At five, six or seven bucks a pop for the cranks-baits and various other lures, a few bucks for that collection of jig heads, a few buck more for another of another color, a another size — pretty soon, we’re talking some serious money.
All of this brings me to a memory of my dad.
A casual angler by most measures, with a couple of sons with a budding interest in fishing in a nearby lake, he initially maintained an open door policy to the modest contents of his tackle box. But that largess came to a swift end when on a fishing trip to northern Minnesota with some pals, he opened his tackle box to discover that his sons had virtually emptied it.
Thereafter, the steel, turquoise-green box was officially declared off limits. His message was clear: If his boys were going to be fishermen, they should be/would be responsible for buying our own tackle.
Fifty years later, I’m still buyin’.
John Cross is a Free Press staff writer. Contact him at 344-6376 or by e-mail at email@example.com.