It was early May 1968. I was digging through my father?s old tackle box and reminiscing. My dad and I had spent many days and nights fishing together. We caught every fish that swam in the Kickapoo River.

We wandered to the Mississippi and caught everything from mammoth sheep head to tiny perch. Every moment was etched in my memory.

I opened a reel box in the tackle box and just sat there and stared at it. I thought my mom had lost it or some bargain hunter had purchased it from my mom.