No More Fishing

No More Fishing by John MacHardy   © 2010

I remember so clearly the conversation. Carla, a graduate from the University of Vermont, and I met the summer after her graduation. She was hired as salad and dessert gal at the popular rib and seafood restaurant I where was working as a rounds cook southeast of Boston, in a town named Yarmouth for several summers after my high school graduation. Suddenly, we had three years of friendship, and me with my first year as a student at Bridgewater State behind me. Life was moving quickly toward some consequences. There was no real, physical age difference between us. Though, looking back, there was a huge gap in our mental ages. I had been so carefree up to that summer, the motorcycles, the parties, the concerts, the girls, beaches, et cetera. I won’t describe my change of feelings here, I am sure we all have operated on motives regarding the opposite sex, especially, that when that special one arrives out of the blue.

Now, there are many significant and interesting conversations I could discuss at this juncture.  The one that is of particular consequence to this story concerns the inductions that led to our decision to move from Boston to Rutland, in Vermont.

It was Carla’s third year out of college, and, we as a nation were stuck languishing in the recession of the seventies. Job opportunities were not flowing. She was still only able to find substitute teaching in the Boston Public Schools, and waiting on tables at the Museum of Fine Arts full time. Her rent in a third floor Brookline apartment building was shared amongst her sister and two good friends. Carla’s frustration was invisible to me, mainly because the status quo was a perfect set up for me. I was a sophomore now, who had spent the first four years after high school sloshing around Cape Cod, and not saving a dime. I was learning a most valuable skill: I was now a full time college student, worked full time at a small pub & restaurant.  And, I spent all my free time in Boston, which was indeed, another full time job. I was in heaven, she was heading for hell.

Carla was discouraged with her choice to teach in Boston. Even though she enjoyed the work, she was often abused by young children; fourth and fifth graders regularly harassed her sexually in the school corridors between classes. I would sit with her for afternoons and listen to her compare the kids’ behaviors to her boss at Friendly’s Family Restaurant (a previous job).  Carla was not a giver upper. She was a seeker. I believe that she believed she knew that what was needed in her life. And that,  not only did it exist, it was attainable. This ingredient did not reside in Boston. I did.  Her decision to widen her employment search took her to small towns all around northern New England. Together, we visited places like Moose Lake, in Maine to Moosalamoo, in Vermont.

Our seeking seemed to me to be an ends itself. It felt quite surreal, and I often wondered if I would remain a part of Carla’s life. I was halfway through my third semester at Bridgewater College, and had no plans to move. Life for me was still spinning in place, just spinning in a wider berth.

She found a long term substitution position in a small town at the foot of Killington Mountain, in Vermont. This, coupled with a waitress job at a nearby (and there were plenty of them nearby) restaurant. Many of you may not know this, I sure didn’t; Killington was home to the largest ski resort on the east coast of North America. I had only experienced Vermont’s Green Mountains in the summer months, camping, hiking and fishing. Fishing is the subject of the conversation I am trying to reach in this first story.

Winter came, she in the Green Mountains, I in the swamps of the South Shore of Massachusetts. There was a full plate for both of us. We spent hours on the phone, hours driving in the car, and hours pining while maintaining our responsibilities. I remember so well, I remember deciding that a move to the mountains would be nice, because we would be together, and I would fish during the early morning, find a job easily, and eventually finish my college years. I also remember that we married that autumn, and I did not find a job so easily, because we were in a recession; it took me several years before I managed to finish school. Still, we found lots of time to take walks, fish in the cool mountain streams, the little ponds, and do things that didn’t cost a lot of money. Because of our home being so close in proximity to Killington, I always found employment in restaurants: Quick money, plenty of food.

Now, as quickly as five years can pass, time has stretched to include our move to Vermont and our wedding at one end, and my graduation from college. It was just in time for Christmas break. Several weeks later, my first child was born. Amidst all of the confusion, my father in law thought to advise me that “Shakespeare would not pay the bills,” and he was very curious as to his son-in-law’s plans for the future. I remember it well.

