Delving Into Fishing Lures
We relished fishing together in those days, Justin Tull and I. And part of the adventure was swapping fishing lures. Getting the best deal required considerable strategy in planning and executing the most persuasive sales pitches.
We purchased few lures. But when seasons of drought lowered the level of Lucas Pond, lures once claimed by underwater hazards would gradually peek from the water. We patiently waited, anxious to brave gooey mud and slithering serpents to rescue marooned treasure.
Other lost lures dangled from branches like cherries, just beyond the reach of older fishermen unwilling to risk life and limb to retrieve them. But to boys energized by empty pockets and indestructible youth, they were ready for the picking.
Our posturing would begin with superlative claims of each lure's mystique in fooling the wily bass alleged to haunt the depths of Lucas Pond. And whenever mutual expectations had been suitable elevated, I would trudge from West 11th Avenue to the Tull home on Pine Street for a season of haggling.
In the truest form of Wall Street brokers, deals would be cut--and baits would change hands--according to rather ambiguous assignments of value. A Lucky 13 might be had for a Devil's Horse and a Hawaiian Wiggler. Two or three older baits with rusty hooks could possibly redeem a newer one without such obvious defects.
One worrisome detail continued to nag our finagling: how to get something for old baits that neither of us wanted. But being a shrewd trader, Justin fell upon a solution. He had another trading partner who was a bit naive, a gullible sort of fellow who would eagerly exchange two new baits for one of our beat-up castoffs. Though Justin quietly chuckled over this good fortune, I expect it stung his conscience to take advantage of his own father, Wade Tull.
Mr. Tull puzzled us. He actually preferred our throwaways and never even blinked when we brazenly exploited his cheerful simplicity. And everyone was happy with the deals. What could be better?
Whenever a morning's fishing yielded a couple of one-pound bass, Justin and I rejoiced. But we never quite figured out how Mr. Tull and his old baits could consistently pull in three-pounders at midday. Luck, we assumed. Fish, at least according to our understanding of them, were supposed to be sleeping at that time.
We would eventually realize that Mr. Tull carried something else to the pond besides a tackle box of scruffy lures: experience. And experience is a willing teacher who helps her students recognize value in what others overlook--and reel in the best from life.
Copyright 2002 James McAlister
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