here is some more of the story.
We lived in a small town in north central Texas at the time. If you were driving through and you blinked you would miss it, and that was the way we liked it. School had just let out for the summer, and as we all know you cant keep young boys at home with a stake and a chain, let alone a harsh word from mom or dad. I had gotten up early the next morning, grabbed my little spin-cast rod and reel from the corner of my bedroom, my tackle box from underneath the coffee-table and out the door I went.
?Be careful!? my mom had hollered at me as I ran out across the field. My father just sat in his chair and grumbled something to him about ?wasted time?. My obsession with fishing had gotten me into trouble with my dad on more than one occasion. Its not that he didn?t like fishing, loved it actually, but I guess the pressures of adult life had started getting to him. I always knew when it was bad by the tempo at which his keys jingled on his belt-loop as he walked.
My dad had introduced me to bait-fishing at a very early age, two or three I think. So, in essence, it was really his fault that I had this obsession. He tempted me with hunting and fishing from the start, like some-one teasing a dog with a bone and only letting the dog have it when they are ready for him to. My father was good man, but life takes its tolls, as I have found out for-myself. ?Experience is a harsh but efficient teacher.? My dad always said. He was right.