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"Frank wanted me to come
visit him so he could treat me to a day or two on his boat, maybe to
capture again the old camaraderie we once shared, and in his special
way, to say "thanks" for the old days in the North
Country."
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Frank
By Ed Laine
Frank was pretty
much a "city kid", raised in Queens, with stickball, fist
fights, pegged-pants and pompadour-duck's-ass hairdo. I was raised on a
farm with chores, sandlot ball, fist fights, Levis and crew cuts. I
spoke Long Island English too because we lived there when I was little
and you never really lose it.
We had a trout stream next to our farm and deer, rabbits,
pheasant and grouse were in the fields and woods. In Frank's world, only
the bad guys carried guns. We met in college as freshmen and got along
well. We both joined the same fraternity too. I often took Frank hunting
and fishing during those four years of our lives in the North Country --
I had an old car and he had enough extra spending money for the gas. He
wanted to learn everything about the outdoors and he learned quickly as
one does when learning something they have come to truly enjoy. He was a
good companion and always made these outings fun with his sense of humor
and quick wit.
Sophomore year, we each shot the same buck and we therefore split the
meat. It was Frank's first deer and he was as excited as a little kid.
We arranged for a lady in town to fix a venison dinner for four of us
and we dined on the back-straps like kings. That spring Frank caught his
first trout, smallmouth bass and northern pike as we fished together.
Not with a fly rod, but with spinning tackle.
After graduation, as newly minted 2nd Lieutenants, we were
both posted to Ft. Gordon, Georgia, ended up living on the same street
with our wives and car pooled to post each day. We continued to fish
together off and on as time permitted. After the service, Frank went to
work for a large insurance firm in New York City and I went into sales
with a small manufacturing firm and moved away from New York State.
First to Massachusetts, then Pennsylvania, and finally to North
Carolina. We lost track of each other for a couple of years, and later,
only stayed in touch with those brief notes written on Christmas cards.
Then, a few years ago, I got a telephone call from Frank,
he was taking early retirement while in his 50's and was moving to the
Outer Banks, near Kitty Hawk. Once settled in, he invited me over to
fish a couple of times, but it was always on short notice, I had one or
another business commitment scheduled and it was quite a haul to get
there. Then one day another mutual college pal visiting the Outer Banks
arranged to meet up with Frank and go fishing for a day. Frank had since
earned his Captain's license and had a new fishing boat. The two old
college friends called and asked me to join them for a day chasing
amberjack, redfish, stripers and maybe blues. It sounded like great fun.
I had an appointment with a major client in High Point the
next day, the day set aside for fishing. It was a very good customer,
others were involved, and I did not want to break the appointment. The
two men had a ball fishing together followed by a great dinner, good
conversation and a few too many brandies; I heard about the trip at 1:00
a.m. in a rather muddled "conference call." You know the kind:
Waking from a sound sleep, picking up the phone and hearing a slurred
familiar voice :"Hey! How the hell are ya? Did we wake ya up? Good!
Ya missed a great day, Ed, a super day, we had to beat 'em away from the
boat, quit early, just too tired from catching big fish!" Laughing,
I promised to try to get over to fish with Frank soon, and hung up. It
didn't ring again.
A few months later, Frank suddenly collapsed in his garden
and died.
That fall, my wife and I visited Frank's widow, but it was
a tough dinner with the one empty chair. We had Sunday morning breakfast
at the house Frank had built and his widow brought out his photo album
to reminisce. There were many pictures of Frank and me together from
college days, fishing and hunting, and in the service at Ft. Gordon. An
old outside-hammer, Damascus barreled shotgun hung over their mantel; I
had helped Frank buy it for $25 one evening on our way home from a hunt
years before. His wife said that Frank often spoke of me as the good
friend and fraternity brother who taught him to hunt and fish when we
were in college together.
Frank wanted me to come visit him so he could treat me to a
day or two on his boat, maybe to capture again the old camaraderie we
once shared, and in his special way, to say "thanks" for the
old days in the North Country.
I am certain there are sins of omission greater than that
of not keeping your priorities straight, but few have bothered me more
than my neglect of that friendship. Old friends are precious, hold them
close, for life is short.
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 About
the Author:
Back in Colonial times Long Island had been
a convenient destination for trout fishing but, contrary to the belief
of some, that was well before I arrived there. I caught my first trout
in a tiny reservoir in Massapequa. My real "home water" became
a spring fed stream that had been dammed years before to provide ice for
a local brewery. Unbeknownst to this five-year old kid, that wide spot
called Feller's Pond in Lindenhurst was a part of the Neguntatogue
Creek. Where those brown trout came from I never knew, but I caught them
with worms and an old bamboo Heddon rod and reel.
At nine, the family
moved to a farm in Carmel, Putnam County. The West Branch of the Croton
River flowed by the edge of the property and the West Branch Reservoir
lay at the end of our drive. For my 9th birthday my Uncle Charlie had
built me a 9 foot rod for "D" line and mom got me a Pflueger
Medalist reel to go with it...that's when the worms shared time with wet
flies and later dries. The West Branch of the Croton was a well known
trout stream, and it became "my brook". I haunted the place
until I left for college. Even met Red Smith on the brook one day and he
interviewed me. I was crushed when he mentioned, "the kid that had
taken his limit before 8 a.m.."
Later it was college in
the North Country and the Adirondacks for trout and it has continued
ever since, here and there and most everywhere...it's been one helluva
ride so far and it continues.
That little five year
old with worms and the older boy with flies is still alive and their
enthusiasm for trout fishing is still there...and sometimes I still
don't get home before dark.
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