The gift of inspiration is something that can last a lifetime.
It was a challenge trying to hold the pages together with both hands, speculating on the ending, which was missing, because one of the members had cut out a large coupon removing the section of the page where the conclusion of that edge-of-my-seat tale in Outdoor Life Magazine had been. I never found out what happened to the two fishermen whose canoe overturned in a remote area with all their gear and tackle in it!
Very few of the club members and the majority of the general public I was familiar with, owned subscriptions to magazines. Others preferred to make their selections in a book store, first perusing the table of contents, reading the titles, occasionally reading an entire story before taking one home. Some of you may have seen a sign in a book store stating, “This is NOT a Library”, on the top of the magazine racks to discourage such behavior.
Soda Jerk
Working in a drug store I was privy to many such indiscretions. (One of those was the woman in the flashy car that drove around the back of the drugstore parking lot, came in the rear door and began, perusing Field and Stream and Outdoor Life. She then would secret away to the phone booth before engaging in a lengthy hushed phone call. No one knew who she was or where she came from, but everyone was quizzical about her choice of reading material.)
Similar to a bartender, barber or hair dresser, a fountain clerk or a “soda jerk” became privy to numerous confidences. Occasionally it felt like I was in a confessional, as some customers shared problems and confidences, so much so that my employer once told me, “kid, if I didn’t know any better I’d swear you were wearing a white collar around your neck.” He was referring to customers (mostly female), that sat on those gleaming chrome stools and asked for information on whether I saw their husband or boyfriend at the boat club or the cafe next door. I am still here to report this because I politely evaded all such risky inquiries.
One of the yacht club regulars subscribed to Field and Stream and within a month or so, after he had finished reading it, he would bring his back issues to the club and put them in the reading room with the pot belly stove and the old donated soft chairs. I waited impatiently for the caretaker to gather up the oldest copies before they were used to start the wood stove. The caretaker put them in a grocery bag and sent me on my way. Non-members, unless accompanied guests, (even the errand boy) were not welcome in the upper chamber, unless I was delivering a coffee, donut or sandwich. Most of the reading material in that room was of the outdoor variety. Those included National Fisherman and many yachting and boating magazines and numerous issues of the “big three” which in the mid-1950’s were Field and Stream, Outdoor Life and Sports Afield.
There were also copies of National Rifleman and a slew of soft cover western novels, many by my favorite author Louis LeArmur, who wrote the most realistic and suspenseful adventures of that genre.
Thanks Alan
The man with the magazine subscription was Alan, who was always kind to me and suggested I read everything about anything that interested me, which was fishing, boating and boat building and repair. He was one of the caretaker’s favorite members and he often brought donuts, scones and pastry to share with us in the old man’s kitchen. The two would sit and enjoy the steaming hot tea the caretaker prepared for them with a shot of home-brewed brandy.
One cold, late-November day I was walking by the kitchen with an armload of dry high tide driftwood for the old man to fire up the potbelly stove, when he grabbed me by the collar and told me to visit with him as soon as I stowed the wood. He was a moody, yet devilish soul when he imbibed a bit too much of the rust-colored liquid from the mason jar hidden behind the dishes on his kitchen shelf. He was also a kind and generous soul who comforted me at the time of my dad’s early passing. I sensed gloom in his cloudy green eyes, almost obstructed by his thick, unkempt eyebrows, as he pushed the tin cup of hot tea and honey towards me. “Did you know that for all the years Alan has known you, he never knew your last name or where you lived in the village?” I didn’t think that was important but I nodded in accord. “He’s been sick for a while, and since his wife passed a few years ago, he’s been lonely so he’s going to live with his daughter on the north shore in Cape Ann around Gloucester. A place where you can catch a hefty codfish right from the shore.”
I was trying to figure out what he was getting to when he passed me a square he’d cut from a brown grocery bag and instructed me to write my name and address down. I complied and he informed me that Alan knew how much I loved to read so he was going to transfer his magazine subscription to me. I had no idea how that was done or how long it would take, but one week after Alan moved out of our lives, I began bothering the mailman as to when my magazine would arrive and was told he had no idea how that process worked or how long it might take.
After three weeks, I gave up and took solace that Alan was only trying to do the right thing. One of the members brought me a book about saltwater fishing along with an old copy of Saltwater Sportsman he’d gotten from a friend. Some of you may recall seeing a drawing of a youngster hiding under the bed covers reading a magazine by flashlight. I was so enthused that I read until the old metal Ray-O-Vac batteries died on me.
The Gift Of Inspiration
After giving up on receiving my gift subscription, a few days before Christmas, one of my classmates told me the mailman wanted to talk to me. I never did find him to have that conversation but when I arrived back at home, there on the kitchen table were the November and December issues of Field and Stream. It turned out that, rather than just transfer the original subscription, Alan purchased an additional year for me. That was a very gracious and much-appreciated Christmas present.
He likely never knew it, and I didn’t realize it at the time, but that gracious gift played a role in inspiring me to try to write my own fishing articles. Not too long afterwards, I began writing at every opportunity. I received a call from our daily newspaper’s sports editor who was posting club standings and events from my newsletter and he asked me to send him updates. I provided him with one every week, and although I was not compensated or given a byline, our club became well known within the several states during the years when the Schaeffer contest operated.
Then one stormy, and unfishable day I convinced myself I could write a saleable story. I sat down at my Underwood typewriter and wrote about my winter striper fishing experiences with the sharpies on the Brightman Street Bridge. I had no idea how to how to present the article I titled Snowball Stripers, but I sent it off to Frank Woolner, editor of Saltwater Sportsman in Boston and forgot about it. Three weeks later I received a letter from that editor stating that he liked the piece and, because it was about winter fishing for stripers, he would run it in their November 1964 issue. I could not believe my eyes. I went on to write a few more articles for Frank on fishing live eels, the tube and worm and a few pieces on new tackle and some about the history of fishing at the West Island Club.
The rest is history, and you could have no idea how blessed I feel, all these years later, that Alan chose to bestow that seemingly small act of kindness upon me and that I have been equally blessed to have been gifted such an amazing readership.
Merry Christmas to all our readers and humor me by going out and buying an old copy of John Cole’s book, Striper, along with the best fishing story I’ve ever read; Wynn Brooks book The Shining Tides. Either one, or both, will make your holiday and the winter much more enjoyable, Merry Christmas and a special thanks to you, our loyal readers… I’m already looking forward to the next one!
