At Long Last

Three years ago when Jeckle and I had to remove/rescue our parents from the house because Hyde was no longer helpful or sane and they were no longer able to function (Daddy had fallen and couldn't get up and Hyde basically told him he was tired of him "faking it" and called Jeckle to come get him; Mom was wandering around in 7 pairs of dirty underwear and feeding the cat bananas), we decided it would be prudent to remove all of the guns from the house. Hyde seemed a tad bit unstable, afterall, and was already standing out at the road pretending to shoot passersby; he needed no real ability to do so.

Anyway, we got all of Daddy's guns out, we thought. Until Daddy informed us there was one gun unaccounted for. Where was it? Had Hyde taken possession? Would he use it in a heinous crime against himself or others? It became yet one more anxiety-producing element in the unfolding drama. It became an oft-repeated question between Jeckle and myself: Where is the gun?

So, remember all the tackle boxes? Tonight I was looking through them again, marveling at the sheer amount of lures, spinners, rubber worms, hooks, and lead sinkers, when all of the sudden, I knew. First I came across the long, thin-bladed knife used to clean fish. Then I saw the rag lump. And felt it. And picked it up. This was no bag of sinkers. But it was heavy. And inside of the rag was a plastic bag. And inside the plastic bag was a blue zippered bank bag (one that a business would use to transport its petty cash). And, lo and behold, inside the bag was the gun.

"I found the gun!" I yelled triumphantly. And as I held it in my hand, I remembered this very gun, in this very bag during one of my fishing trips with my Daddy.