Here he is, be-suspendered, on the lawn outside Totem Home, teaching my cousin Beth and I to cast. Ten... and two! Ten... and two!
Here is my aunt Becky, looking incredibly fierce and dashing in her full fly-fishing fig, preparing to cast a dry fly upstream into McMichael's creek. Or perhaps she's waiting for a gaggle of Ralph Lauren photographers to arrive. Could they have been far away? I mean, come ON! Look at those hip waders! JUST LOOK AT THEM!
Anyhow, the reason I posted these pictures from Flickr (you can click on them to see the set, including this picture of eight-year-old me looking just like Lydia), is because I remembered the existence of the chief, the most amazing, the BEST piece of gear in a hobby that's almost entirely built around wonderful little bits of gear. This is the item that I would stand in the stream and play with, mesmerized. I'd take it out of my child-sized fishing vest, provided by my grandfather, and just MARVEL at it.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the richard Wheatley Spring-Loaded, Multi-Compartment Window Dry Fly Box Number 1609:
Each little window compartment has a spring behind it, and a little wire catch, so when you touch the catch, the window opens with a satisfying little "FWIP" noise. You can run a fingertp down a column of windows and "FW-W-WIP" open up three in a row. You can run TWO fingers down TWO columns and "FF-WW-IPP" open up two rows of windows. Since the box is stuffed with lots of colorful little flies, it's the most AMAZINGLY SATISFYING THING EVER. I hadn't thought about this box for years and years and years, and now that its existence popped into my head I REALLY REALLY want one again.
Given that JRY was an inveterate gearhead, I realized that this probably was not a cheap item. And it's not - it's two hundred damn dollars. And since I don't fish anymore, I don't even know what I'd put in there. BUT I STILL WANT IT!
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By the time we walked down to Farrell Field, dusk had fallen and the stadium lights were on. Judging by the oom-pah sounds all around, competition was well under way, too. We skirted a couple of utility trailers bursting with kettle drums, passed several groups of excited teenagers clutching bassoons, and made our way around to the stands.
The bleachers were filled with parents, teens, and odd loners in nylon jackets (viz. the fellow in the nylon jacket with the flag patch on his arm.) Everyone was talking, laughing, catching up with friends, having a nice late-summer evening. A voice came over the loudspeakers:
A double file of teens in tight white suits and tall feathered plumes marched onto the field in approximate lockstep, then broke ranks and formed two staggered rows. The maneuver looked like a Napoleonic infantry attack, on a small and slightly ragged scale. I shouldn't have been surprised, I guess: I had forgotten the martial origins of marching bands. It was fun to see all the 
The band was unpracticed, which is hardly surprising for the second week of September. But who cares? Flags were waved, swords were twirled in the air, drummers mounted plywood boxes thumped away, then dismounted again. The theme was "Zorro", and the wavering notes of the trumpets were undeniably meant to carry a Spanish flair.
Following their finale, the Emmaus band filed into the stands, arranging their feathery yellow hats in rows. They radiated relief in all directions and directed their attention to the field, where a flurry of John Deere athletic tractors and students in blue suits were wheeling tympanis, kettle drums, and assorted glittery hardware onto the fifty-yard line.
Band Announcer Man continued to rock the headset, while the field filled with more and more blue suits, xylophones on casters, and then something intriguing: a number of dancers clad in tap-recital Roman slave outfits. Females and males both were wearing shiny, stretchy tank tops with little fringed slave skirts, all over black jockey leggings.
My elation at discovering Todd in the driver's seat of this Capezio Toga Extravaganza was only heightened when Band Man used his headset to set the stage: "Ladies and gentlemen, the West Chester University Golden Rams will present... The Return of the Roman Empire!
When the battery was finished (and I had made a resolution to rent 
Bondage! Agony! Torment! The Roman slaves cavorted in their chains — now stretching their arms out to each other in supplication, now holding their chains to the sky in a mute signal of their fettered existence. Finally, the orchestra swelled in a great "hurrah!" and crescendo, and the slaves threw off their bonds! To celebrate, they seized big sparkly flags, and then they gave those flags one hell of a good waving.
The music became more brassy and martial. Rowing their flags in unison, propelled on a blaring torrent of brass, the mighty Romans rowed pantomime galleons to the far corners of the infield, spreading the majesty of the mighty empire all the way up to the steeplechase pit. The Pax Romana was established in Farrell Field! To celebrate, the Romans dropped their flags, danced martial dances, saluted each other, and finally fell to the ground and saluted mighty Zeus!
Once the traces of Rome had been swept from the field (by John Deere tractors, not barbarian hordes or Christian missionaries), an award ceremony was set up. This was the first "West Chester Invitational" event, it turned out, and was partly an opportunity for the Golden Rams to drum up eager student volunteers from next year's Freshman class, and was partly an opportunity for each high school band to perform for the first time in front of a sympathetic audience.
Things moved pretty quickly after all the trophies were gone; the drum majors posed for family pictures, band members filed back to their busses, parents snapped open their cellphones and walked back to their cars -- a mixture of station wagons, minivans, and PT Cruisers.
Kate and I walked on to the field in search of our neighbor Todd: event producer, landscaper, choreographer, chronicler of the fortunes of Rome.
Todd was pleased to see us, though kind of surprised that we'd known about this "insider" event. I told him that we'd stumbled on the show, and he (like every director) told up about how much better the show was going to be, soon. Especially, he told us about the tall headresses that the Roman slaves weren't wearing in this show,
but that they would be wearing at the next home game in two weeks.
