Where it began

I have to talk for three minutes about an object.

I have and interview on Monday and they have asked me to bring an object in that I can talk for three minutes about. I suppose I am being graded on elocution or something. I'm hoping to eliminate "um", "like" (except in the situation where I am illustrating similarities) and "ya'know" from my vocabulary before this interview. Maybe minimize the "eh?"--no one needs to know I'm from Peterborough right away.

I've decided to talk about my old Mitchell 140G fishing reel. It will turn seventeen this year. My parents presented it to me on my seventh birthday along with a few other fishing necessities. This is the Rosborough equivalent of a Bar Mitzvah. This meant that I had come of age for the only important thing in our clan other than skating without a chair to lean on -fishing. If the image of a boy in an oversized straw hat, without shoes floating carelessly down a lazy river, pole angled nonchalantly to dangle the line into the water just popped into your head, you are sadly mistaken. For Rosboroughs, a fishing trip involves careful preparation.

The eve of the trip is fraught with nerves as reels are restrung with new or newish line. Tackle boxes are checked to ensure that each fisherman's secret has not been "borrowed" by a brother. Backpacks are slung on frames and packed methodically. Old vinegar bottles are cleaned and refilled with Gatorade, Iced Tea or some other concoction which Brent says will put hair on your chest and no one else really wants to know about. Sandwiches are packed and snacks are divided among packs. Dad points out that, "We're not going to need these, but your mother will feel better if..."

Finally, watches are synchronized and maps are packed.

The morning has always begun the same. A light tap on the bedroom door. "You up, boy?" The light in the kitchen reveals some rather Avant Garde hairstyles and faces still puffy from sleep. Drinks and any other perishables are pulled from the freezer and added to the already full packs. Belts are half removed as fishing knives and multi-tools are threaded onto them. Toast is forced down and we pile into the van as Dad lets Mom know that we are off.

Some of us doze off on the hour or so drive into a location that, if revealed here, would lose me my place at the Christmas table. Finally we arrive and, after a few last minute readjustments of packs, begin to fall into some sort of order following Dad down what could really only be called a trail in the winter. The walk in, about an hour and half, was always a humorous event. Between Dad urging everyone to keep up, people sliding off beaver dams into ponds and the constant banter up and down the line as people were criticized for everything from foot size to fishing aptitude, the walk was over before we knew it.

The shore dinners of fresh bass and fried potatoes will never be forgotten. Reeling in a whopper and seeing the looks on each others faces is one of the best experiences in the world. Seeing the sun set on the lake is breathtaking and watching it rise through the early morning fog as you reel your first fish of the day out of the water is indescribable.

I think I'm going to put the old Mitchell up on my shelf at the office after this interview.

It'll remind me to put in a few more hours on the reel that is now on my rod.