The man I got these old fishing lures from told me stories of how he got them from his Grandpaw. I deal in old things. Mostly home decor. But, I cannot resist old fishing lures. When I see the mist in this old guy’s eyes as he talks about fishing with his grandfather, I feel a connection. To him and to this tackle box full of flies and rubber frogs and spinnerbaits and bombers. I am 5 years old again. It is early morning and I’m sitting in a small boat with my father trolling through the dark waters of a river. Trees heavy with moss bend over the water as we cut a path to my father’s favorite fishing spot. Even at a young age, I know this is the time to be quiet. This is the time to be patient as the boat slows, the engine dies and we drift. I hear the soft lapping of the water on the side of the boat. I see my father picking his way through his tackle box. I hear the zizzz of the cast and then the slow tick-tick of the reel. It is a time for patience. My father is lost in thought and I, just a little girl, feel safe being next to this big, quiet person. Suddenly there’s the splash and the clicking of the reel gets faster as I watch the line speed from the water. A silvery, slippery fish dangles in mid-air and lands in the boat. I gasp! Then I gawk as my father holds it in his hand and shows me the tiny scales, the spiny fins. Don’t touch it! It needs those scales to stay in place. I nod. I understand. Its little eyes are wide and its little mouth is desperately opening and closing. My father carefully removes the barbed hook from its mouth and in one fluid motion submerges it into the water, where it wobbles and then elegantly slides back into the darkness.

I don’t fish. But I know it is a worthy endeavor. It is a peaceful activity and I have witnessed even the most frenetic of individuals achieve great calm from it. My older brother as a teenage boy, fishing off the tall Jolly Roger Pier at Topsail Island. My younger brother fly fishing along the James River. When I was first married my husband and I would go to his parents’ lake house where he would fish from the bank and I would read my books. Fishing always happens in quiet places; the places I love best. 

Each little lure is a work of art created by someone who knows the way fish think. They know that some fish love to go after shiny things, some want bugs that dance on top of the water. Some fish want to look in the eyes of their prey. Some want to search in underwater grasses. Before I list these little lures for sale, I clean each one and I think of the person standing on the shore or in the rushing stream or on the pier on stilts above the ocean waves and I admire their ability to forget time and place and get what I long for; peace of mind.