Even though you probably will never read this... Please give my stuff back.
There was a bag of hand tools, a hitachi sander my mum bought for me, a fly reel and a little aluminium case of hand tied trout flies, and a new pair of workboots. All up there was probably less than a grand worth to replace but I don't have a grand and my contents insurance doesn't cover anything used at any time to earn an income.
The tools and the boots I'll probably be able to replace bit by bit over time. But I have a close relationship with my stuff, many of the items were gifts and nearly every item has an association of memory attached to it.
What really made me sad was the fishing tackle. I don't fish by the way. The trout reel belonged to my Dad. He died in 1998 or there abouts. It was his favourite reel, I think, I don't know how much he used it. I think he'd had it when he was a boy in the 1930's and 40's when his father taught him to keep his arm still and cast only with his wrist by getting him to grip the family bible between his elbow and his waist. The family Bible was huge, and letting it touch the ground was a whipping offence.
The reel itself showed years of use. It had a notch worn in where the line had rubbed from years of winding, and that notch was worn into new metal brazed on to repair an earlier groove. Maybe it was so old as to be no use for fishing anymore and maybe that was the reason my brother pressed it into my hand on the day of the funeral saying I should have something of Dad's. (I got that, the flies and his swandri hat - which my wife won't let me wear. You didn't take the hat.) It was a name brand of reel. It might have been a Hardy's, I can't remember. It might be worth something as a collectible. Maybe you'll get a hundred bucks for it.
The flies probably aren't worth much. You might get fifty bucks for them. Dad tied them himself from feathers the neighbours peacock dropped and from bits off our various pet chooks that he kept in a little drawer in the desk along with other bits like possum fur, copper wire, thread and glue. He'd sit late at night under the green painted desk lamp with his glasses pushed down to the tip of his nose, bent over the fly-tying vice that I always thought was so cool. He was meticulous in all his movements whether he was tying a fly, repairing a cane rod or rebinding the handle of a cricket bat. Each individual twist of feather or thread was so practised it seemed staged. Even if he didn't know you were watching it was like a performance. Maybe he knew I was watching, showing me how it was done as I stood in the doorway behind him in my pyjamas. Or maybe he was still doing it just right for his own father - keeping the bible off the ground.
Anyway... that's what you took from me... I know I know I should have made sure the kids had locked their door... and I should have checked my insurance ages ago too.
All that's left is for me to have this little whinge... and move on.
The Gedle
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