The Red Tackle Box

The Red Tackle Box
by: Timothy S Pruitt

A thin ribbon of bright sunshine shot through the faded blue curtains of my bedroom window and found its way to my eye, rousing me from a deep sleep. I raised my hand in defense of the laser that threatened to blind me and focused on recalling who and where I was. Reality tightened its grip and forced my return to this world like a warp jump from a faraway place. I threw back my covers, a light blue sheet and gray wool military blanket with the letters “USN” printed on it, but now fading after years of use. I rubbed my fingers across the letters and I would imagine my Paternal Grandfather, whom everyone called, “Buck”, aboard the USS Enterprise during the Battle of Santa Cruz manning a quadruple barrel 28mm antiaircraft cannon, shooting down Mitsubishi Zeros like fish in a barrel, ultimately being a huge part in the salvation of Guadalcanal. I could see him standing there, blood smeared across his face, bare chested, flipping off Yamamoto and screaming, “Is that all ya got, ya big meatball?”.
I sighed, scooted off my bed and stretched while standing on the very tips of my toes in some unexplained morning ritual that I somehow believed would make me taller, quicker. Slipping my jeans on, T-shirt and a ragged old pair of red Converse gym shoes, I made my way down the hall while the echoes of the USS South Dakota’s 16 inch guns faded away.
My Father was sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in one hand and an avocado green Tupperware coffee mug in the other. A Viceroy cigarette lay smoldering in a huge glass ashtray. A pack of Viceroy with a chrome Zippo lighter perched atop them, and sat near the ashtray. Dad wore a pair of powder blue shorts, white socks and tennis shoes. His white Polo shirt’s collar came in contact with his Elvis styled sideburns, causing him to periodically adjust the collar so it didn’t irritate him. I sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table, quietly, hands in my lap, and watched him. He was extremely methodical, taking a drag from the smoke, holding it for about two seconds and then placing it back into one of the little cut out places on the edge of the ashtray, then he would exhale and pick up the coffee mug, take a sip, and hold it for about two seconds as well, before putting it down, then turn the page of the newspaper. Dad sometimes talked to the paper, but not in complete conversations, mind you, but in snippets of broken thought. “Well of course you didn’t.”, he would suddenly exclaim, breaking the silence with a sentence that made absolutely no sense. Sometimes they would and you garnered a tiny bit of knowledge about my dad that way. “That damned Nixon!” was how I learned that my Father was no fan of then President Richard Nixon. When he was distraught with what he was reading, he would “pop” the paper before he turned the page. It was a trick I learned to use as a gauge for when and when not to ask my Father for something. It wasn’t long before I learned to dislike Nixon as well.
I looked around and realized that my Step Mother and half-sister were not home. I dare not ask, but assumed they were at “Paw-Paw” Smith’s house, my Step Mother’s Father, were they often went on weekends, or to the hair salon or grocery store maybe.
Dad suddenly popped the paper and closed it, and stood up. He glanced at me as he walked over to the Mr. Coffee machine and poured another cup. Dad was one of those “real men” that drank his coffee black. I watched as he tilted the mug and drank the hot coffee. On his wrist was an antique Bulova with a Speidel “Twist-o-flex” watchband. The watch had been his Father’s and was given to him after my Grandfather passed away. Even though my Father, a watchmaker, had a command of endless, expensive watches, he chose to wear his Father’s watch as long as I knew him. Even after going to Switzerland and becoming a genuine Rolex repairman, he still wore his Father’s watch.
I watched as he took the last of the coffee in the mug, looked into it, I suppose either out of habit or to be sure it was all gone, and then walk over to the kitchen sink. Between the double sink sat a wash rag that stayed there, moistened and soapy, at the ready for whatever needed cleaning. Dad took the rag and cut on the hot water and washed his coffee mug and gently placed it into the drying rack where it belonged. He then folded the rag and placed it where it had been as well. Turning around he faced me and spoke for the first time. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school or something?” he asked me. I told him that no, Sir, it was Saturday, there was no school today. “Hmph!” he grunted, and headed to the front door. He reached and got his wallet and keys from the table that sat beside the door, then with one foot on the step, one hand on the door knob, peered back at me and asked, “Do you need a written invitation?” I said, “No Sir!” and jumped up to follow him out the door. I had learned the hard way that I was not to speak until I was spoken to. It wasn’t strange really, several of my male friends at school stated they lived under the same rule at their homes. Dad also believed in corporal punishment, and when I deserved it, and I did on multiple occasions, he was not afraid to provide me with a proper learning experience.