Somewhere lost in the back of my mind, I had planned to be a writer of stories. Yet, because I had heard so many stories about aspiring writers who starved to death, I often took employment in restaurants and learned to cook. (If you have to walk before you learn to run, and, if I was going to write, I was going to eat well.) In retrospect, this was not a well thought out syllogism. Still we all need to follow some sort of plan.

Armed with my degree in English and Literature, and a good job at a very popular restaurant, I headed to off to Montpelier, the capital of Vermont, to follow the next logical step in my career: To take the real estate broker’s exam. Only now can I connect the dots, seeing that this was the beginning of the end of my fishing days. The lure to a real estate career was a dream step from property sales to property management. I dreamed I would run an office of sales people, and I would be the figurehead of the office, managing clients and clients’ properties. I would get to drive around the mountains and valleys all day, checking up on real estate, fishing in the spring and fall, perhaps snowshoeing in the winters. It was idyllic.

If I were to recall all the events that made up the bulk of my real estate career, although I am sure you would be amused, I would be completely straying off target. I will fast forward to the final real estate event which should be sufficient to round off this fish tale.

I was having drinks one day with a new acquaintance, Bartholomew Standish. He was a man of great ego, and presence. Built like a linebacker on the NFL, and he probably was though I have repeatedly googled his name in vain. Interestingly enough, he claimed to have been a player for the New York Giants.  One thing for certain, he could fish. He held 3 world records for fly fishing. Bartholomew had seen an opportunity in a sluggish real estate market, most notably, in condominium sales that were located miles away from ski areas. Condos that were located in close proximity to the ski lifts were selling fairly well. I was the recipient of several of such commissions. But, Ron Reagan (who was arguably the best president that America ever had) had just closed a very important loop hole in real estate. It had to do with a second home write-off in taxes. The second home market dogged. Bartholomew Standish set up a small company called “The Barton Group”, and concocted a plan to circumvent a very important real estate law. We had had some successes in the down market, and, Bart’s plan was to approach a condo project developer that was having trouble moving his units.

The Barton Group would purchase a small amount of stock in the project, and in return, be given a unit to set up a real estate office onsite. The Barton Group (BG) would then employ unlicensed real estate office workers to man the open house. We would collect names and addresses of browsers, and follow up on those serious about buying into the condo project. By owning a small share of the project stock, we became “broker-owners” and could pay anyone a commission for selling our condos, licensed or not.

It was the common interest in fishing that brought us together. He enjoyed the sport; I enjoyed the environment of the sport, and sought to do my best to protect it. We fed off of each other’s enthusiasm and brainstormed some marvelous plans. One cold spring morning, we formed “Rod and Realty”. I had a rental listing signed by Ms McCord, widow of Mr. McCord, the founder of the history of Green Mountain Light Company. The property was about 45 minutes drive from Killington ski hill; originally a farm house that had been remodeled in the 1950’s. It had 7 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, 2 large rooms, farm and a handful of small nooks. Driving out there gave me more perspective of our beautiful, rural state, and a desire to get more in tune with nature. I procured tenants for Ms McCord, and on that occasion, she asked if I would be interested in being her property manager. I politely put her on hold, because, even though it was quite a distance to get there on a regular basis, there were more farms and a wonderful river, the White River, in that region. If I could get more business there, it may be worth considering.

More business did come. A 22 hundred acre family farm in Sharon was no longer financially able to sustain itself under present ownership. The father had become too old to tend the dairy end, had taken advantage of a government program to have his cows bought out, many of the neighbors attempted to help with the crops, but were losing ground. The White river ran gloriously along 2200 feet inside the property line, with the fertile land gently sloping westward, up to a tree line of mixed hardwood and balsa. The farm house and barn were in very good condition, several small building were scattered nearby the homestead. And a short walk with Bart along the river showed me at least a couple dozen hot spots for trout. I got permission to come back to fish any time, and to spend as much time planning a future for her farm. Mary, the farm maiden, seemed to like me, and trusted me enough to bring in an environmental engineer.

