It was more than a guilty pleasure. It was pure fansasy. It kept hope alive. I loved flipping through catalogues. The Sears Christmas catalogue was the granddaddy of them all. I’d sit off by myselfand peruse the toys, musical instruments, sporting goods and even, on rare occasions, the clothing. At age 11, one particular catalogue held my attention more than any other.
Not nearly as big as the Sears tome, the Blue Chip Stamp gift redemption cagtalogue had something Iusted after. About everfy third day, I’d open to the sporting goods section. There, past the baseball gloves and football kicking tees, past the basketballs, golf clubs, and camping gear, were the fishing poles. Most were spinning reels and matching ten foot poles made by Shakespeare, Mitchell, and Eagle Claw. But nestled under these 9-10 feet giants was a beginner’s outfit made by Zebco. The pole was only about 6 feet long and had a built in reel. A complete unit. It came with a rubber casting plug so a kid could practice casting on the front lawn without fear of hooking or breaking something.
When my Boy Scout troop planned a camping trip to Lake Cachuma during the upcoming summer, I asked my mom if thre was any way I could get tht pole. She opened the linen closet and pulled out a small basket containing some empty Blue Chip Stamp books along with a few sheets of the stamps themselves. The stamps came with my households major expense—food. Every trip to the grocery store brought in a few sheets of the trading stamps. I needed 6 books for the fishing pole.
For the next two months, I’d look forward to Thursdays when my mom along with two other moms on my street joined forces and did grocery shopping. Between the back seat and the trunk of the big Buick Special they loaded that car with 10 bags of groceries. My family averaged 4 bags a week. I was at the ready to carry those groceries into the kitchen because that meant more Blue Chip stanps were on the way.
When the day finally came, mom and I went to the redemption store and that beautiful coffee brown Zebco fishing outfit came home with me.
In my backyard I’d practice casting that rubber plug until the white rubber turned dirt brown. I was ready.
By mid-summer, the much anticipated trip to Cachuma became reality. The lake was huge. But after a brief hike around the perimeter, it soon became apparent that small coves and backwaters were scattered all along the way. A couple of my campmates decided to settle in in a nearby shady cove. Ideal water for Crappie and Bluegill, and any other panfish that inhabited that lake. Armed with my new Zebco spin caster, I found a little beach that looked out on a wide swath of water with a small flowing current. I laid down my small backpack and tied on a red and white striped spoon. This lure imitated a vulnerable baitfish and was designed to fool the most desired fish in the lake: the large mouth bass. After about 20 minutes of methodical casting back and forth, I decided to re-join my friends further down in that small cove. A couple more casts I thought. Then it happened! I felt that unmistakable tug on my line and saw the bend in my little pole. Heart thumping, I slowly reeled in an 8 inch bass. It glistened like an emerald in the sun. Making a stringer out of some spare fishing line, I carried my trophy down to that cove and try as I might, could not remove the smile off my face. Blue Chip stamps had made my dream come true.
The trading stamp catalogues are all gone now. After the oil shortages and gas lines of the 70s, the gas stations dropped them. The grocerry stores abandoned them too. My fishing values changed as wel. I read Norman McClean’s A River Runs Through It, and then, a few years later, saw the film. Something clicked and I began fly fishing. No worms, unless they were made from rubber or chenille. No push button casting, just a long learning curve. The real gift, however, is that in order to fly fish, the fisher must go to beautiful places. Yes, there is the Zen of fly fishing, the quiet, calm, peaceful reflection that comes with standing in a river or floating on a lake.
And the catalogues still come in the mail. From fly shops,
sporting goods manufacturers, and travel agents. No fishing poles, now, they are fly rods with names like Orris, Scott, and Reddington, and can typically cost from $100 to $1200. The reels with fly line average about $200. But one thing remains the same: the feel of something wild on the other end of your line. As addicted fly fishers like to say, “the tug is the drug.”
Now when I feel that tug I momentarily become that 11-year-old cluthing a brown plastic Zebco outfit.
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