THE GREEN TACKLE BOX

I opened the closet door and there sat my husband's scratched, abandoned and faded green tackle box.

A flood of memories came rushing out when I lifted the lid. This wasn't just any old box holding hooks, lines, sinkers and colorful lures. It was one of my links to the happy days I had spent with my husband.

Fishing was Norm's form of meditation, a respite from a busy and stressful week at his medical office. He told me he could feel as close to God in the out-of-doors as in the most beautiful man-made cathedral. He felt at peace in a fishing boat or sitting by a river or stream. He soaked in the beauty of nature in the clouds, the sleepy lagoons, under cypress trees laden with Spanish moss and in babbling mountain brooks. Casting his line in the Louisiana bayous or Lake Pontchartrain seemed like a little bit of Heaven to him.

Early in our marriage, we spent many evenings together fishing on the bank of our farm pond, allowing the sun go to sleep behind our back. Conversation was often unnecessary. We sat and listened to the distant call of a raincrow, nearby crickets, frogs, and other night creatures as they engaged in their own communication.

Total strangers seemed to trust us as long as we carried our fishing rods and the old green tackle box. Once we were on a trip in West Virginia and came upon a small insignificant farmhouse nestled in a secluded valley. The surrounding hills were decked out in autumn finery, and behind the house was a creek with cool mountain water bubbling over rocks as smooth as a baby's bottom.

As we approached the house to ask permission to fish, the front door opened and a graying, sun-wrinkled and slightly stooped man came out, letting the screen door bang behind him. We were greeted like beloved relatives arriving for Sunday dinner.

He welcomed us to fish for as long as we liked. "If you get tired, come to the house for a glass of iced tea," he told us.

To get to the creek, we made our way along the edge of a garden that permeated the air with the fragrance of ripe tomatoes and green onions. The path was lined with zinnias in a myriad of colors, along with orange and yellow marigolds bright enough to shame the sun.

The afternoon passed quickly, and before we knew it, we'd caught a mess of trout. On the way back to our car, Norm knocked on the screen door to thank the man for sharing his fish with us.

His wife, dressed in a freshly ironed cotton floral dress as colorful as her garden, appeared at the door. She insisted we join them for a glass of tea.

We sat in their swing, sipped on the delicious tea, and listened attentively while she and her husband talked about their peaceful life and their grandchildren. We laughed at their stories, especially those about their faithful old hound dog's encounters with skunks and raccoons.

It wasn't until they invited us to stay for "a bite of supper" that we became aware of the late hour.

Norm and I were total strangers whose only calling card was an old green tackle box. Yet, this sweet couple welcomed us into their small but abundant world and gave us an afternoon to place in our memory scrapbook.