We roughed out a plan. Build a low density condominium project along the hillside, one and two story units, with no building higher than the tree line to the west. Strategically lay out the fields with crops of mixed hardwoods and pine, already found on the property. We would cut the homestead and ten extra acres from the development, and make the remaining land community property, giving every unit and the homestead relative ownership. The access along the river would be special, allowing no motorized vehicles within its boundaries, yet restricting no one, including non owners. No live bait allowed on the property, and we would keep the fishing limited to fly fishing only on this stretch of the river.

The plan was to attract the fly fishermen from Connecticut, New York and New Jersey. Here, they could escape for a few hours or a few days at a time, hop out of the stress to a little (modern) bungalow. He could mosey down the path and cast a fly in the late afternoon on the pristine rivers of the Green Mountains. Later, on the porch, he could enjoy a cigar, some small talk and a very restful sleep in the clean night air. Early morning would include a little more fly casting while they were biting. For breakfast he could eat in, or walk down to the main house for a hearty Vermont breakfast with fresh eggs and produce, baked breads and healthy conversation about his new little town. Then, sneak back to work from whence he came.

Bart and I had three such properties, each on a different, but important trout river, under a signed contract, pending further engineering exploration and deed searching. Each project was to be designed for a different type of fisherman. Two communities involved keeping the family on the farm to help operate the project; the third would be more “rough” and hands on by the fisherman. Each was very doable.

I received a call from the state’s attorney’s office regarding our Country Club project, whereby Bart had purchased some shares of the condo project on a slow moving cluster of condos at the Neshobe Golf Course. Apparently, our ad hit the local newspaper, The Rutland Herald, and someone noticed that we did not include the words: Owner/Broker in the copy. I profusely apologized, being the primary broker of Rod and Realty, and promised to correct the problem immediately. I called the paper and rectified the problem. Then, I called Bart to inform him. I got his wife, he was out. Apparently he would leave at will to go fishing. I wish I had the balls to do that. Just up and go for as long as I needed. Maybe someday, after the kids are grown. I left the message with his wife.

He reappeared after two whole days! The glow on his big round face, and ear to ear smile were more enhanced than I had ever seen. Before we got down to business, I had to hear his great fish tales. They truly were, but will not be told here; yet.  It would be sufficient to say, though not too important to my story, he had bought a new pair of waders, and gave me his old pair. That pair was used once by me, and now hangs unadorned in my cabinet of curiosity. Then we got down to business. We discussed some new contacts from the country club affair and I told him of the misprint in the newspaper.  Our demeanor changed from manic adventure to mundane office procedure. He told me that he would deal with the paper and be sure they would reimburse us for our troubles. I should not worry about it. To be honest, I was not worried. And the expense was not enough to bother me.

The following day, following day the newspaper arrived, and there on the front page was a stock photo of Bart and a short congratulatory article honoring his fourth fly-fishing world record. He had landed one of the largest native brook trouts, using filament so thin, I could not floss with it without snapping the line. I cut out the article and pinned it on the fridge. I called Bart to congratulate him again, and tell him I saw the article. We spoke briefly about his new record, and left it. I knew now that with his experience and awards, Rod and Realty would soar to new heights, and our projects along the rivers would be successful beyond my dreams.

I sat back in my chair with my fresh cup of coffee, and continued to read the paper. The phone rang again, and again, it was the state’s attorney’s office. “Are you looking at the paper?” I can still hear that question, that voice, from a tired and irritated gentleman. I had checked our ad daily since our conversation earlier that week, and spoke automatically.

“I’m reading the paper right now. What is the problem?” Then, I saw the ad. The words “owner/broker” were removed. My God. “I will call you right back.”

My next call was to the paper. They assured me that, after being blasted yesterday by Mr. Standish, regarding the mix-up of the wording, they would reimburse him for the ads miss-run. And that the ad that was in the paper now was personally handed to them last night by currier.

I called Bart. He assured me that the problem was simple and could be handled quickly. He would go down to the paper personally and straighten it out.

I called the states attorney’s office. I informed them of the immediate steps I had just taken, and that I was going to the paper, myself, to see that our wishes were met. My day was already cluttered with appointments, and I never got to the newspaper office. I called Bart that evening, and he assured me he got there and everything was on track. I was somewhat at ease. But, I still didn’t totally believe that the paper would stay on course. Another faux pas (foo pah) and the commissioners would be very upset.

