Gone Fishin’

I entered the last of the checks in my spreadsheet and Excel helpfully auto totaled the amount: Almost $8K. Another good week at the company surplus store; Dickie would be delighted.

The first time I met Dickie I thought Jon Voight. Not only did his face resemble the actor’s, his hair was combed straight back like his and stuck up a little.

I first met him when I was working on our waste recycling program. It was a constant thorn in the side of site management. Corporate required each site to recycle at least 75% of their waste, a difficult target.  My predecessor had languished in the 50-60% range for several years. 

It was not insignificant. We had over 10K employees, and every year we threw away enough stuff to fill a football field a several feet deep.

I spent my first few weeks on the job poking around, looking at where stuff went, talking to people. I started getting some ideas. Dickie was the site scrap coordinator. I liked him right off the bat. 

He had one of the most pronounced southern drawls I’d ever heard. He also had an engaging grin and radiated positivity. The day I met him, he was near a huge caged area; behind him in the cage was a mountain of junk. He stuck out his hand. 

“Hey, maaan,” he said. “Kin ah help you?” I explained what I was doing and asked what was in the cage.

“That’s jus’ ole junk we throw away. You wanna see it?” I nodded and we entered. 

It reminded me of a scaled-down version of Raiders of the Lost Ark scene where the camera slowly pans back, showing a cavernous government warehouse. There were storage racks three tiers high, like Home Depot, filled with old desks, chairs, lamps, filing cabinets, tables and other old junk.

“We just throw this all away?” I asked in disbelief. I kept walking and looking. Unlike the flimsy metal junk you’d buy in Walmart, this stuff was heavy, sturdy. 

“Yeah, maaan,” Dickie said. “Except for some of it. We get a penny a pound from the scrap guy.”

I’ve always liked poking around thrift stores, wondering what treasures I might find. As I walked, an idea came to mind. I turned to him. “Have we ever thought about selling this to employees?”

His face lit up. “Yeah, lots of times! But, dang, they keep tellin’ me no.”

We ended up in the site cafeteria drinking coffee for two hours and writing a business plan for a site surplus store on the back of an envelope. Management was iffy but after a slick PowerPoint showing them the effect on our recycling rate and potential revenue, they cautiously gave the OK.

As Dickie… “Country Boy”… and me… “College Boy”… worked out the kinks of the store, I got to know him better. I learned his passion was fishing. The pictures in his office and the 8-lb stuffed bass hanging on his wall proved he was not boasting. As we inventoried and priced all that junk, our friendship grew.

After six weeks, we finally had our grand opening. The line went down the hall and around a corner, and the excited murmur of employees had us rubbing our hands. We opened the gate and they flooded in, eagerly examining stuff and calling to their friends. Soon, we were making about $7-8K per week and the recycling rate jumped to 80%. Management was delighted. 

CB and CB were a good fit. Those who know me will be the first to agree I have little in the way of common sense. Often, College Boy would be on the verge of doing something short-sighted and Country Boy would explain in his southern twang why it was a bad idea and suggest an alternative. He was always right.

Whenever he wanted to send someone a polished flamer or an attaboy, he’d send me the basics. I’d spend an hour or two, crafting something with lots of jargon and million-dollar buzzwords, and send him back a guided missile. 

I also tend to procrastinate. I think it’s the engineer in me, trying to stress test every perceived weakness. Dickie’s philosophy was that of “The Cable Guy”; Git ‘errr dunnn! He’d startle me by making command decisions without letting me know; but in the end, it all worked out and I saw the wisdom of his expedience.

We both played guitar…he also played banjo… and sometimes we’d jam at his house with a few other guys. He helped me with some difficult chords and never got upset when we’d have to start again because I flubbed my part.

But his biggest impact on me was his faith. He was a deacon in his church and sang in the choir. He worked around the church on Saturday afternoons. He started a Sunday afternoon Bible study/music hour at a rundown retirement home. And… most impactful… was the way he lived his faith.

One day we were walking down a long, sparsely occupied hallway. Ahead of us was an attractive young lady wearing a rather tight fitting dress. He looked and saw, beyond her, a guy coming.

“Aww, maaan, here comes Harry Ingold,” he said under his breath. “You watch ‘n see if he don’ turn around and check her out.”

Sure enough, as soon as she passed him, Harry turned around and lecherously gawped for a good ten seconds. After we passed him, Dickie snorted in disgust. “Maaan, that guy makes me sick. I used to do that. But now I make myself not turn around. I point up and say ‘That’s for you, Lord.’”

Other things impressed me. He had no compunction of folding his hands quietly in the busy cafeteria and saying grace before eating. He finished and saw me looking at him. “Maaan,” he said. “Remember what Jesus said. If we’re ashamed of him, he’ll be ashamed of us one day.” 

He’d talk about the hair on his neck standing up when he discerned God whispering to him. About promptings he’d get to call someone or do something. We’d talk about the Bible, certain passages, what he did about this or that.

But his most impressive feat was one “Take Your Kid to Work Day” when we organized a catch-and-release fishing contest. He brought poles, bait, his tackle box and all the other stuff. He stood up on a picnic table under a pavilion and called for quiet. 

Surrounded by about 100 employees and twice that many kids, he yelled out the rules. Management stood off to one side, nodding to each other; this will really boost site morale.

He concluded with this: “And now if y’all will bow your heads, I’m gonna open it up with a prayer.” Management looked startled: Wait, what?

“Dear Lord,” he prayed loudly. “We ask you to bless this fishin’ contest and all these participants. We thank you for the good weather and the beautiful earth you made.”

At this point, he could have simply said “Amen.” Lord might be stretched to include Christians, Jews, perhaps even some other faiths. But undaunted, he finished: “In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

Most of the kids didn’t think much of it; they were eyeing the trophies and anxious to get their lines in the water. The reaction from the parents ranged from smiles to confusion to scowls. Management look stricken; I’m sure they got a severe dressing down from HR.

But Dickie didn’t care. He hopped off the table and patted me on the back. “Whatcha say, CB? You ready?” He grinned and went to help some kids who had already tangled their lines.

We’ve both since retired from the company but we keep in touch. I remember our discussions about spiritual things, faith, belief. I think about his unashamed proclamation on the picnic table that day and what Jesus said about making Andrew and Peter fishers of men.

And while I’m not as bold in my faith as Dickie, I’m a work in progress. Little by little, God is leading me and encouraging me. I can see progress. I’d like to be more like Dickie and walk the walk, not just talk the talk. 

Maybe someday I can catch fish the way he does. 🙂