The condo on “The Lake” had been furnished as a sales model, which was no more than a minor inconvenience to me as I performed a home inspection. I smiled at the large plastic faux flat screen television that helped create a pleasant and inviting atmosphere. The rest of the furnishings were beautiful and well done.
I set up my computer on the kitchen counter top and began my routine. About an hour later I had made my way to the front, left bedroom. As I scanned the ceiling and walls, I noticed a map of Lake Martin as one of the decorations. At the bottom was a list of interesting facts. (Over forty thousand acres of surface area, over seven hundred miles of shore line, built in 1926 at a cost of twenty million dollars, the largest man-made body of water at the time of its construction, etc.)
As part of the decorations on the map, the artist had “sprinkled” a few fishing lures around the picture. There were several models from the fifties and sixties. At the top, right corner were a couple of plump little fish shaped lures pictured lying on their sides. The name could be read across the bottom of the belly on one of them. “Sonic”.
Suddenly, it was as if a switch had been flipped in my mind. The memories of childhood crashed from the hidden recesses of the brain to which they had been relegated for years and flooded in a rush to my consciousness. For a moment, I actually felt that thrill of anticipation that used to run through me at the thought of going fishing with my father. There was the old green tackle box that belonged to Dad. Each little black compartment that was exposed when the trays were unfolded held some form of magic. There was the Dalton Special, Jitterbug, Sonar, Hellbender, Zara Spook, Crème plastic worms and a little cardboard box with a cellophane window that held the Heddon Sonic.
We were not allowed to meddle with the tackle box, but watching Dad sort through it produced that level of longing that kids feel when observing the revered objects that are reserved for adults. One day, I would replace the little cigar box with its scant collection of Dad’s discarded lures which served as my tackle box with one like his!
The box was a veritable treasure chest to me. There was a bobber made from a porcupine quill and in the large space in the bottom was a little glass jar containing “Uncle Josh’s” pork skin frogs. What lurking bass could possibly resist one of these swimming across his lair? “Dad! Can I have one of these? Please?” “Not now, son. It would dry out. Maybe when we go fishing.” Yeah! When we go fishing! There was a Mitchell 33 spinning reel and extra spools of line. On the days when we were actually preparing for a trip, Dad would place his beautiful little .22 Colt Woodsman in the bottom, in case of snakes! Wow! I hoped we would see a snake so I could watch Dad dispatch it, but it never happened.
In truth, the critical contents of that box, as far as Dad was concerned were size 10, long shanked hooks, split shots, bright orange slide on “corks” and needle nosed pliers. For all of the flash and magic of the box, Dad was a bream fisherman at heart. He could present a cricket to a bream bed with surprising accuracy using a long, fiberglass cane pole. The huge, black bream in my grandfather’s Georgia pond would make the line sing as they raced in circles and the cane pole vibrated and bent to the fight.
As I stood before that simple wall decoration, I could see it all. I could feel it! Dad, Grandpa, my brother Dwight. The little drab green Arkansas Traveler boats. The dark, mysterious water of the pond hidden in the Georgia pines. The smells of pine straw, bream beds and finally of fish on my hands.
I felt tears come to my eyes and realized that I am fast coming to the “sentimental old fool” stage of life. The love of a father for his sons was so tangible at that moment and the desperate need to feel the security and happiness of unburdened childhood was overwhelming. “I miss you, Dad”, I whispered out loud and turned from the Sonic to face my middle aged reality.
Hal F. Leary