Outside I expected Dad to get in the car and for me to as well. Instead he walked to the back of the 1965 Buick Wildcat convertible and popped the trunk. I walked to the trunk as well, and there atop the clean black carpet were two fiberglass fishing poles complete with Zebco 33 casting reels on them. A red tackle box sat neatly beside them. Dad stood there with one hand on the trunk lid and the other in his pocket. I can still see the smile that slowly broke across his face, revealing the chipped front tooth that he had broken while eating pork rinds some time back. “Well, what do you think?” he asked me. I was stunned, not ready for anything like this. I didn’t know what to say, so something like, “Wow!” was about all I could manage. Dad laughed a little and told me to pick up the tackle box and carry it. “Are you serious?” I thought to myself, “Dad has bought fishing poles and now we’re going to go fishing? Just the two of us?” My mind raced into overdrive. This couldn’t be happening, it wasn’t real, I had to be dreaming!”
We walked down the trail that led to the pond behind our house side by side. Normally I walked behind my Father, that was my place. That day, however, oh that glorious day, I walked beside him like friends do, on our way to the pond. I remember looking over at my Dad and thinking how strong he was; how smart he was. He was a mathematician and could do entire formulas in his head! I could think of no one that I would want to be like more than he. He was my Hero. I’d seen dad once have to deal with a young man half his age that’d had too much to drink and wanted to fight my dad. Dad tried unsuccessfully to persuade that young man to go sit down, that he was drunk. That guy followed us out of the restaurant and attacked Dad from the rear. My mouth had to be wide open as my Father turned around and threw a heavy right and then a left followed by an upper cut that sent that guy into a brick wall and onto the ground, out cold! I had no idea my dad could box! Furthermore, he was really good at it! Dad picked a place on the bank of the pond that he thought was good and we sat, together, while he slowly explained the gear to me, how it worked, and the names of all the parts of the reel. He slowly showed me how to make knots, what the names of them were and why one was better than another for some things. After attaching the artificial bait, he patiently taught me how to cast and how to make to the little fake broken minnow appear to be trying to swim, to get attention from the fish. After a while he caught a fish! Then moments later I reeled in the first fish of my life, a little bream, or sun perch as some call them. I was beside myself! I stood there and watched the dragonfly play with the tip of my pole and the sounds of nature all around me. In the distance I could hear a lawn mower running, and some kids in the empty lot playing baseball. There was no place I would rather have been than right there with my Dad on the bank of that tiny pond, fishing. It was the best day ever! I can remember almost every minute of it. I can see dad laughing and joking with me as I learned to cast by myself and when I caught an old boot I thought he would pass out from laughing so hard. “Great catch, Son!” he said. But to this day I relish in the way he said, “Son”. It echoes in my mind. There was no anger in it, he was smiling and laughing when he said it. He was having a great time. Just he and I, Father and Son on a Saturday afternoon. It is a memory that I will cherish forever.
We lost my Dad to Cancer on the third of May, 1992. It was horrible watching the giant man that was my Father slowly deteriorate, losing his mental capabilities, day by day. Cancer is like that, it’s cruel, it won’t take you, it has to punish you and all who love you. It has to twist you and suck life out of you as well. I hate cancer, it sucks.
I choose not to remember my Dad that way, I don’t think he’d want me to. I choose to remember my Father like he was on that Saturday afternoon in June where just he and I went fishing as Father and Son. On a day filled with love and admiration and not one cross word was spoken. Just me and my Hero wetting a line.
Some days are pretty tough on me. I’m nowhere where I thought I’d be in life at this point. I am not near the man my Father was, and I will never be. There are days that things really get to me, days that I don’t know how I will get to the end of them. But when it gets so bad I don’t think I can handle it, I remind myself of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ and that he suffered far more than I ever will just for me. I am not worthy of that, but he did it anyway. I can never repay that debt. But on the really bad days, when the tinnitus keeps me from sleep and my back is on fire, I close my eyes and I go back to that wonderful June afternoon and walk down that path with my dad, carrying that red tackle box. I can hear his laughter and feel his arm around my shoulder again. I can feel the warm sunshine on my face and hear my Fathers voice tell me, “It’s okay, Son, it’s okay.” …and then, he smiles at me, and…. everything is okay. I thank God for that moment in time.
One day when I leave this world, I hope and pray that Heaven includes that tiny pond at the base of Sand Mountain, Georgia, and I can fish with my dad there and just feel his big ol’ hand on top of my head just one more time.
I miss you and I love you so very much, Dad!