Taylor Neff, the Fisher Guy Chapter 1

The Lake Erie Grocery had just reached its 100th anniversary. It was considered a historic building by the state of Washington and its ownership had been passed through several families since it had been built. Located 5 miles from the closest town of Anacortes, Washington, the grocery sat in Erie Valley on the shore of Lake Erie. Towering 1273′ beside it, like a sleeping giant made of feldspar and diorite, was the bald face of Mt. Erie.

The Grocery at one time was the closest store around for the locals living in Erie Valley. It sold grain, meats, milk, produce and canned goods. Today, the Erie Grocery would be considered a convenience store for those driving by or camping and fishing at the lake. The two gas pumps out front had long been removed. Except for some changes made after a fire, the building had remained the same as the day it was built.

Inside the store, the current owner Taylor Neff sat slouched in his bookkeeper’s chair behind the glass counter. His feet were elevated, shoes propped up on an opened drawer and he held in his hands an open copy of the latest Anacortes American newspaper. The constant groan of the old coolers at the back of the store would sometimes cause him to doze off, at which time his head would fall back cutting off his air supply and causing him to loudly snort. This would startle him, whipping him upright and he would make a quick scan around the store just in case someone was inside trying to abscond with his merchandise.

Taylor was a man ten years from retirement age. He had thought many times of selling the store because it held him down, but it was attached to his home and the thought of leaving Erie Valley was unthinkable to him. His wife Nel, a beautiful woman who seemed to most people a mismatch for Taylor, did some accounting on the side, ran a women’s group each Tuesday studying the book of Romans, and maintained the house. She would also come into the store two or three times a day to give Taylor a break.

The other occupant in the house was Jason, their 22-year-old son. Jason was done with college and undecided as to what his next pursuit would be in life. For the time being, he had been given the responsibility of maintaining the property, the rental boats, and the dock, as well as keeping the rental cabins livable.

Taylor was a tall man of 6′ 2″. Although quite physically fit as a young man, the sedentary life of running a store had given him a slight paunch. He was also bald.

Though as a young man he was blessed with a full head of hair, he later in life lost everything off the top and was left with a curly fringe around the sides. Looking in the bathroom mirror one morning he said to Nel, “Look at me. I look like Larry Fine of the Three Stooges. It’s coming off!” So, he shaved his head clean. Head shaving is his ten-minute ritual each morning followed by the wearing of his black Ranger cap throughout the day to cover the naked pate.

As Taylor’s eyes scanned the room, he was proud of what some might call clutter. On one wall, by the shelves of fish eggs, lures, leader lines and poles, he had a cork board which he called the Wall of Fame. On it were stapled photos of every large trout brought out of Lake Erie and the fisherman who caught it. Since he created the wall, it was every fisherman’s dream to get their photo stapled there.

Besides the groaning, aged coolers which held soda pop, beer, milk, eggs and meats, there were aisles for breads, soups, chips, and camping gear. The candy selection was a favorite for the local kids and campers. Taylor remembered as a child coming to the store and being mesmerized by the penny candy choices to be made.

At the front of the store by the large windows, where the Presto Logs were kept, was Taylor’s prize possession which had been handed down from owner to owner. It was an antique game of skill. This wood framed arcade game with a glass front cost a nickel to play.  Inside was a cast iron football kicker with a steel marble. You would place your nickel in the slot, turn a crank which would bring back the kicker’s leg. At some point during the cranking, the leg would fire forward kicking the marble up a shoot. At the top of the shoot the marble would fall through a maze of nails tacked horizontally onto the face of the game. As the ball dropped, bouncing off the nails, you would slide a catching basket horizontally across the bottom of the game to catch the ball as it bounced to the bottom. Catching the ball meant you got to play again. Missing the ball meant you had to put in another nickel. Sometimes when kids came into the store, Taylor handed out nickels just to watch them play.

Suddenly the side door swung open hitting the silver bell suspended over it. In walked a 40-something man in rubber boots, wearing a felt hat covered in fishing flies and lures.

“You got worms?” he asked.

“No, I always sit like this. I haven’t had worms since I was a child,” Taylor replied.

“Fishing worms!” the man said not knowing if Taylor was serious or not.

“Look in the cooler under the mounted bear head. There should be some containers left in there. If not, I’ll have my son go dig some.”

“I heard that dad,” Jason yelled from somewhere in the house. “That’s not my job!”

“Come in here for a moment, will you? I have a bone to pick with you.”

The fisherman came to the counter with the worms. “You have eggs?”

“Yes. They’re stacked in the glass jars with the green lids over with the rest of the fishing gear.”

“No. I mean eggs for frying. My wife wants eggs.”

“I’ll help him dear. There seems to be a communication problem in the store,” Nel said as she entered with an apron around her waist and flour dough in her hair.”

Jason entered also. “What?”

“Look, the fishermen renting the rowboats are complaining about having to bail water before they can go out. Could you pull the boats up on shore in the evenings and pull the plugs, so the water drains out before morning?”

“I don’t know dad. It’s one more thing we’ll have to remember.”

“Keeping the renters happy, Jason. That’s what brings in the money to pay off your student loans. You know, someday this store could be yours and you can run it anyway you want.”

“Yeah. I think I would turn it into a destination coffee shop and get rid of the campers.”

“That’s blasphemy! You can dream on my boy. Dream on.”

Taylor left the counter, took a Cola from the cooler, and left the store. Walking behind the house, he followed the gravel drive down to the lake edge past the cabins and the camp trailers. He walked to the end of the dock and sat on the small bench. Cracking open the Cola, he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun and the breeze blowing across the lake on his face. He took a sip.

“Ahh. It doesn’t get much better than this,” he thought. “It’s been a while since I’ve dipped a worm in this lake. Maybe tomorrow at dawn.”

The next morning, Taylor got up before the sun. He used a flashlight and crunched down the gravel drive to the lake edge where the rowboats were pulled up on the grass. Putting the ores into the ore locks, he slid one out into the water. He tossed in a life jacket, his pole and tackle box, the net, a container of nightcrawlers, and a Thermos of coffee. He then he put one leg inside and pushed off the shore with the other. Sitting down, he expertly rowed the aluminum boat out into the darkness toward the center of the lake.

And as he rowed, and got further away from shore, he began to get an uneasy feeling that he had forgotten something.

“Pole, tackle box,” he went through the checklist in his mind. “Life jacket, fishing license, Thermos, worms, net,” and the boat tilted low in the stern and water poured into his shoes.

“The plug.”

Click here for Chapter Two

** This is a work of fiction and all characters are fictional, unless of course, they are my cousins.

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