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DEL.ICIO.USThanks for the memories, Dad
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
The name “Dean” is written in capital letters with white paint on the top of my father’s old green tackle box in the shed behind the house.
It has collected grime and dust sitting under a bunch of old water hoses that for some inexplicable reason were saved for years.
The name wasn’t written in fancy lettering, just block type. The tackle box? Well, you open it up. The three tiers of trays sprout up. You pick up the lures, hooks and whatnot that fly out onto the floor. It happens every time.
My father recently passed away. He was the reason I became a fisherman.
The night before he was buried, I dug out the green tackle box and sorted through memories.
One whole tray was devoted to casting spoons. Dad had every color of Dardevle known to mankind, and they were killers on northern pike.
A red-and-white one drew a fierce strike one day when as a kid, I fished with him on a lake near my family’s cabin in the woods of northern Wisconsin. The “northern” came all the way to the boat - it had to be four feet long - then shreaded the line. Dad was angry he lost the fish and the lure. But I pointed out that he had plenty more red-and-white Dardevles, and they’re all exactly the same. “That was my favorite,” he said. He had to be the only person who could tell the difference.
Strewn across the bottom of the tackle box were a dozen or so hair jigs used for crappie and perch fishing.
Those made me think of Howell Lake, a small lake off an old logging road west of Eagle River, Wis., in the Nicolet National Forest. The only access was near a culvert on a creek that ran about a mile to the lake, We couldn’t trailer a boat to the water, so we’d have to take the row boat on the back of Dad’s pickup. We’d take turns rowing up the creek, then to the other side of the lake. It was usually worth the effort.
I don’t know how Dad heard of that lake, but we could sit all day over this one spot and catch our share of big crappie measuring 15 inches and longer. That lake became a favorite for me and my three brothers.
My father loved the outdoors, but getting out had become difficult the past few years. Deer season was his favorite time of year, but most of my memories of him will be about fishing.
The last time I seriously fished with Dad from a boat was about eight years ago. We were fishing for whatever bit live leeches and minnows on Kentuck Lake, another Cheeseland fishing hole. We found that smallmouth bass love leeches, but also that we had let his retirement and my career a thousand miles away in Georgia create a chasm in our relationship.
We talked more than we fished that day. Just about life, the weather, how retirement wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. I think I may have even taught him something about fishing.
From that day forward, we never ended a phone call without an “I love you.”
My mother asked me what I wanted to keep of my father’s. The tackle box, I said. She said she’d have it cleaned up and sent down. I want it just the way it is, I said.
I can’t wait until it gets here.
Permalink | Comments (7) | Categories: Fishing
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By Not Dick Cheney
January 18, 2008 4:56 PM | Link to this
Sorry for your loss. I still miss my dad every day and he’s five years gone. Treasure that tackle box.
By scoreboard
January 21, 2008 2:06 PM | Link to this
My father died unexpectedly on Thanksgiving day, and I have spent many bittersweet hours lately rummaging through his possessions such as his tackle box, fishing poles, various guns, duck and turkey calls, pocket knives, etc. Nearly every one sparked at least one specific memory of time we spent together. Treasure that tackle box.
My father was the main reason I love hunting and fishing today. I hope one day my little girls will say the same thing about me.
By Tim Morris
January 22, 2008 12:41 PM | Link to this
Scott, my father will have been passed away 3 years the 31st of this month. Your story brought back so many memories of fishing and hunting with my Daddy( Southern Version of Dad or Father) James T. Morris was a true version of a Southern Gentleman. He had a love for all people no matter what race, gender, or nationality. He was a war hero on Okinawa,a great School Superintendent, and set the greatest example to all of his children by walking the path with Jesus Christ. I miss him dearly but I know where he is at and I know who he is with. I have some of his old lures and several of his guns, and what stories do they still tell.
By GT45
January 22, 2008 1:36 PM | Link to this
Nice story. My Dad is still around, but certainly aging. We still go on hunts with each other, and I cherish each one more and more, because I know there may not be many more to go. At times in the past, it’s been the one common bond we’ve had. It’s funny how hunting and fishing can always pull folks back together.
By C Cook
January 24, 2008 1:25 PM | Link to this
I so enjoyed this story. My dad was also an avid fisherman.
It was hard for us to get rid of his fishing equipment. He had over 35 rods, each one of us took some. I even took a pretty lure (not a fisherman-hope that is the correct word) and took the hook off and made a fashion accessory out of it. I wear the pin on sweaters and jackets and have a nice story to share about my dad. Thank you for sharing this story about your dad.
By A Smith
January 24, 2008 2:55 PM | Link to this
What a blessing to read about the closeness of a father and son. My dad loved fishing too, and since he wasn’t blessed to have a son to fish with, as a daughter, did my best to be his fishing buddy. We had many great fishing trips, mostly to the canals of Yuma County, AZ. Mostly, I remember his patience of how he would no more than get his line in the water till he’d have to put his pole down to once again untangle my line! Thanks for another chance to remember the good ol’ days of fishing with my dad!
By Lynn Marcell
January 28, 2008 2:31 PM | Link to this
Great story Scott. Dad would have loved it. I love you dearly. I will make sure the tackle box gets down to Georgia.