The Things that Matter

I guess I was about five years old when my dad taught me how to fish and shoot, which is about usual for a kid growing up in the South. My love of fishing began at a little “for pay” lake that was stocked with bluegills for me, and bass for dad. He fished with his spinning gear, tossing those magical lures with names like Mepps, Shyster, Dardevle, and Jitterbug. I had a little Zebco closed-face spinning reel and a kid-sized rod with a small brassy hook on the end of the line, and a red and white plastic bobber about a foot or two above the hook.

The night before fishing, we’d go out into the yard with a flashlight and an empty coffee can looking for earthworms to...

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