My grandfather gave me a tacklebox for my birthday seven years ago. I had never gone fishin’ before so that summer we went up north, where the horseflies are the size of biplanes and the days last a lifetime. The first cast of the day drifted in a lazy arc over the water, the bright green lure spinning through the humid air. To my embarrasement, and Gramps poorly concealed delight, I promply lost that lure.
I actually just replaced that lure. For the seventh time.