Editor-in-Chief
Digging for a jacket in the darkest corner of my closet on a rare, cool Florida winter’s day, my fingers tapped something hard. Curiosity got the better of me, so I pulled out the offending obstacle: a timeworn wooden box containing my late grandfather’s fly-tying kit.
To my soft computer-key hands, the wood, having survived being handed down for generations, felt delicate if not brittle. It had a musty smell—not the malodorous kind that makes your lips pucker at the edges, rather, the nostalgic kind that returns you to a particular time and place, namely my grandparents’ house in England when I was 9. Perhaps sensing my preteen boredom, Granddad had lent me his fly tying kit for something to do.
Opening the box unearthed a wonderworld of curious…
