FishRook
I made a trip to the place I grew up this past February, and on a cold north Alabama day I was kicking around in our old workshop, now fallen to packrats and squirrels and jumbles of rusted chainsaw chains and logging cables and parts of tractors long ago sold or junked. On a shelf above the row of coffee cans nailed to the wall and full of old bolts and nuts and washers was my second tackle box—a multi-tray yellow plastic model with the Bass Angler’s Sportsman’s Society (B.A.S.S.) sticker still resplendent on the lid.
There was not much usable tackle in it (48 years represents a lot of attrition). I don’t know what I had expected to find in there, after all these years, but the sticker took me back to 1974, the year my parents bought me a membership to B.A.S.S. for my tenth birthday. The tackle pack that came with that membership was as good…
