Fishing Through My Junk Drawer

Fishing Through My Junk Drawer
by  DMichaels

If home is where the heart is; which room are you most likely to find it? I'd have to say for me it would be the kitchen. That's never more true than during a holiday. In the kitchen family and friends gather for warm drinks, the oven bakes goodies, and as sure as geese fly south, there are those midnight trips to the refrigerator. Yes, much like the human heart, the kitchen provides life, love and memories.   

But there's a place in the heart of where I live that I don't like. It's where I stash things, and every now and then returning to dig them out. The place, well- it's what I call the "junk drawer". 

I hate my junk drawer because it is full of junk, it's hard to open, and it's even harder to close. My junk drawer always needs cleaning out. As you go through life, you accumulate things, and from time to time you have to stop and figure out where to put it all. A decision most people don't like to make. I think there's a universal law that goes something like this: to make room for more, something has to go. This especially applies to the junk drawer. The junk drawer is a purgatory for things that will eventually be kept or tossed. Instead of junk drawer, it should probably be called, the drawer of indecision. 

One Thanksgiving Eve my sleek euro design electric can opener broke, and I was forced to rummage through my drawer of indecision in search of the old hand crank model.

Inside my drawer, it seems that the plug of an extension cord, was caught between the claws of a hammer, and the cord, with the help of some thread, had lassoed itself around most of the contents in the drawer. The hammer served as an anchor holding the whole mess together. It had formed a tumbleweed of sorts, a tumbleweed with all the little "just can't live withouts" and the "have to haves" picked-up over the years. Most were useless and needed to be dealt with, but some were full of memories. All these items had one thing in common; they were trapped and waiting for their final destiny. 

Certain the can opener was trapped somewhere inside, I ran my hand into the tumbleweed grasped and pulled. The amount of resistance was tremendous. The thought that it had somehow grown and wrapped itself around the plumbing underneath my house flashed through my mind, and for a split second fear shot through me as I questioned my method of search and rescue. However, luck was on my side. In the small dark corner of the drawer I saw what appeared to be a distress signal. It was a shiny object reflecting light, untouched and well out of the reach of Knotzilla. I shoved my hand deeper into the drawer of indecision until my fingers found what I thought was the can opener. I squeezed and immediately felt pain. I knew what I had found, and it wasn't the can opener. 

I pulled out my painful catch, shoved the tumbleweed from hell back, and forced the drawer shut with my hip. Instead of the can opener, I had saved a fishing lure. The hook stuck in my skin the same way it had a long time ago. I looked at the lure, and instantly went back to the time when I first picked it up. 

"Boy-- It's the red and green one, the third one on the left--  the top tray. Hurry!" Since I was color blind, they all pretty much looked the same to me. But I could count. I found it, picked it up, and a barb on one of the hooks pierced and hung in my six-year-old skin. 

"Hurry!" My dad said again. He was standing in our old boat, holding a fishing pole, watching the water splash just off the wooded shoreline.  With no time to remove the hook caught in my finger, I held my hand out and closed my eyes, ready for the pain. Without noticing my predicament, dad quickly yanked the fishing lure, tearing through the first thin layer of skin. Back in those days, boys didn't cry, especially in front of their dads.

"Are you ok," he asked tying the lure to the fishing line. 

Tears welled in my eyes, but didn't fall. I watched dad finish tying the knot, bite off the excess line and cast the lure. Just as it hit the water his arms snapped back and with a smile he said, "Got em." 

Watching Dad set the hook and catch the fish made me forget all about my hand. I looked and there was no blood. The little prick had caused just enough pain to permanently etch that fishing trip into my memory. 

My dad loved fishing. The last time we talked, it was about fishing. He had been sick for a long time. While in the hospital and heavily sedated he said, "Son, I've caught alot of fish in my life." 

"Yes you have Dad, you sure have", I said, not knowing when I left his side that night I would never speak to him again. That's me, often failing to see the bigness of a situation. 

The entire time he battled cancer, I never saw him cry. Men from his generation, never cried, especially in front of their sons.

Now looking at the lure, I realized that no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I tug; I can't break free from my dad. He won't let go. And you know what... neither will I. Looking at the lure, I remember just how much my dad loved me, and my eyes well with tears, but from a different kind of pain.

I don't like my junk drawer. It's full of stuff and it's hard to open. Once it's open, it's even harder to close. From time to time you must open your junk drawer, if not to make room... then to remember. And sometimes you have to throw something away, but not today, and not this lure. I've made my decision. As my dad would say," This is a keeper."