The old pensioner and the lessons that stick in the memory

Chris was a "pensioner," as they called retired people back in the 1950's. He lived in a little cabin at our place, and died when I was eight or ten years old.

I spent a lot of time with Chris, sitting at his creaky table while he sat in his easy chair. He had taken a liking to me, or maybe he was just lonesome, as he lived a solitary life.

When his pension check arrived he would walk the half mile to Helmville, always in a well ironed, immaculate suit, and go to one of the bars in town. I only saw him once when he had been drinking, but it was a ritual with him. He was a disciplined person.

His cabin was immaculate, with never a dirty dish or anything out of place. He had to carry his water from a hose bib at our house about 200 feet away and heat it on an old cook stove, which was his only source of heat. Chris never came all the way into our house. If he needed something (which was rare), he would come only to the kitchen door and call to my mother or father.

He was a wonderful cook, and once or twice a month brought us lemon pie or a pasty which he had cooked in a bread pan. It was always a special occasion when that happened.

Chris spent his days listening to the radio and reading RING magazine, which was about boxing, or TRUE DETECTIVE, about actual crimes. In the summer, he always had a baseball game on. He once played in the farm system of the Cleveland Indians, and his brother had made it to the big leagues, so he knew the sport well.

It was baseball and boxing that he taught me. He made me learn all the weight divisions and the champions of each in boxing, plus he showed me the basics of the sport, which was respectable in those days.

But it was baseball that brought us together. I watch a lot of it now, and remember the man during every game I see. We would go out into the corral and I'd pitch to him while he gave me the fundamentals of the game.

Chris would say, "keep your glove low," and "hit behind the runner on base," basics that I still hear today. He had contempt for players who caught the ball with one hand, as he had played in the day when baseball gloves were nothing but a flat leather pad with which you couldn't trap the ball.

He disliked Willie Mays because Willie made "basket catches," holding his glove at belt level to get a fly ball. Chris considered that "showboating," and against the tacit rules of play as he knew them.

He also offered pieces of advice about other things in life. "Swing your arms when you walk, you'll take bigger steps," is one, and which side of the road to walk on is another.

Chris didn't treat me as an actual adult, but I felt like one when talking to him. I never found his instructions to be tedious because he gave me a reason for each bit of knowledge he proffered. As children, we often thought our parents' advice and admonitions to be arbitrary because usually no logic was given for them. We were just told what or what not to do.

If I wanted his attention and said "Hey," he would say, "Hey? Hay is what you feed horses." I guess he found the word impolite, but I listened and quit using it.

There was one distinct negative when visiting with the man. He always insisted that I drink a glass of "milk," which was nothing but very warm condensed milk which he kept in a cardboard box on the floor because he didn't have a refrigerator. It was extremely difficult to swallow. Out of respect for the man, I never refused, but there were days when I avoided passing in front of his cabin because I didn't want to be called in and forced to drink that terrible liquid.

His death hit me hard. I think it was because he was an old man, but took hours out of his life to actually teach me things, plus offer reasons for his teaching.

It's probably best that he died when I was still young and naive. If I had known Chris when I got to adulthood, I might have seen the defects in his persona and wouldn't have the wonderful memory that still comes to me almost every day.

I once named a good dog after him, which is the best I could do in his respect.