The Tackle Box

I was spring cleaning and came across an old tackle box. The sight of it carried me back to my college days.


Simply put, I had no interest in going to college. It was, however, the best alternative for me. So to college I went.

As a quiet person, I found campus life difficult. In the span of two and a half years, I attended three colleges. The (fourth) college that I finally settled into and enjoyed was across the Potomac River from where I grew up, so I commuted the twenty-some minutes from home the last year and a half of my four-year college experience.

During that time, my Dad sometimes took me trapping or fishing. Neither Dad nor I are big on talking, so the companionable silence mingled with occasional words of instruction suited us both.

I remember the day that Dad got out his old tackle box. I watched as he filled it with necessities like fishing line, hooks, bobbers, sinkers, pliers, and lure. Then he handed me the tackle box and told me that it was mine.

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