of a communal ritual. If a dozen cookies are on the plate and if a group of people are invited to “have a cookie,” no one is reluctant to eat the first one. But the last one might lie there until it turns stale. I have no idea why.

I tested my hypothesis over and over again during a year of my teaching career at Weiser High School. I came to depend on the last cookie, or the last piece of cake to sit in the teacher’s break room and wait for me until my afternoon prep period. The last cookie was always there. And I was grateful for the nice teacher who brought cookies most days.

At first I was reluctant to break the communal taboo. There was something almost sacred about the last cookie, but I finally decided I had enough strength of character to eat. If it was a sugar cookie, I’d dunk it in my coffee and enjoy.

Rod

Years ago, my all time favorite teacher Agnes Brown read Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s “The Yearling” a chapter each day to our sixth grade class. It took a while. (And, I suspect is was her way of getting us to calm down. Sixth grade kids are kinda restless.) When she got to the sad part, my memory says I put my head on the desk and silently cried. (I didn’t want the other kids to see my tears. Logger’s kids aren’t supposed to cry, you know.)

When I saw three yearlings curled up in the grass just outside the fence this morning (and to my mind looking a bit puzzled…and lost), thoughts of my embarrassing moment floated back. And I found it sad again, maybe because this is the time of year when aggressive bucks kick the yearlings out of the herd. Yesterday, the three youngsters were part of the small deer herd that browses the back of this small farm. I know because I counted the herd. Today they are on their own. Dang. Life is rough. Pure schmaltz, I know, but…

Rod

I grew up fly fishing on the upper Rogue River. For ten years my split bamboo fly rod leaned against the wall of our back porch, companion to my Dad’s fly rod. Each was ready to go with one of Dad’s hand tied flies on the end of  a six foot leader, the hook stuck in the cork handle of the pole.

The four hundred yards of riffles in below the house carried the crystal clear, ice cold Rogue River current from our right to our left…but only if you fished “our” side of the river. Over the years, the pull of the current against the fly line put a permanent left-hand crook in the tip of my fly rod. It didn’t seem to keep my from catching my share of rainbow trout. (And I didn’t give up that old pole until after we moved away from the river.)

We were purist of a sort. We might, however, on rare occasions switch from one of Dad’s masterpieces to a common garden hackle. Recognizing it as a fly fishing special takes a little imagination, but it’s hard to be a purist when the fish are stubborn. Adding a little worm, aka “garden hackle” to the hook was sometimes necessary to encourage a bite. (We never admitted to using bait.)

Fish on…

Rod