Tackle Box

Cleaned out the garage a little today. Found my dad's old tackle box. I merged what was left of it into mine, throwing out the stuff from both boxes that was too funky or worthless. My dad wasn't the greatest fisherman, but we had some good times together on the water. The most memorable time was on Swan Lake in Todd county, when a storm came up, the motor wouldn't start and one of the oars broke. We managed to get ashore, soaked to the skin, and with no fish, either. It was never about the fish. For him I think it was a way to return to his youth, when he spent a lot of time fishing to supplement the often meager table at home. For me, It was about puttering around in bays and shallows, with their endlessly fascinating underwater worlds, visible in the early morning or late afternoon, when the sun would shine at an angle; the leafy weeds becoming castles, and the swarms of little sunfish and perch fantastic knights on quests of valor, with the occasional ogre-like Pike lurking, ready to devour a careless swimmer.