Mr. Fisher, the unlikely mentor

Mentor in an unexpected place

It was the summer of 1982 at the heart of small-town Cobleskill, NY. And me and my sister were up at the crack of dawn, dreams of dollar signs in our eyes.  

We were sure the entire town would be showing up like gangbusters to buy our rocks. We set up our display on our front lawn, me, 8 years old, and Roberta, my sister, 6 years old. I mean, we had given up an entire summer day of playing to put our hard work into this. And it was such a beautiful day, one of the perfect ones that was not to hot and not to cold, just breezy enough to enjoy sitting on a swing. It was blue skies, with not even a whisp of clouds, sunny and clear. Instead, we had spent weeks scavenging the entire neighborhood for unique rocks, washing and scrubbing them in a bucket with an old toothbrush. Now they shined and sparkled. We thought everyone would want one.

  Roberta sat cross-legged on the blanket, short, dirty blond hair in a ponytail. She was arranging the rocks on the scrap wooden board with a cloth on it in pretty patterns to look more attractive. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt that hung loosely on her skinny body. The lawn had that freshly mowed smell to it, and our covered porch was a whole minute away. But we figured on the lawn everything was more visible, so we spread out our blankets and put our wares on our makeshift table. 

 “See,” Roberta said and held up one, “This one even has some fossils on it. Look at it!" she sighed, "I wish we could keep them. But I want money more! What are you planning to buy with all your money?” Roberta asked. She put the fossil back and moved the coffee can down next to her. “I’m buying candy from the corner store, you know, the one mom says will rot all our teeth out," she said.

“I'm getting acrylic paint and brushes from Harmony Acres,” I said, “One day I'm going to become a famous artist.”

It was about 8am, time when ma had said sales start.

Okay, time to start,” I said, and Roberta helped me put my homemade cardboard sign over my shoulders. Connected by string, I had made two signs that went down to my knees in big words that said, “ROCKS FOR SALE 50 cents”. Slowly I walked up the sidewalk to Harmony Acres on the corner, turned, and walked towards the Zion Lutheran Church on the other side. Starting at fifty cents, as the hours went by and no one came, we had crossed that off, put forty, and so on. I had even yelled at the top of my voice, “Rocks! Rocks for sale!” Thinking it was going to be a sure winner. 

But for some reason no one came by. By midafternoon, it was getting hot. We’d been outside all morning. Ma had brought us sandwiches and lemonade, and we were munching on those despondently. 

“Hello girls, what do we have here?” asked the kindly old eighty-year-old gentleman who lived next door, Mr. Fisher. His driveway shared ours. He had been walking down the sidewalk in his elegant manner with a full shod of bright white hair on top that swept back. He bent over his tall slim body to see what we had displayed on our makeshift table. His clothing was simple, but classic and well groomed.

               “Rocks for sale!” said Roberta brightly. “Ten cents, but we’ll make a bargain for you!” 

I felt bad though, for most of the rocks we had found came from his yard. They were cleaner though now, as we had scrubbed them thoroughly with soap and water.

               “Oh, I see,” he said, his bringing his hand to his big black glasses he aways wore, looking over them. They had a chain that was attached so he wouldn’t lose them. “Very interesting rocks you have there.”

 Roberta was very excited about the rocks with the fossils, so she made sure to hand those to him to look at. He stood up with the rock, turned it over and examined it, as though a professor pondering a question.

Mr. Fisher was one our favorite people. Once, he had been a rare book dealer, and though he still had the sign out in front of the house, barely anyone came to look at the book. The sign was simple yet elegant, on a post hanging down on his front lawn, old English writing in black. His house was white with roman columns and also of elegant design. Out back was his shop, filled with books.

“Hummm…” he said, studying the rock. “I might just have a book in my shop that has information about this very rock. Why don’t you bring them by? These are spectacular rocks,” 

Suddenly the interest in making money melted away. He has information about our rocks? That was way cooler!

We placed all the rocks in our bucket and followed him to the shop. He opened the shed to his shop, and we stood there in amazement. It was dark, and had that old musty ancient book smell, and the books were arranged like a library in shelves all the way to the ceiling. He had lights that slowly flickered on, but even then, it was still dim. He had a giant ladder that went all the way to the top, and then rotated to wherever you needed it. And the books! They were ancient, brown, and dusty. Mr. Fisher specialized in book from the 1800’s and older but had some more recent books too.

“Now, where would it be?” He said to himself. There was a giant ledger attached to the table near the door. He moved his spectacles attached down so he could get a closer look and thumbed through it for a moment. He stopped, satisfied and said, “Ah, here it is!”

