I remember the first time I caught a bullhead down at the pond by my house growing up. I fell for fishing. Dad would take me out to the river, and I discovered that fishermen often go fishing for peace, not so much for fish, although they won’t complain if they get both. Well, for some time, I kept my growing stash of tackle in a plastic shopping bag. Then, one day, Dad got me a tackle box and used the gold trimmed letters used for mailboxes to put my name on it, and stocked it with some basic essentials before giving it to me. I’ll be 22 in two days, but I still have it. Every time I see it, I think of him.