That knife above isn’t much to look at. A bone handle yellowed from age and contact with a fisherman’s hand. A small blade, with much of its essence sacrificed from sharpening. But each time I open the tackle box and see dad’s old knife, I think of him. How he transmitted a love of stream fishing. How he showed me the courage a man should have. How he demonstrated sacrificing for others. How he gave me that knife when emphysema robbed him of the ability to journey to his beloved Sierra Nevada Mountains. Each look keeps those memories fresh, makes me appreciate him more, and restores...