Mr. Fisher walked over to his ladder, “Now,” said to us, “I’m not that spry anymore, but if one of you would like to climb the ladder…”

I don’t Mr. Fisher had ever had such enthusiastic helpers. Climbing was one our favorite things to do. He knew we loved to climb, so he showed us how to move the ladder around the shed. It was hooked to a rail and could be moved where needed. I climbed up while he read off the title.

“Rocks and minerals of the northeast.” I was looking at faded and dusty book bindings. This one had a colorful jacket, so it was easy to spot.

“Found it!” I yelled. As gingerly as I could I took it off the bookshelf, went down the ladder and handed it to him.

“Very good,” he said. “Now let’s go inside and check this out.”

The shed did not have a sitting area, so we went into the sun room inside his house. The sun room was in the back a short distance from the shed, after traveling along a sidewalk. Enclosed by windows, it was beaming with light. Plants, flowers, and ivy trailed everywhere. There was a small round table cover with a lace tablecloth and wooden chairs. We brought the rocks with us but were careful not to throw them all over his nice table.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Mr. Fisher’s method of letting us learn was sit and let us discover things in the pages themselves. I opened up the book excitedly and Roberta leaned in to look. It had colorful pictures of rocks, plus maps of where they were found. We found pictures of the little seashells that were in our fossils, our shiny rocks called quartz, and more. Over the next hour, we learned big words such as limestone, sedimentary, and granite. We would compare it to our rocks, and then enthusiastically bring it over to Mr. Fisher to look at. He would act just as surprised as us and help us pronounce the bigger words we did not know. 

Mr. Fisher’s home was exquisitely and elegantly decorated. He served tea to us in a silver tea pot, in intricate teacups with lace dollies, embroidered cloth napkins, and little biscuits. Even when sitting and eating, he had perfect posture. He was from some bygone age, one of class and elegance, of high quality and civility. Just being around him made us want to behave politely like him.

“Honey,” called a shaky voice from the living room. “Is that the girls? I would like to say hi!”

It was Mrs. Fisher, but she could not leave the bed and needed quiet most of the time. Mr. Fisher took care of her. Roberta and I went in the living room and she was in a hospital bed. Her face was haggard and tired, and she was in a nightgown. She struggled to sit up slightly, but had a big smile on her face and her eyes brightened. She really liked having company. “Well, hello Grace and Roberta. Its nice to see you.”

               Roberta said, “We are learning about rocks! Wanna see?” Then Roberta walked (not ran because that would be rude in such an elegant home) and brought Mrs. Fisher a rock. She sat on the bed with her and explained the highlights to her.

Back in the sun room, Mr. Fisher had taken out special books he wanted us to look at. There were two volumes. Volume one and volume two. They were dark mahogany and had faded gold lettering on the binding. They stored in a special place. To me they looked like ordinary old books, like the ones in the shed. But Mr. Fisher was very excited, which I never saw him excited. This was his prized possession. “This is the first edition of ‘Last of the Mohicans’ by James Fenimore Cooper. He was an author from this area, who talked about the past of upstate NY. This is very valuable,” he opened the book, “It was published in 1826 in Philadelphia. See this page? This is how I know it is a first edition.” And he showed us the steps. But it had no pretty pictures, like the other book did. He explained to us the reasons a book was prized as a first edition, by its condition, its dust jacket, its rarity, and its popularity. Upon opening it, he showed us the title page, the date, the publisher and its importance.

We were about to leave and go home when Mr. Fisher said, “By the way, I would like to buy your rocks.” And then he handed us each a five dollars bill. Surprised, we had forgotten all about the money we had so desperately wanted hours ago.

“Thank you, Mr. Fisher!” we both said.

Mr. Fisher was an unlikely mentor to two little girls that summer of ’82. He taught us the value of loving books and learning all our lives. He never directly “gave” us anything. He let us always discover this joy for ourselves. Sometimes, it was by knocking on our door and casually telling my parents he was getting rid of books, and they would always be spectacular children’s books. Summer days and nights we had a hobby of catching bugs on his lawn in a jar. Bees, wasps, praying mantis, walking sticks, butterflies. Every time we did, we would run over to knock on his door to show him. He was never too busy to be amazed at what we caught. He always had a book about it, so we would learn the name of something extraordinary every time we went over.

I had a secret spot. I climbed the fence and sat on the roof of the barn. It was hidden by dense thicket of trees. There I would curl up and read his books. The trees were covered with concord grape vines, so while I read, I would eat the sour wild grapes. All while breezing with the wind and the fresh air. 

Most of his children’s books were from the 1800’s. These are books that will never be in print again, old editions with wood cut pictures and detailed pen and ink engravings. They were among my most cherished possessions.

There are days, not often, that I dust off that box of foggy childhood memories. And in that box, like a clear picture in my mind, is kindly Mr. Fisher and his shed of ancient books and elegant manners, being kind to two little girls who are excited about everything.