Harold

I made myself a cup of tea the other day. Since I’m not starving I can stave off false hunger with some tea. But, to make it more interesting I will add some honey to the mix. I learned this trick from a neighbor a long time ago. He added it to his coffee – I, to my tea. It’s close enough to stir up a memory.

Some time ago (my new favorite phrase for a time reference as I struggle with the whole space/time continuum) Rhonda and I, along with our baby girl, moved to Prior Lake. Living next door to our new home were Harold and Opal. We quickly became good friends and spent many hours at their house playing cards.

Opal was always kind with time to share. But it was Harold who I was drawn to.

Other than an invisible property line, Harold and I had very little in common. He was a member of the Great Depression/WWII generation. I was born during the baby-boom and was just starting out with a young family. His children, already grown, were now bringing his grandchildren to visit. Whereas pliers and hammers usually pinched or smashed my fingers, tools were puppets in Harold’s large hands. When driving a screw his wrist rotated with a machine-like movement. Through his tolerance and my fascination, we became friends.

Men like Harold usually have a workshop on the premises. Harold’s was in a space beneath the garage. His shop opened up to the backyard which overlooked an encroaching swamp.

Sometimes I felt that I was playing the part of Dennis to his Mr. Wilson, but Harold never complained. I would usually find Harold working in his shop. We would go through this little ritual. I would knock and he would invite me in and offer me a chair near his Steelcase desk. Always the polite host he would then offer me a beer. The first time was on a warm July afternoon. When I accepted I expected him to go in the house and grab one from the refrigerator. Instead, he reached underneath his desk and pulled a Pabst right from the box.

“This is the way they drink beer in Europe - room temperature,” he said as he handed me the beer.

I nodded in agreement to this cultural lesson, but wondered to myself “What if the temperature of the room is 75?”

Usually Harold’s best friend Tubby sat with us. Tubby didn’t say much – most dogs are like that. Nevertheless, Harold spoke to him as if Tubby understood every word. One time Harold felt compelled to explain Tubby’s sullen mood.

“He’s mad at me. I left him in the shop all night – forgot to let him out. He won’t even look at me.” Then as if to prove the point he called his name, “Tubby!” The old dog would not even lift his head to look at Harold. Tubby was pouting.

As a young man Harold was a cook in a logging camp. After careers as an electrician and a plumber (each lasting about twenty years) Harold acquired all the necessaries required to become a locksmith. He even outfitted a van as a mobile shop. Most men look at retirement as an opportunity to sit back and open the mail. Harold saw it as a chance to learn a new skill.

I learned a lot from Harold. But the one thing I will treasure most is the taste of honey in a hot drink. It may not be how they do it in Europe – but it’s the way Harold did it.