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Big Als Bait

Big Als Bait

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Local bait shop offering all kinds of fishing supplies. Fresh live shiners and night crawlers.

His last little gift is still right there 🌈đŸ„č #throwback #petloss #seniordog #griefjourney #fblifestyle #rescuedog 12/24/2025

His last little gift is still right there 🌈đŸ„č #throwback #petloss #seniordog #griefjourney #fblifestyle #rescuedog

Family Forgot My Birthday Again — So I Used My Bonus to Buy a Lake House, Posted “Birthday Gift. To Myself.” and Within 10 Minutes My Phone Lit Up with Calls from People Who Haven’t Remembered I Exist in Years My family didn’t “forget” my birthday this year. They replaced it. I came home to the small cake I’d bought myself sitting on my Chicago coffee table, one lonely candle waiting. I opened Facebook just to numb-scroll for a minute and there it was: my entire family at a fancy restaurant, champagne in hand, banner behind my brother that said, “Congratulations on Your Promotion, Miles!” Time stamp? Four hours earlier. On my birthday. My dad’s caption: “So proud of our superstar. The Edwards legacy continues.” My mom’s comment under it: “Could not be more proud of our boy.” No text. No “happy birthday.” Nothing. I told myself it was fine. That I’m thirty-two, I manage multi-million-dollar PR accounts, birthdays are for kids. But then my phone rang. “Quinn, darling,” my mother chirped. “We’re planning something special for Miles and Jessica’s anniversary. Could you handle the catering and dĂ©cor? You’re so good at
 arranging things.” I stared at the clock. It flipped from 11:59 to 12:00. “Mom,” I said, “today was my birthday.” She paused. Actually paused. “Oh. Honey, with Miles’s promotion, it just slipped our mind.” That line hit harder than any insult ever has. Not because it was new, but because it was the same. My eleventh birthday they “lost track of time” at his debate competition. At seventeen, I got shipped to Grandma’s so they could do Yale tours with him. Even my college graduation dinner turned into his surprise engagement party. This time, the timing was different. Ten minutes after I hung up, an email landed in my inbox. My bonus for the Westfield campaign: $82,000. A week later, I “accidentally” saw the family group chat my mom added me to by mistake: Dad: “Quinn should contribute at least $20,000 to Miles’s anniversary gift. She just got that big bonus.” Mom: “Exactly. Time she supports the family for once.” Supports. The family that didn’t even spell my name right in the chat. (“Quin.” One N. Like I was a typo.) So I opened my laptop and typed: “Lakefront property Michigan.” I booked a flight that night. Two weeks later I was standing barefoot on a cedar deck overlooking Lake Michigan, Realtor smiling beside me. Four bedrooms, wraparound windows, tall pines, quiet water. “You want time to think?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking for thirty-two years,” I said. “I’ll take it.” I wired the down payment from my bonus account. Spent my weekends hauling boxes, painting walls, hanging my own photos on my own walls in my own house. No one asked me to handle catering. No one asked me to chip in. No one even knew. Until I decided they would. On a calm Sunday, with the sun melting into the lake and my wine glass balanced on the railing, I snapped a picture: me on the deck, water behind me, sunset doing its thing. I opened Facebook. Typed exactly nine words: “Weekend at my new lake house. Birthday gift. To myself.” Hit post. Then I turned my phone face down on the wood and just
 listened to the water. When I finally picked it up thirty minutes later, I had seventeen missed calls, thirty-two messages, and a “family emergency meeting” text from my mother. Apparently, the girl who was never worth a birthday dinner was suddenly “reckless,” “secretive,” and “disrespectful” the second she used her own money to build a life they didn’t control. Next Tuesday, I’m walking into that “emergency family meeting” with three photo albums and a memory like a ledger. They invited me to explain myself. They have no idea what I’ve been documenting. The complete story appears in the first comment. 12/02/2025

