My bride loves to give me hell about all the fishing gear I leave "laying around."
"But honey," I plead, "it's my fishing Feng Shui."
I just feel better when I'm no more than an arm's length from my fishing stuff ... In a household of three women, it's my own silent protest to the feminization of just about every room in the house. Me and our old tom cat Watson, men surrounded by girls ... and girlie stuff. So I punctuate the flowery madness with my gear, much like a wild animal would mark his territory, as if to say, I am here, this is mine.
Yeah, I know, good luck.
So, I usually just go out to the garage, where, in silence, I can drink my coffee and think the thoughts (and dream the dreams) of a 37-year-old God-fearing American male. Like mentally rehearsing what gear I would pack for a roadtrip to Alaska. Or thinking about ways to mod my fish house ... And blast some Hank III from the stereo!
It's about that time that one of the girls yells for dad and it's back to some domestic chore. "Do we have any double A batteries? The WII controller doesn't work" or "Did you realize the bathtub isn't draining?"
So I fumble through my garage chaos to find the batteries I had been stockpiling for my handheld GPS and headlamps ... And where's my power drum drain auger?
But back to my wife's initial complaint: fishing gear "everywhere."
So there are a few classic lures sitting on the window sill above the kitchen sink: an old Nip-I-Diddee (the Otter Tail River bass slayer), an original "Finnish Minnow" in the box and something I found at a garage sale last summer, an old red and white Lazy Dazy.
(Blog continues below photo!)
Seriously, though, maybe I should think about cleaning house, so-to-speak. Like round up all the old lures I have strewn about and see what they're worth, not that I'd ever sell them. Just for fun. I like old things, always will. I've got lots of antique fishing gear, old analog electronics, out-of-print books, vintage guitars and amplifiers. I could say something about the legacy of American manufacturing and cheap Chinese me-too products, but I won't.Honestly, I like to look at them when I wash the dishes. It brings me back to my safe place when I can't be in the garage.
Anyway, I'm pretty sure I was born into the wrong era.
So, remember those yard sale lures YOU talked your mom into buying for a quarter? Chances are, you forgot 'em within a week because you got some newer, shinier baits. Well, these neglected stowaways of youth might be gems to some collector—and could amount to serious green in your pocket. (Or they might be worth the same quarter your mom paid for 'em.) So how do you know?