Dad's Tackle Box

I can close my eyes and see us sitting on the dock on Aunty Bonny and Uncle Vinny’s camp, catching sunfish by the dozens. Or, tossing a worm and hook across a trout-filled pond, no larger than a backyard pool. These are great memories of fishing with my dad. He was a simple fisherman, bringing along only a few Zebco combos purchased at the local Benny’s and an old coffee can filled with bait.

My dad was a middle-class, hard-working Coca-Cola salesman. I think he went fishing because his father got him into it, but I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that when it came to fishing, my dad could hang with the best of them.

One especially memorable morning of fishing began as they all did—with a shovel and a coffee can, holes punched in the lid to allow the worms to breathe. When turning over the leaves yielded enough earthworms to overflow the yellow Autocrat container, it was time to go. I was halfway out of the wood-paneled station wagon before we pulled into the elevated crushed rock driveway on Wakefield Pond. I had a worm on a hook before I could get to the dock.
 
That day, it took me longer than usual to convince one of the pond’s many eager bluegills to bite. For some reason, they weren’t into my freshly dug worms. I tried twitching the worm to entice a bite, but still nothing. Dad said to try casting out as far as I could instead of trying close to the dock. Before long, the sun started to set, the tree frogs began to sing, and I realized I’d have enough time for only one last cast. Boom! That bobber—called a “dobbers’ by my dad and me—disappeared two seconds after it landed, but it wasn’t a sunfish that had taken the bait—instead a prized largemouth bass I lifted onto the dock. As the excitement from landing the bass settled, I realized that I had learned something during that trip with dad. Patience and persistence.

About a year after Dad died, I passed by an old plastic tackle box on the work bench in the basement. I stopped and opened it up, something I hadn’t done since my brother had given it to me. It was labeled “Big Ed’s Tackle” with a black marker directly on the top. That’s all I needed to see to know that the contents inside were special. To me, it held the secrets to what would catch a prized fish, since my dad was a world-class angler in my eyes. That little box held a Kastmaster, a few gold Al’s Goldfish, some split shots, an assortment of bobbers, and a sleeve of size 6 Eagle claw hooks—all probably purchased at Benny’s. Holding the box in my hands, I saw more than a simple fishing arrangement bearing the small necessities. Pops was always prepared, always had a game plan, and always had a goal–for me to catch fish. For that, I’m grateful. I’ve learned to be ready for anything, but most of all, have fun doing it.

I’ll never use what’s in Dad’s tackle box, nor will I ever separate its contents. It will continue to sit on the old red work bench to serve as a reminder that you don’t need all the latest gadgets and gizmos to catch a fish. You just have to put in your time and get out there. And, when all else fails, put a worm on a hook and cast it as far as you can. You just might learn something.