Friends: The Old Timer

Friends are one of life’s greatest gifts, and yes, greatest pleasures, in that relationships often provide us with many priceless times spent together. And, sadly enough, there are those rare times when we meet people whom we immediately know would make a marvelous friend, but for one reason or another we know, too, we may never again see that person; and whether on boat, plane or train, the farewell comes a little hard…

How often have we, as outdoor enthusiasts, found ourselves sharing a log with a stranger while in the field? A stranger who perhaps was very warm and friendly during the short, woodland chat-one whom you would have liked to know better, but never again saw? I call these short, outdoor-born “friendships” cotton-candy-times, in that they’re sweet moments that melt all too quickly.

Since a time further back than I care to recall, I’ve made a special point to always carry a small notepad and a pencil (ink freezes!) in my jackets during the hunting and fishing seasons. My objective, obvious as it may all ready be, was to never again get caught with my britches at my ankles; I would always be ready for the next amicable stranger and jot down his name should he or she be the type I may want to see again. I’ll share here, the why of it all.

To this day, I am sorry about a time I failed to carry pad and pencil, and this comes to you with the hope you’ll not make the same mistake. For it may well result in losing something that had the potential of becoming very special and the “what-if” is something that will pull at one’s heart for a lifetime.

I was trout fishing a mountain stream-fed pond in the north woods of Pennsylvania. The water was frigid with the spring thaw, and almost too placid and crystalline to fish effectively, but trout anglers are a stubborn breed. The trout, often smarter by far than this angler, seemed overly sensitive and it got to the point where I felt they may be suffering from a lock-jaw epidemic. They were not “taking” anything, save perhaps a nap.

Never concerned much with filling the wicker creel, I settled back and stuffed my pipe with a fistful of Half & Half, and while so doing, watched a white-tailed doe tiptoe to the lake’s opposite edge. I let her sip for the longest time, but when she raised her head to inspect the obtrusive sport across the lake’s little cove who had his smoking bowl clamped between his teeth, I whistled, as one might to any fair lass, and added a conversational, “Hello little lady!” With that she obviously decided the woods were safer (and saner!) than the lake’s edge and scurried toward a stand of pines.

I drank in more of the mountain morning’s serenity and summoned a few of yesterday’s golden memories, remembering a bit of Grandfather’s (Joe Parry, the First) lore. I felt that with one tidbit I’d summoned, I may well be able to entice a trout to my hook, with the hope of dissolving some of the monotony of the morning. And ultimately, I was rewarded with much more-a cotton-candy friendship.

Lazily, I lifted my tired-self from the luxurious bed of spruce needles and begun a lakeside walk to search the shallows for Gramps’ secret “stickworms” – more technically, caddis fly larvae. Where these can be found, they’re devastating on trout and I soon collected a fistful.

The first, gently-landing cast with “stickworm” in place, produced an immediate take and I had my first trout of the season; small, but in and of itself, a momentous occasion. Four others of about the same size soon followed suit. And all were released as I was in one of my unindustrious moods.

Out of stickworms, I lay back and lit another pipe, somehow finding the white curl of aromatic smoke mysteriously interesting and soothing. “Reason enough,” I thought aloud, “to terminate the stickworm hunting – at least for now.”

My idle state was soon interrupted by a soft, gentle voice of broken tongue and European persuasion which came as, “Ah scuzza me, mister.”

A moderately robust, older gent in fresh-looking, starched bib coveralls added as I looked up at him, “I no catcha da feesh all da morning. Coulda you pleasa tella me what it isa you usin? You no minda, please?”

I lifted myself from the ground, smacked my pipe bowl into my palm and said, “Why sir, I wouldn’t mind at all. Follow me and I’ll show you what and how to find them…”

The russet-cheeked old timer did a sort of soft-shoe shuffle to get in step with me and said, “Tanka you mister! A tanka you veddy, veddy much!” He scampered behind me in that lovable, but comical walk of his, very reminiscent of a lab puppy about to be fed. His million-dollar smile cracking his weathered, ruddy cheeks, his eyes twinkling cosmically – eyes and a smile I would not soon forget, if ever.

