Papaw’s Pocket Fisherman was a gift from Aunt Citter. She bought it from Woolworths Department Store where she was employed. We loved her never-ending bounty of bringing stuff home, usually outdated magazines and toys from the five and dime shelf. Some of us didn’t notice the corners where she clipped the date or the price—the spring edition for Christmas, the dollar toy discounted for a dime. Those who did notice pretended not to. The cheap surprises lasted long enough to break, but the warm, scented hug that came with them lasted a lifetime. On this day, Aunt Citter splurged and brought home a handy, dandy Ronco Pocket Fisherman.     

Soon after, Papaw and I expedited to the pond. Pond expeditions always involved fishing but not always fish, despite our expertise. From the bank he weighted the line of Citter’s gadget, baited the hook and cast it where the sun didn’t shine. “Hold this,” he said, interrupting me as I fastened a bobber onto my Zebco. “No true fisherman would be caught dead using this gizmo.” While he fetched his cane pole, I felt the Ronco quiver and pull. The bobber ducked. My heart shimmied. The bream darted through the reeds. The line zipped and sang. Aunt Citter’s voice shrilled in my ear then broke off in my head. The crank had jammed; the line had snapped. Her hug squeezed tight around my gut but sweet, long and lasting around the day.