Mr. Platz's Fishing Trip

by Henry W. Baumann

I find myself recalling the older people who meant so much to me while growing up in a New York sub­urb during the 1920s.Mr. Platz comes to mind often. Tall and craggy-featured, a corn-cob pipe always between his teeth, Mr. Platz had inherited a farm in New Jersey, sixty miles from where he lived at the end of our street. He spent spring and summer at the farm, returning with Mrs. Platz to their bungalow in the fall.

My father called him the only commuting farmer he ever knew. Mr. Platz said it was necessary because he loved the farm and wouldn't sell it to some stranger.
Sometime every autumn, the Platz's Model T would putter down our street laden with jarred vegetables and fruits Mrs. Platz had "put up" during the summer. Although sidewalks ran along both sides of our street, high fox-tail reeds had overgrown the land beyond our house.Happy to have someone to kaffee klatch with, Mom walked through the reeds to visit in Mrs. Platz's cheery yellow kitchen.

Mr. Platz was normally a carpenter, and many Sat­urday mornings he let me "help" him. I fetched lumber and tools, and often held nails while he started them with quick, sharp strikes of his hammer. I was nervous about this, but Mr. Platz insisted it was a good way for me to learn faith and trust.We talked sometimes of fishing, and I often tried to lure him to go with me for pickerel in Rosedale Pond. He would always promise, someday, but grown­up commitments always interfered, until one un­usually mild Friday in January that had me thinking of spring.
The tall reeds had burned down during autumn, and when I came home from school I could plainly see Mr. Platz working outside his house.

I ran down the sidewalk and soon started a con­versation about fishing. Mr. Platz agreed this warm day would have been ideal, and to my joy, agreed we would go the next morning.
I spent the evening getting my long unused fishing gear together, wangling some bacon from our window­sill ice box to use for bait. in spite of my parents' objections, I was up at daylight.
The temperature had dropped into the 'teens, where it belonged this time of year. Completely un­daunted, I wiggled into my mackinaw, slid a woolen hat over my ears and donned my mittens.
Happily, Mr. Platz was ready, and off we started. With the sunrise a heavy wind sprang up, and shortly Mr. Platz suggested it might be unwise to go all the way through the woods to Rosedale Pond.

After bucking the gale for awhile, I agreed, and we turned back, deciding instead to try a salt water creek wind­ing through the meadow closer to Mr. Platz's house. We reached the stream along a narrow, slippery path through the marsh. The tide was half out, leaving a crust of ice sagging from the muddy banks. The salt hay had a wrapping of frost that quickly wet our shoes.
With fast numbing fingers we baited our hooks, tossing the lines into the swift, clear water. My gloves soon became soaked, and the cold wetness was pen­etrating my shoes.

Mr. Platz gamely fished while I was beginning to hope he would call it off. The wind continued rising. biting at our stiff, shivering frames. Sensing I was too stubborn to quit, Mr. Platz finally said maybe the fish were smarter than us. When the last of my bait went sailing off the hook into the swirling stream, I quickly agreed it was time to go home.I will never forget Mr. Platz and the day that we managed to enjoy each other's company, in spite of great discomfort.