Within a short time, we’d found enough stickworms to keep him busy for a few hours and, after showing him the larvae worm inside its “house” the old gent exclaimed, “Well I be doggonit, datsa some a ting you show da olda Mario. Tanka you. Tanka you so veddy, veddy much.” Assuring him the pleasure was indeed, all mine, I went about showing him how to angle the morsel-like larvae and gave him about a dozen gold-plated egg hooks on which he was to lace his bait. Those he had may have well been tarpon salt water hooks.

After I’d pretty much covered and demonstrated my caddis-larvae fishing method, he removed a small, dog-eared notepad from his bibs and asked, “Woulda you mind veddy much to givva me a you address?” He stood there, smiling, and reminding me greatly of my grandfather who also had that magical twinkling in his eyes. He handed me the notepad in which I was to place my name and address, then thanked me again before leaving for his spot on the mountain pond, shuffling away in that rolly-polly gait.

He must have been at least 75 yards away when I heard his voice ricocheting from the mountainsides, and echoing to where the words all but merged into one. “Tanka you Joe! A tanka you veddy, veddy much!” With that my day was pretty much full of all that I came for, and so, I left.

As I passed above the spot where the old timer sat, I could hear him laughing and assumed my “lessons” were working to his satisfaction. I never thought to get his name and address at the time, but as I drove to the old camp, I felt sure he’d be on the lake the next morning. He wasn’t, sadly enough, and I had to head home that following afternoon…

I drove to the lake early and still no Mario. During the months that followed, the precious memory of the old timer never left me for any length of time. The visions of him, his smile, his sparkling eyes of azure blue, were always there; he had made an impression on me and the Santa commercials on TV during the holidays brought him even more vividly to mind, and yes, more often.

Several days after Thanksgiving, the mailman sounded our doorbell and handed me a package. I thanked him, closed the door, and sat to open the bedraggled affair, more wrinkled was the brown paper than a respectable, California prune. On the wrapping, my name and address had been scrawled with a felt-tip pen in what one would graciously refer to as “shaky penmanship.” I noticed immediately, that there was no return address on the outside, but still opened it in a manner reminiscent of a toddler demolishing a Santa-delivered Christmas gift, assuming it was from a family member.

Inside was the most beautifully mounted, brown trout of about 15 inches, I’d ever seen. A note lay in the bottom of the box, stating “…it was written by a neighbor, for I cannot write English well, yet.” My eyes jumped to the bottom of the page, searching, where “Mario” was scrawled, then back to the beginning to finish the short message. All the while I read it, my mind and heart translated into how old Mario might have said it. But this is what was written:

Dear Joe:
I hope you and your family have a wonderful Christmas. I thought you would like to have this fish I caught on a stickworm at the lake that day I met you. It was my very first in America and the biggest I caught that day. I will look for you this spring if you are coming to the lake but if I do not see you there, Joe, thanks again for sharing your stickworm secret with me. Every time, I catch a fish or see a stickworm, I will
think of you, my friend. I will always remember you. Thank You
God Bless
Mario

A small, brass plate beneath the colorful, mounted trout read: “For my friend Joe-Mario’s First American Fish”

Through rather puddle, glistening eyes, I soaked in the beauty of the mounted trout and smiled, as I vividly visualized the old man. How very special he was….

I returned to the mountain lake that next spring, but heaven must have written a script I didn’t fully understand. Seeing the old timer again, apparently was not to be. And no, I never saw him again and no one in the area of the lake, nor the small village nearby, knew of him. I almost brought myself to believe the old European from across the Big Pond was merely a marvelous dream, but indeed, I knew he was for real. I wanted so badly to thank him, to once again feel the vise-like, warm grip of his sincere handshake, but no….

As I write this, I can clearly see the mounted trout, the framed letter with his scrawled, shaky signature. I often sit and savor his memory and the greatly-missed, cotton-candy time, his million-dollar smile. Wherever he is, I pray he knows how grateful I am for the priceless lesson he taught me, that being, to always carry a notepad, and to forever retain my sharing ways….

And somehow, even today as I angle in the mountains of northern Pennsylvania, I wishfully anticipate someone tapping my shoulder and saying in a soft, gentle voice of broken tongue, “Ah scuzza me, mister…


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