The Old Fisherman
Decades had gone by since I had seen him last. After I graduated college I moved to another part of the country to start what I believed to be a life of luxury. Of course, time had weathered me a bit, worn down some of my resolve and youthful belly (having since swollen nice and round.) I had already begun my retirement and was heading home, that is my real home, for the first time in almost 40 years.
Old John was a staple at the docks by the Atlantic Ocean in Kennebunkport, Maine. I had kept in contact with him from time to time, exchanging correspondence and swapping stories. When we were smaller we had fished every day that we could. We would head out in his old fishing troller, which was more a floating tub than anything else, and we would fish from dawn until dusk.
The boat had been patched, and repatched, and repatched again, so much so that you could not even tell what the original color of the boat was.
I arrived in town and saw quite a different site than what I had expected. Back in the 1960's, Kennebunkport had been a rather small town, a place every person would like to run to to get away from the fast pace of city life. People would walk down the street, quietly, not rushing to anything in particular. People would stand at the windows of the shops on Main St. and browse for a while, thinking about buying that nice Dinette Set or getting one of those new dishwashers. But now, Kennebunkport was a very different place. It had grown and began mirroring the larger cities around it, like New York or Buffalo, though not actually quite as large. People no...