The following morning, a deal that I was working on the previous year was going bad, and I needed to make an appearance in another state’s court. I loaded my car with briefs, a fly rod and waders (wonderful chest high waders that Bart had given me, a sample from a company that wanted to sponsor some of his exploits.) My appointment was in Concord, New Hampshire, and wouldn’t last too long… something about owing a million dollars. I would take care of the day’s business and then find a nice fishing hole and spend the late afternoon casting; doubts along the Connecticut watershed.

That evening, among the messages and letters on my desk, I found an urgent note to contact the commissioner’s office. I did, and as late as it was, my call was answered by a clerk who forwarded my call to his boss. Mr. Carroll Christianson picked up the call. “We need to meet, to find out what is actually going on down there at Rod and Realty. Can you please set up a time and place where we can talk?” It was not an easy picture. Our business plan was pretty obvious to me, but it was not written down anywhere. I began to question the legality of paying an hourly wage and a sales bonus to a non-licensed real estate open house project, as opposed to making someone sit there unpaid except for commissions on a project that moved so slowly that a sales person might starve before the next sale, if he or she stayed with us. My hope, it seemed, would rely on whether the commission thought that our business was more concerned with the more ambitious work of subdividing failing dairy farms into conservation-minded projects that would both bring money into the state, and protect our valuable streams.

I phoned Bart that evening and told him that the real estate commission was coming to my home at 10:00 AM tomorrow morning, to go over our situation involving the advertizing of Country Club Condos at Neshobe. Bart assured me that there would be no problem, and that he would be there with the necessary proof of our attention to detail and law. This statement allowed me the one comfort I would continuously seek throughout the remainder of my life. I slept easily.

Nine-forty-five, A.M. a long black sedan pulled into my gravel drive. I heard the rough grinding of the car tires on gravel before I saw it. I pushed the start button on the preloaded coffee maker, and set out fresh croissants from the Creative Cookery bakeshop just down the road. Two well-dressed gentlemen came to the kitchen door and I opened it before they knocked. It was a beautiful, warm June day. Carla had left for work hours earlier, and the kids were at school. Mr. Christianson greeted me with a warm smile and handshakes; I was introduced to his assistant, whose name I cannot recall. They were both amicable, and hopeful that we would reach an understanding. I had a good feeling. We sat at the table and small talked while we awaited Bart’s arrival. The coffee was good, and croissants were flaky. We heard tires on gravel, and looked out to see Bart’s leased Trail Blazer pull into my drive, and park behind the black sedan. “Mr. Standish?” asked Mr. Christianson.

“Yes,” I replied. The assistant took out a small tape recorder, and asked permission to use it during our meeting. I nodded; it was all right by me.

Bart entered the house before I reached the door, and waltzed in, sweeping his arm around to greet my guests. What followed was a blur of confusing activity. It started with Bart seeing the tape recorder. Then, some shifting of paperwork, none of which showed realestate ownership, except for the ads that were being continually run by the newspaper, without the words: owner/broker. Bart started screaming something about having a verbal deal with the developer making him honorary partner, without the need to purchase stock, and something about not being able to get the developer here at such short notice. The commission looked away from Bart and directly at the principal broker of Rod and Realty with ‘that look’ of ‘something’s out of whack’. Then, it happened, the table flipped over and papers coffee cups and croissants went blended. We looked up in time to duck a flying pot of hot coffee, as Bart hurled it at the assistant going for the tape recorder. There was some sort of undistinguished wail from Bart as he bee lined for the exit, for his Blazer, and he showered the side of my house and the cars with gravel as he fled the scene.

I quickly and quietly tried to reset the furniture and garbage into some pre existing order, as the two gentlemen spoke quietly, shuffling their briefs. I was at a loss for words. Mr. Christianson said one kind word just before leaving: Well, It seems to us that this was quite a surprise to you, too. But, the facts are, you are the principal.

It took me a month before I could open the trunk of my car and remove the waders, but when I did, I hung them in my basement, near the garden equipment, where they hang today.

End of chapter.