ICE FISHING BY STEVE REYNOLDS

SHORT STORIES AND TALL TALES

I rummaged through stuff in the basement for my tackle box, a thing of dust and two-tone green plastic last seen hidden among odd tools and an assortment of spray cans on top of the refrigerator in the basement.

I deftly removed the tackle box from the tall timber of spray cans. Blew the dust from it in a strong single breath and set it on the layout table nearby.

I knew I had seen my ice fishing rod somewhere recently. It is a one foot handle of five-eighth inch wooden dowel with the sharp end of a headless nail protruding about two inches from one end and a one f...