July 15

Bob’s Bait Shop

 
A thunderstorm in the Midwest is something to behold. Weather systems from the south, north and west often hook up for a brief tête-à-tête in Illinois. When the cold of the north meets with the warmth of the south the clouds begin to spin. The Western wind, still angry at having cut its mountain vacation short, nudges the gyrating pair to the east. Sometimes the wild tryst crashes to the earth and we witness their wild passion in the form of tornadoes. I observed a number of them growing up. It’s one of many things I do not miss about the Midwest.

Not all storms brought tornadoes. Most of them brought out little boys exploring the rivulets of the temporary floods. Makeshift damns were formed to contain the deluge. Chunks of wood lifted from the workshops of fathers were launched into these mini-seas. Rock bombs poured down on the helpless flotsam. Long before cool basements, gaming and a thousand channels lured a generation to vegetate before the one-eyed god, we knew how to have fun the old fashioned way. And, we knew how to make a buck.

If the rains continued into the evening, we would grab a flashlight and a bucket and go out to the yard to harvest the night crawlers who were escaping their flooded confines. In the morning we’d haul our catch just a few houses down to Bob’s Bait Shop. There, the kindly old man, Bob, paid us a penny per worm straight up – no hassles, no taxes. Most of us put our earnings toward our “accounts” which he kept track of in a spiral notebook. Very few actually pocketed the money because Bob had a fridge full of pop and candy bars. We bartered our worms for sweets. It was heady stuff for a 7 year old to saunter in like John Wayne to Bob’s Bait shop, open the fridge, grab a lemon-lime soda and a Hershey Bar and say, “Take it off the books.”  That was 20 cents for the pop and 20 cents for the candy bar. I had just spent 40 worms. It was simple math. Organic. Fair trade.

How many life lessons can you count up in that brief snapshot from my childhood? Honesty. Hard-work. Thrift. Reward. Trust. Fairness. Respect. Friendship. Honor. I was getting blasted with character formation and didn’t even know it – the best way, by the way, to get blasted with character formation.  But I think Bob knew it. While many adults would be overwhelmed with a tiny bait shop full of sweaty boys counting out their worms into containers and jostling one another to get to the candy – Bob just sat there and smiled and attended to the worm ledger. And eventually things would quiet down and it would be just me and Bob and Sunday School would begin. But I didn’t know it was  Sunday School and that’s the best kind of Sunday School. Bob would tell story after story – as many as I wanted to hear – from his long life. And I wanted to hear a lot. He had a thin, scratchy voice and a fine white stubble on his head and face that never seemed to grow longer or shorter. He always wore his old fishing hat. Each story was freighted with a spiritual lesson of how to treat people, to be the guy that stood up, did the right thing, was courageous in spite of intimidation or popularity. These were real stories told against the backdrop of his long life – so much wisdom and kindness reserved for one little lad eager to linger.

Yesterday, much to my delight, I discovered that the Bait Shop still stood, some 50 years later. It was like some spiritual shrine. I knocked on the door of the house of the new owner but no one answered. I felt awkward about going to the back of the driveway but Jan did not. She wandered back there and began snapping pictures. That got a response! The new owner, himself an old war vet, charged out and asked what was going on. I quickly gave him the story and immediately all was fine and we had a lovely chat. As I drew close to take a couple of shots of my own, I could just make out part of the word that had brought Bob and me together those many years ago…