Family Forgot My Birthday Again — So I Used My Bonus to Buy a Lake House, Posted “Birthday Gift. To Myself.” and Within 10 Minutes My Phone Lit Up with Calls from People Who Haven’t Remembered I Exist in Years My family didn’t “forget” my birthday this year. They replaced it. I came home to the small cake I’d bought myself sitting on my Chicago coffee table, one lonely candle waiting. I opened Facebook just to numb-scroll for a minute and there it was: my entire family at a fancy restaurant, champagne in hand, banner behind my brother that said, “Congratulations on Your Promotion, Miles!” Time stamp? Four hours earlier. On my birthday. My dad’s caption: “So proud of our superstar. The Edwards legacy continues.” My mom’s comment under it: “Could not be more proud of our boy.” No text. No “happy birthday.” Nothing. I told myself it was fine. That I’m thirty-two, I manage multi-million-dollar PR accounts, birthdays are for kids. But then my phone rang. “Quinn, darling,” my mother chirped. “We’re planning something special for Miles and Jessica’s anniversary. Could you handle the catering and dĂ©cor? You’re so good at
 arranging things.” I stared at the clock. It flipped from 11:59 to 12:00. “Mom,” I said, “today was my birthday.” She paused. Actually paused. “Oh. Honey, with Miles’s promotion, it just slipped our mind.” That line hit harder than any insult ever has. Not because it was new, but because it was the same. My eleventh birthday they “lost track of time” at his debate competition. At seventeen, I got shipped to Grandma’s so they could do Yale tours with him. Even my college graduation dinner turned into his surprise engagement party. This time, the timing was different. Ten minutes after I hung up, an email landed in my inbox. My bonus for the Westfield campaign: $82,000. A week later, I “accidentally” saw the family group chat my mom added me to by mistake: Dad: “Quinn should contribute at least $20,000 to Miles’s anniversary gift. She just got that big bonus.” Mom: “Exactly. Time she supports the family for once.” Supports. The family that didn’t even spell my name right in the chat. (“Quin.” One N. Like I was a typo.) So I opened my laptop and typed: “Lakefront property Michigan.” I booked a flight that night. Two weeks later I was standing barefoot on a cedar deck overlooking Lake Michigan, Realtor smiling beside me. Four bedrooms, wraparound windows, tall pines, quiet water. “You want time to think?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking for thirty-two years,” I said. “I’ll take it.” I wired the down payment from my bonus account. Spent my weekends hauling boxes, painting walls, hanging my own photos on my own walls in my own house. No one asked me to handle catering. No one asked me to chip in. No one even knew. Until I decided they would. On a calm Sunday, with the sun melting into the lake and my wine glass balanced on the railing, I snapped a picture: me on the deck, water behind me, sunset doing its thing. I opened Facebook. Typed exactly nine words: “Weekend at my new lake house. Birthday gift. To myself.” Hit post. Then I turned my phone face down on the wood and just
 listened to the water. When I finally picked it up thirty minutes later, I had seventeen missed calls, thirty-two messages, and a “family emergency meeting” text from my mother. Apparently, the girl who was never worth a birthday dinner was suddenly “reckless,” “secretive,” and “disrespectful” the second she used her own money to build a life they didn’t control. Next Tuesday, I’m walking into that “emergency family meeting” with three photo albums and a memory like a ledger. They invited me to explain myself. They have no idea what I’ve been documenting. The complete story appears in the first comment.

Daily Dose of Satisfaction #satisfying 11/17/2025

Daily Dose of Satisfaction #satisfying

02/24/2024

Come down and see us at the Springfield Hunting and Fishing Expo at the Big E

02/07/2023

Bank bass, fluke balls, no roll pyramids, and coughing sinkers 20 cents an ounce. Call Al 508 372 8099

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Outdoor & Sporting Goods Companies

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Address


1305 Memorial Ave
West Springfield, MA

Opening Hours

Friday 12pm - 7pm
Saturday 7am - 7pm
Sunday 7am - 3pm