Gone Fishin'

Damion

Once home, Oliver went inside to pack us a lunch for our fishing trip. I was still stuffed from breakfast, but he needed something to do, and it would keep him occupied while I dug through the fishing gear that was probably older than I was.

I pulled out what I could find. I was not impressed. I found my old tackle box from twenty years ago and carried it outside to rummage through it. “Gross,” I muttered, finding an old carton of what had been worms at one point.

I was busy trying to untangle fishing line without getting a hook caught in my thumb when Oliver came outside to see what I was doing. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to an old pack of hooks that were yellowed and faded.

“Hooks. For the poles.”

He scrunched up his nose, taking in the assortment of what could only be seen as garbage. “How old is that?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, probably fifty years or so. Most of this is Grandpa’s. I used to use it, but I’m not sure about this reel.”

He let out a big sigh. “How are