Tackle Box

It was two shades of brown, scratched-up plastic
It held extra line, lures, hooks, and matches
And his last name engraved in black
Right there by the handle on the top
I’d slide it out of the back of his station wagon
Lug it down the bank with my arm dragging
And I could hardly wait for him
To lift the lid on that tackle box

Cause I’d sail with him across the South Pacific
Stand beside him on the bow of that battleship
See him kiss the ground and thank the good Lord Jesus
And watch him run to Grandma, crying on the dock
He opened up, every time he opened up
That old tackle box

He’d bait my hook and keep on telling stories
‘Bout nickel Cokes, girls, and sandlot glories
Pickup trucks and golden fields
Long before this town knew blacktop

I was almost riding with him shotgun down those dirt roads
Taking turns on a jug of homemade shine
As he raced his buddies down through Mason Holler
Filling the sky with dust and kicked up rocks
He opened up, every time he opened up
That old tackle box

He’s been gone twenty years tomorrow
And I’m still holding on to one wish
That God above could let me borrow Grandpa
For one more afternoon and one more fish

And I’d sail with him across the South Pacific
Stand beside him on the bow of that battleship
See him kiss the ground and thank the good Lord Jesus
And watch him run to Grandma, crying on the dock
He’d open up, every time he opened up
That old tackle box

Everything he loved he kept locked up in that old tackle box

It was two shades of brown scratched up plastic