Every summer of my youth was defined by that smell, waking up at 4:30 AM while the rest of the world was still asleep, slipping into the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, and heading out to the water.
My dad wasn't a man of many words. Instead, he spoke in the quiet rhythm of a casting reel and the patient silence of waiting for a bite.
But if you really wanted to know my dad, you didn't look at his face—you looked at his tackle box.
It was an old, olive-green Plano box, scratched and faded from decades of sun exposure. The plastic latches had a distinct, heavy clack when they opened, a sound that to this day means "adventure" to me. Inside, it was a beautifully chaotic archive of his life. It smelled like rubber worms, machine oil, and a lifetime of Saturdays.
There were tiers of colorful lures—bright plastic minnows with chipped paint from the teeth of largemouth bass, rusted spinners, and hand-tied flies. He knew the story behind every single piece. “That one caught the three-pounder at Great Hill Lake,” he’d say, pointing a calloused finger at a faded yellow popper. That tackle box was his treasury, and the time we spent hovering over it, picking just the right rig for the morning, was where we built our world.
When he passed away, I didn't want his watch or his truck. I asked for the olive-green tackle box.
For a long time, it sat on a shelf in my garage. Every now and then, I’d open it just to catch a drift of that familiar scent and feel close to him again. But as the years went on, I wanted a piece of that history—and a piece of him—that I could carry with me out into the world, not just leave sitting on a shelf.
That was when I realized ashes.LOVE can make a custom inlay ring!
My eyes widened!
I took the treasured tackle box down, clicked open the latches, and carefully selected an old, classic brass treble hook. It was one he had used a thousand times, its edges softened by years of water and wear. I mailed it to Jim and Leslie who specialized in memorial resin work. They took a cross-section of the hook's shank, polishing the metal until it caught the light like the surface of the lake at sunrise, and embedded it into a dark, weathered wood inlay band.
Now, the ring never leaves my finger.
When I look down at my hand, I don’t just see a piece of jewelry. I see a reflection of the man who raised me. I see the curve of the hook that anchored us together on those foggy summer mornings. I see how much I miss my dad!
Whenever life gets loud or overwhelming, I find myself absentmindedly spinning the ring on my finger. In those moments, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear the water lapping against the aluminum hull of the boat, feel the cool morning air on my face, and hear my dad’s quiet, steady voice cutting through the mist: "Patience, son. Just give it time." “Thank you ashes.LOVE for helping me keep our beautiful memories alive.
