The sign on Johnson’s hardware store back in the summer of 1968 read: “Gone fishing.” Mr. Johnson did not indicate where he had gone fishing or when he would be back.
My father was not happy when he saw the sign, because we had just driven seven miles into town to buy shingling nails, so that he could finish reroofing our front porch before the rain forecasted for the next day started coming down.
Time was wasting. There was no use standing around grumbling. So Dad loaded my sister and me back in his 1956 Chevy pickup. Dad retraced our tracks back to the farm, drove another 10 miles to Storm Lake, bought a sack of nails from someone he didn’t know, and then turned around and went back home to finish the roof.
Fishing notices like the one I remember seeing on the front door of the local hardware store were rare in my childhood, so l was more than a little curious as to the whereabouts of Mr. Johnson.
My dad learned the following Sunday during Men’s Bible Study that Mr. Johnson had been lured out of town by a friend who had invited him to go fishing on Lake Superior.
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