There's a man that lives in my neighborhood that has been here many years. He's seen the neighborhood turn time and time again, and I imagine has gotten to know at least to some extent the families that have come and gone through the many years. The latest wave of Florence Street inhabitants, meaning us have had the opportunity to spend a little time and get to know the Day's, both Vicki better known as Miss Vicki and...and, uh, I can't believe it but as I write this I'm having trouble remembering his first name. I've always known him as Mr. Day. Honestly I don't know if not remembering his name is a lack of respect or is the fact that I refer to him as Mr. a sign of greater respect for a man who values such things.
Mr. Day and I went fishing this morning along the Maine coast. An appropriate place for this classic New England soul who once seemed to refuse a neighbor who asked to borrow a match. When the neighbor inquired why he couldn't borrow a match, the pipe smoking Mr Day turned and responded with the classic New England accent, "Nope, you can't borrow a match. You can have one, but I don't want it back."
We started out early. Early morning fishing to Mr. Day is very early. This means 4:00am to us or o four hundred to him. I grabbed my gear and headed outside to find he and his gear waiting outside of his house. I wondered if there would be anyplace to grab a coffee and a bagel on the way, to which he responded, "Miss Vicki already gave me my breakfast. Eggs, bacon, muffins, and fresh coffee." I expect If I inquired where my breakfast was at 3:30am all I'd get is Deb's finger. And I wouldn't blame her a bit for it.
As we made the short drive north to the Maine coast Mr. Day offered his direction and provided commentary and history of the different places we passed. He suggested both that I look to the field on my left for deer and also keep my eyes on the road. He told me a few details of the time that he served in Korea, but he he was more conservative with them when I inquired about his experience at Pork Chop Hill. All he offered was, "It was critical and strategic, and things got a little hairy when we ran out of ammunition. The Chinese weren't happy about it either as they feared Americans with bayonets and rifle butts. They preferred the comforts that come with engaging from afar with guns."
We arrived at Nubble Light House and set up our gear. I got a strange look from Mr Day when he saw me also setting up a tripod to hold my "Not Made In America" Camera. We made our first cast and in no time we were pulling in fish. Not keepers mind, you. It was mostly small Pollock, but we were getting bites and having a little fun. Two strapping lads out near the high seas bonding like men should. My masculinity took a bit of a breather when I asked Mr Day to help me get my first fish of the hook. I was delicately trying to unhook the fish from the three pronged (or is it barbed) contraption. He took it from my hands and forcefully ripped the hook out and tossed the fish back into the drink. It was also nice of Mr. Day to refrain from laughing when I slipped and fell on both the rocks and my backside. He simply turned toward me, removed the pipe from his mouth and said, "The rocks are slippery. Try not to hurt yourself."
Mr. Day continued to cast out, reel in and remove fish from his hook, while I continued to cast out and untangle the mess I made of my line. When my rod finally bent forward, I pulled in a good handful of sea kelp. Mr. Day said that I had a good start and that all I needed was something to go along with my sea salad." After an hour of fishing Mr. Day sat down on the rocks and took a quick cat nap as the surf crashed around the jetty. When he awoke, he took a good long look at the sea and sky and proclaimed, "Today's not our day. There won't be any mackerel or stripers." I agreed though I wasn't quite sure why. I had no choice but to concur as Mr. Day has been fishing this spot for sixty or more years. If he had told me that only the Swedish Fish would be biting today I probably would have agreed. We were back in our neighborhood before 7:00 am.
It's a good thing to have a guy like Mr. Day and his so called, "Catch of His Life" lady Miss Vicki in the neighborhood. They're a welcome fixture that represent the values and lifestyle of days gone by, yet they tolerate and even welcome the chaos that is Florence Street. The early morning Rebel Yells, the late night scrabble games, The Margarita porch nights, not to mention the summer ritual that Kick the Can has become. If our kids running through their yard is a problem, they've never said a word. I think that they appreciate the fact that we are neighbors and we're interested in having them around. It will be interesting to see if many years from now that one of us will be the couple that link the new and old. If Deb and I are lucky enough to be in the running, I'll make sure I finally learn to properly bait a hook.
Mr. Day and I went fishing this morning along the Maine coast. An appropriate place for this classic New England soul who once seemed to refuse a neighbor who asked to borrow a match. When the neighbor inquired why he couldn't borrow a match, the pipe smoking Mr Day turned and responded with the classic New England accent, "Nope, you can't borrow a match. You can have one, but I don't want it back."
We started out early. Early morning fishing to Mr. Day is very early. This means 4:00am to us or o four hundred to him. I grabbed my gear and headed outside to find he and his gear waiting outside of his house. I wondered if there would be anyplace to grab a coffee and a bagel on the way, to which he responded, "Miss Vicki already gave me my breakfast. Eggs, bacon, muffins, and fresh coffee." I expect If I inquired where my breakfast was at 3:30am all I'd get is Deb's finger. And I wouldn't blame her a bit for it.
As we made the short drive north to the Maine coast Mr. Day offered his direction and provided commentary and history of the different places we passed. He suggested both that I look to the field on my left for deer and also keep my eyes on the road. He told me a few details of the time that he served in Korea, but he he was more conservative with them when I inquired about his experience at Pork Chop Hill. All he offered was, "It was critical and strategic, and things got a little hairy when we ran out of ammunition. The Chinese weren't happy about it either as they feared Americans with bayonets and rifle butts. They preferred the comforts that come with engaging from afar with guns."
We arrived at Nubble Light House and set up our gear. I got a strange look from Mr Day when he saw me also setting up a tripod to hold my "Not Made In America" Camera. We made our first cast and in no time we were pulling in fish. Not keepers mind, you. It was mostly small Pollock, but we were getting bites and having a little fun. Two strapping lads out near the high seas bonding like men should. My masculinity took a bit of a breather when I asked Mr Day to help me get my first fish of the hook. I was delicately trying to unhook the fish from the three pronged (or is it barbed) contraption. He took it from my hands and forcefully ripped the hook out and tossed the fish back into the drink. It was also nice of Mr. Day to refrain from laughing when I slipped and fell on both the rocks and my backside. He simply turned toward me, removed the pipe from his mouth and said, "The rocks are slippery. Try not to hurt yourself."
Mr. Day continued to cast out, reel in and remove fish from his hook, while I continued to cast out and untangle the mess I made of my line. When my rod finally bent forward, I pulled in a good handful of sea kelp. Mr. Day said that I had a good start and that all I needed was something to go along with my sea salad." After an hour of fishing Mr. Day sat down on the rocks and took a quick cat nap as the surf crashed around the jetty. When he awoke, he took a good long look at the sea and sky and proclaimed, "Today's not our day. There won't be any mackerel or stripers." I agreed though I wasn't quite sure why. I had no choice but to concur as Mr. Day has been fishing this spot for sixty or more years. If he had told me that only the Swedish Fish would be biting today I probably would have agreed. We were back in our neighborhood before 7:00 am.
It's a good thing to have a guy like Mr. Day and his so called, "Catch of His Life" lady Miss Vicki in the neighborhood. They're a welcome fixture that represent the values and lifestyle of days gone by, yet they tolerate and even welcome the chaos that is Florence Street. The early morning Rebel Yells, the late night scrabble games, The Margarita porch nights, not to mention the summer ritual that Kick the Can has become. If our kids running through their yard is a problem, they've never said a word. I think that they appreciate the fact that we are neighbors and we're interested in having them around. It will be interesting to see if many years from now that one of us will be the couple that link the new and old. If Deb and I are lucky enough to be in the running, I'll make sure I finally learn to properly bait a hook.
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