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The real truth smells a little fishy   Like the once rare, vanishing American plains buffalo, small bait and tackle stores are fast becoming a rare entity. We must do something to help preserve this segment of American heritage. Here's what I'm doing. I hereby proclaim 1998, National Tribute year for all bait shops and tackle dealers. I'm not talking about the big joints with kids wearing the fancy 5th world gym shoes. I'm not talking about the discount giants that carry some fishing tackle situated right next to the designer-label t-shirts and sweat pants. I'm talking about the real McCoy, the places where your grandfather used to frequent. These are the baits shop and tackle stores that smell and look like fishing hangouts. Many of you grew up fishing with a parent or grandparent. Chances are if you spent any time near the Fox Chain, the "old man" made it a point to stop in to see some friends at the various bait shops scattered throughout Cook, Lake and McHenry Counties. The routine was always the same with my father. He knew how much a dozen nightcrawlers cost. He always had the latest price for a dozen red worms tucked into his memory. He could tell anyone how much the shiners were, versus the fathead minnows. No deviation and certainly no hesitation. "How much this morning for 3 dozen fats," he would inquire, under the single light bulb next to the minnow tank. "Same as it always is Irv," the owner would reply as he filled the old metal minnow bucket with water. ..Anyway, this National Bait and Tackle Tribute Month is long over due. Who else but a bait and tackle shop owner would chain himself to his business seven days a week? Why would anyone in their right mind want to spend 12 hours or more with 5,000 night crawlers and 3,000 red worms? What thrills can be attained from constantly dipping one's hands into ice cold water, loading bucket-after-bucket with smelly bait fish? "You got some *##$%* nerve charging so much money for wigglers," came the stream of expletives from one gentleman who would rather argue about the price of everything instead of actually going fishing. "How come you don't open up at 3 a.m.?", from another person with absolutely no family life at all. And these are the mild questions and demands heaped upon a shop owner long before the sun creeps over the horizon. A local bait shop has been part of Americana long before I ever picked up a rod and reel. These shops are gathering places for people to buy their tackle and have new fishing line put on a reel. Friends meet to swap tales, have cups of coffee, or just hang out. They are the center of the universe for a lot of people. Anglers will carefully select their favorite bait, like minnows, wax worms, red worms, leaf worms, dilly worms, maggots, suckers, soft-shell crawfish, frozen craws, and frozen smelt. They'll load up on frozen candy bars, that when forgotten, will ultimately melt in the car's glove box. The shop proprietor is a hero when he gets your reel fixed in record time. He's a life-saver when he's able to replace a tip-top guide that you knocked off when you slammed the rod in your trunk lid. And he's bum when he opens the door at 5:01 instead 4:55 in the morning. He doesn't get the great discount advantages like the big boys in the shopping malls or centers when it comes to buying tackle to sell to you. But he always knows what lake is hot and what lure is doing a number on walleyes. He knows where the big bluegills hang out. You won't get that expertise from the pimply-faced kid with the buzz-cut hair style. "How they hitting," some asks? "They're killing `em," he answers with all the enthusiasm of a home plate umpire calling strike three! Boy, you can't wait for that first cast. I jokingly tell the story when I once had to run into one of those giant discount, mass-merchandise stores. Out of breath and late for a meeting on the water, I asked the young man behind the counter where I could find a Suick (muskie lure)? He pointed across the aisle and said, "over there, in the automotive department." That was the last time I went in there. Now I have nothing against saving a few bucks on anything I buy. When I'm on the road it's sometimes tough to find a bait shop or small tackle dealer, so I'll pop into one of the jumbo stores and buy what I needed that I left behind in my basement. If you are an angler who loves fishing as much as me, you just have to love the ever-present aromas of the typical bait shop. If you are the kind of a person who travels long distances to save two bucks on a rod while burning up a tank of gas in the process, you are beyond my words. We need to say thank you to the folks who own and operate the bait shops and tackle store, for being open 7 days a week, and sometimes 12 hours a day. They say thank you to us all the time at the cash register. Keep this in mind. When these bait shops and tackle stores close their doors forever because you're eager to use-up that tank of gas, there won't be anyone eager to step in and keep the home fires burning. That's why I'll tip my hat to these people 12 months of the year. I suspect this sounds pretty corny, but what the heck, a little corn now and then is not so bad.