I can’t recall the first time I met Ralph Elston. He was one of those family friends everyone has, but no one knows when or where they first met. Perhaps it was in 1958, at my father’s funeral. I was still a preschooler, and any recollection of our first encounter would have long since vanished from my memory.
Ralph was from Kirkland Lake, where he worked as a miner for 50 years. He’d drive to North Bay to visit his two sisters, and, before heading home, he’d stop by the house to visit Mom. His visits always came as a surprise. I’d be walking up the lane, coming home from school, and notice his old blue ’46 Ford truck parked on the gravel lane beside our house. Anxious to see him, I’d sprint up the path, through the shed, and into the kitchen.
There they’d be, sitting, sipping tea, and talking about things unknown to me.
Ralph was one of those meticulous individuals. His shoes were perfectly polished, his pants pressed with a proper pleat down the front, his shirt white and crisp, and there was never a speck of dirt under his fingernails. He was a man of few words, but he always wore a smile. He’d ask about school, though, and comment about how much I’d grown since his last visit. The visits never seemed to last long. We’d walk out to his truck, and he’d wave goodbye, thinking we didn’t notice the five $1 bills he slipped Mom under the table.
“One for Jennifer, Susan, Carol, Dianne, and John,” he’d tell her.
On one rare occasion he called in advance and asked Mom if I’d like to go fishing. I was about 6 or 7 years of age, and the thought of my first fishing trip caused great excitement, as it does for most small kids. I don’t know who was happier, me or Mom. She had a tough job working full time and raising five young children on her own. She was a master of time organization, but going fishing together would have been just a little too much for her to handle.
Ralph arrived on Friday night. My excitement soared when he handed me my own fishing rod and steel tackle box, filled with an assortment of colourful objects resembling creatures from the deep. Saturday morning couldn’t come soon enough. The alarm went off at 6 a.m., and by 6:45 we were at an old bait shop at 1 the foot of the government dock. A grizzled old fellow with a pipe stoked the wood stove. The sign read “Minnows-25 cents a dozen.” He filled the pail with cold water and cautiously counted out 12 shiners. The pail felt like it weighed as much as me, and I was glad my buddy was going to carry it on the long walk up the dock’s oiled planks.
A grey, overcast morning greeted us, and a brisk west wind whipped Lake Nipissing into whitecaps. At the end of the dock, Ralph gave me a seat cushion to place on the turnbuckle used to tie up the old Chief Commanda, which was in dry dock. He poured me a cup of hot chocolate from his Thermos, and I sat there trying not to shiver, while he set up our lines. He handed me my rod-an old telescoping 8-footer with a dozen eyelets. Braided black line ran out from a level-wind reel and disappeared into the lake’s depths. There we sat, in companionable silence, fishing together for the first time.
The wait for a hit seemed like hours. An older man stood alone fishing near us. As time passed, he walked over and asked “Any luck?” “Not yet,” replied Ralph. “How’s it been here this morning?” The old fella replied, “The odd pike’s around.” My excitement mounted. I didn’t know what the “odd pike” was, but I was determined to catch it. I’ll never forget Ralph turning to me and saying “Here you go,” as he handed me his rod. I felt as if I was tied into a whale. The rod tip pounded and strained my arm, as I tried to turn the reel’s handle. There was no doubt in my mind that we were going to land the fish.
As it neared the surface, Ralph leaned over the dock’s edge and scooped the pike into the net.
What pride l felt! My first fishing trip, my first fish, and I’d caught the “odd pike.”
We headed back to Ralph’s sister’s house, where he called Mom to come over. Photos were taken with all the friends and relatives, while I proudly held up my catch and explained to anyone who’d listen how I caught the “odd pike.” A few weeks later, a small parcel arrived at the house. Inside was a framed photo of me holding my fish.
A note on the corner read “John’s first fish. Congratulations on catching the ‘odd pike,’ your buddy Ralph.”
That photo sat on my dresser until I was 18 or 19 years old, about the time it dawned on me what the old guy meant when he said “The odd pike’s around.” I had lots of firsts with Ralph over the years: fishing, hunting, camping, and boating. He filled my childhood with fond memories that might otherwise have been lost as a result of my father’s premature death. A little more than a year ago, I got a Christmas card from Ralph. The handwriting was a bit shaky, but the memories he recounted were clear as a bell. It was the last time we communicated, and I still have the card on my night stand.
A couple of months after receiving it, Mom and I drove to Kirkland Lake for his funeral. There, I realized what an impact this man, with no children of his own, had on so many people. They came from Windsor to Kingston, from Toronto to Timmins. Flowers arrived from as far away as Newfoundland and New York for this miner from Kirkland Lake. More than a year has passed now, and I lost my other buddy, my mom, a couple of months ago. l can’t help but believe that the two of them are somewhere sipping tea, perhaps with Dad, and talking about things unknown to me. Myself, I’ve just returned from a fly-in trip and brought home the biggest fish I’ve ever caught — a 20-pound “odd pike.”
Originally published in the February 1994 issue of Ontario OUT of DOORS
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