Secrets kept close

There’s the quid, and there’s the pro quo, right?

I mean, that’s the way it’s supposed to work.

It’s give and take — until you take, and discover there are things you just can’t give.

Let me explain. A couple of weeks ago, out walking, I went by the sporting goods store where I often go to buy trout flies. It was, of course, COVID-19 closed — in this province, reopening wasn’t to be until June 8.

Still, on the off chance it was open, I tried the door, peered through the glass door. I could see the shape of someone at the counter, tucked in behind the cash register, but the door was locked. He came to the door, opened it, while I stepped quickly backwards, almost staggering, still caught full in the world of physical distancing.

It was one of the owners, and he shrugged and told me it would be a few more weeks — and that, in some ways, he didn’t understand why. That he sold skates and cleats and trout flies, and that, mere blocks away, Canadian Tire was busy selling skates and cleats and trout flies, but because he wasn’t a hardware store, he couldn’t sell me anything.

I didn’t push it.

But what I did say was that I wouldn’t buy any trout flies until June 8, and that I’d be back then to buy them from his store. I made it, a little late, on June 9.

That quid and that pro quo I managed. He might remember the discussion, but he probably didn’t remember me any more than any other customer. I hope the collection of Royal Coachmen, Humpties and brown Muddler Minnows I bought might help in some tiny way to alleviate the pain of losing three full months of business.

But there are things that are not so easily given.

And when you fail to deliver on something, you remember.

The trout flies are on a wooden carousel, and you turn it slowly to try and divine which flies are made to catch trout, and which are made to catch fishermen. There is a distinct difference; fishermen often succumb to the garish, while trout prefer a more workmanlike approximation of, well, a bug.

I was looking for Grey Adams — pretty much any size, but though they are dull and drab, fishermen also know what works. So there were none left.

One of the other managers was at the counter. An older man. We spoke at a distance while I picked out flies, and he performed the time-honoured ritual of opening a very small brown kraft paper bag and setting it flat-ended on the counter so I could drop my picks inside.

“Been fishing yet?” he asked. Yes, I answered. One bad day, one good.

“Ever been to Thomas’ Pond?” he asked.

No.

“It’s good. Close. Big trout.

Brown trout. But big. The water’s been high this year. Hard to fish.” He suggested I should try it. I nodded, said little.

I know Thomas’ Pond. I don’t fish it, but nearby, very nearby, is a special place. I’ve taken my daughter Iz there. I’ve taken my good friend Rob and his daughter as well. But that’s it. I’ve told no one else about it. A good run of trout, always. Easy to fish, if you know the trick.

I know the trick.

I also know that, when someone gives you a gift, you’re supposed to give one back.

But for this, my breath stopped.

I’m sorry, sir.