Nebraskaland

April 2026 • Nebraskaland 35 Henry Wagner's Tacklebox My wife Grace's father, Ernie Kostel, died in a farm accident when she was 2 years old. After his death, Grace, her mother Lucille and younger sister moved in with her great-uncle, Henry Wagner, at his farmhouse in eastern Charles Mix County, South Dakota. He became Grace's father figure. Henry's trade was farming, but his passion was fishing. "When he had a break from farming, he went fishing — it was his way to relax," Grace said. He fished from shore at Lake Andes and other local waters, as well as the Missouri River below Fort Randall Dam, 15 miles from his farm. Occasionally, he ventured to the glacial lakes of northeastern South Dakota. G r a c e w a s o f t e n h i s f i s h i n g companion, sitting beside him with a rod in hand or wandering the shore and nearby fields under his watchful eye. For Henry, all species were fair game. "I remember us catching pike, walleye and catfish from the river, and when I was little, he would take me to Dante Lake to catch bluegill," she said. "Our freezer was always packed with bags of bullheads for fish fries." When Henry died in 1983, the farmhouse became Lucille's. A few years ago, when she moved to town the house became ours. Along with it came Henry's three tackleboxes, which had been tucked away in a dark basement coal room, along with his fishing rods, which were leaning in a corner and strewn with spider webs. Two large plastic tackleboxes were packed with a general, ramshackle assortment of fishing gear, while a smaller metal box held large treble hooks and heavy sinkers for snagging paddlefish in the Missouri River. Although I never knew Henry, I have come to admire him through family stories about his appreciation of the farm's prairie and of hunting and fishing. Lucille's favorite story is about a summer evening when he fished the Missouri River and did not come home at his usual hour. She stayed up, worried sick that he had fallen into the river's deep, swift waters. After sunrise, he pulled into the driveway, tail tucked between his legs. His excuse: "The fish kept biting all night long." Grace has especially fond memories of Henry's tackleboxes from her childhood. On cold winter days, as Henry worked in his basement shop, she often sat nearby in front of the wood-burning stove, organizing the boxes and cleaning the lures of their s u m m e r a c c u m u l a t i o n o f g r i m e. The bright colors and artistry of the Heddon Pumpkinseeds, the Norman Scoopers and many Rapala crankbaits fascinated her. I was always puzzled by the slight, strange odor that wafted from Henry's tackleboxes. Recently, I asked Grace if she recognized the smell. She took a deep whiff from one of the boxes, pondered for a moment, and then, in a flash of remembrance, said, "It's wheel grease. As a farmer, his hands were always covered in it, and he smeared it on his lures' hooks to keep them from rusting." The odor has lingered for nearly 40 years since his passing. Lucille told me that it would "put a smile on Henry's face" if he knew I used his weights, hooks and swivels when I fish one of his old haunts — the Missouri River. Under strict orders from Grace, however, the lures and other gear will stay in the tackleboxes, as they are now family heirlooms. Someday, when someone inherits my many tackleboxes, their first thought will likely be, "He must have been a heck of a fisherman. He sure had a lot of gear, but what a hodgepodge." N

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