The 10-year journey of a fishing pole

When I walked into his bedroom and saw it on his bed, I knew immediately where he’d gotten it. And the pride in my son’s face told me exactly how much it meant to him.

This is a story about a used fishing pole, one that ended up on my son’s bed on Sept. 10, 2011. At first glance, it may appear ordinary. But this is no ordinary fishing pole. And it’s arrival in my home triggered emotions in me that are hard to describe.


I’m not sure when it was last used or even when it was manufactured, but that fishing pole’s journey to my son’s bedroom began almost 10 years ago, on Sept. 11, 2001. Yep. The day that changed everything. Allow me to explain.


When terrorists crashed planes into the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon building (and tried to crash a third into the U.S. Capitol building) the nation was changed forever. Obviously. None of us who watched it play out will ever forget it. And anyone who was there wouldn’t be able to forget it if they tried.


But for some, 9/11 meant so much more. I’m talking about our military, of course. When this country is attacked, we hit back, and it didn’t take long for us to figure out a plan to hit back. We sent our sights on Afghanistan and drove the Taliban from power, and most Americans were OK with that. Eventually, however, our then-president decided to turn our focus to Iraq, a country that had nothing to do with 9/11. I won’t get into the politics of that, because for the sake of this story, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that we chose to invade Iraq, and that required soldiers. Some of those soldiers were from our area. One of them was from my neighborhood, three blocks away. His name was Jacob Thompson.


Jacob, I’ve come to learn, was an amazing guy. He went to Monroe Elementary School, where both of my kids went. He loved being a soldier, truly believed in what he was doing. But when he wasn’t soldiering, Jacob Thompson loved nothing more than fishing. He fished with his father, Charlie Thompson, and spent much of his free time pulling sunnies out of Spring Lake in North Mankato.



Jacob was a soldier, though, and when you’re a soldier in the army of a nation at war, you go where the fighting is. In August of 2007, Thompson was searching homes with the rest of his unit when a bomb exploded, killing him and two other men.



When his body came home, the funeral attracted hundreds. Among those who spoke was Steve Miller, a teacher at Monroe who was close with Jacob, and who has taught both of my kids.



At the funeral, Miller said, “When I talked about reading, he talked about hunting with his brother. When I talked about math, he talked about fishing … In the fall, three years ago, I was teaching and we looked out the window and there was a soldier in full fatigues saluting Jacob came in the class and we talked, and he told the class what he did. One girl raised her hand and said, ‘My mom says you’re a hero.’ Jacob looked at her and said, ‘No, I’m a soldier.’”


One of the photos we ran in the paper during the time when Jacob’s body came home was one that will stick with me forever. It shows Charlie, leaning into the back of Jacob’s hearse. His face isn’t visible. As a father, I can only imagine what was going through his mind. If that were my son, I honestly don’t know how I could go on. The photo, shown below, is a powerful image, and Jacob’s death represented the first loss from our community because of the war.

After that, the next I heard about Charlie was a year or so ago when the new fishing pier was installed at Spring Lake. It was named after Jacob, and Jacob’s smiling face on a commemorative plaque greets people as they come to the pier. And, of course, you see Jacob’s name come up whenever there is mention of a 9/11 anniversary, or a list of Minnesota soldiers killed in the war.



But it wasn’t until this past spring that I, and my son, got to know Charlie personally.

He came to Steve Miller’s class one day to talk about his son, and to talk about a project he’d just started. He was making pens, he said, that he planned to give to people who had served in Iraq or Afghanistan. They were called Freedom Pens, and they were made by using rifle shells. He also mentioned that, if anyone wanted to stop by and make a pen, they could. All they had to do was write a letter to a soldier, bring it by his Cornelia Street home, and he’d let them help make a pen.



My son, sitting among the students in that class, was intrigued by this, and came home saying he really, really wanted to do this. He wrote up his own letter that his writer father did not help him with. He was so proud of his letter. It was good. And, on the first available day, he walked over to Charlie’s. He handed Charlie his letter, made that first pen and went on his way.



For most kids, it would have ended there. But Sam’s not most kids. He has a heart the size of Iowa and Charlie’s story moved him. He wanted to do more, he wanted to help more. So he asked Charlie one day if there was anything else he could do to help. And Charlie said yes.



Soon, Sam was spending a lot of his free time over at Charlie’s garage, a popular place with area kids and anyone else who has wanted to help the Freedom Pen cause. He accompanied Charlie to Mutch’s Hardware one morning, where Charlie was letting the public come and, if they brought a letter for a soldier, help make a pen. Sam was his helper that morning, doing most of the pen construction for would-be pen makers while Charlie talked to people about the pen project and about Jacob.



Throughout the summer, Sam continued to spend a few hours most weekdays helping Charlie. He started out making pens, then graduated to working on a lathe (something I know nothing about.) His job was polishing the rifle shells, and he started coming home with smudges on his face from polishing the shells, a smudge I’d seen on Charlie’s face the few times I stopped by to check in on Sam.



Their friendship was a wonderful thing to watch. Sam only has one grandfather left, and as much as that grandfather is a wonderful man, he lives in the Twin Cities. So for this summer, it has been nice for Sam to have a grandfather-like man to pal around with. Sam even donated some of his own money, about $54, to Charlie’s cause.



The Thompson’s spend their summers in North Mankato, but leave each year in September to head back to Florida. That’s where they smartly spend the cold part of the year. So Sam’s days of making pens are over, for now. Which makes him a little sad. He’s had a lot of fun there this summer.



Which brings me back to the fishing pole.



On Sept, 10, the last day Sam went over to Charlie’s, Charlie had a gift for Sam.

In the Thompson garage, up in a storage area, sits all of Jacob’s fishing gear. Dozens of fishing poles and lures, just the way Jacob left it all. On Sept. 10, 2011, Charlie Thompson gave Sam one of Jacob’s fishing poles.



I was gone when he brought it home, but as soon as I got in the door, Sam wanted to show me. And I didn’t know what to say. There is a tangle of fates that came together to bring this item to my home. If terrorists hadn’t blown up the World Trade Center, we wouldn’t have gone to war. If we hadn’t gone to war, Jacob Thompson wouldn’t have been sent to Iraq. If Jacob Thompson hadn’t been sent to Iraq, he wouldn’t have been killed. And if he hadn’t been killed, there would be no pen project, no Sam getting to know Charlie, no friendship that my son has come to cherish.



This is where I struggle with how I feel about it.

My son had an experience with Charlie this summer that can never be replaced. He made a true friend. Few kids can say they were involved in something like this. I’m very proud of him.



At the same time, there was a price. One look into Charlie’s face when he’s talking about his son shows just how terrible that price was. I never met Jacob. But after listening to Charlie talk about how close they were, and watching how nice he’s been to Sam all summer, I sort of feel like I’m getting to know Jacob a little bit through the relationship my son has with Charlie.



Some say nothing good has come out of 9/11. I’d like to think they’re wrong.