An Aging Mentor, a Restless Teenager.
Some of life’s most important teachings are taught by mentors.
I’d just arrived to start my four years of high school. That first afternoon Al Stanton introduced himself.
Al was a student counselor at my high school in northern Michigan. I had no way of knowing when the school year started that he was to become one of this life’s several mentors to me. He must have been mid-sixties when I met him upon my arrival to the school in 1965.
His light blue eyes framed by smile wrinkles, large, round nose and a perpetual, almost boy like smile. A deep tan said he spent most of his time outside. He still had a full head of hair and in a certain light it would glow a soft blonde, other times white.
His daily uniform was khaki slacks, very baggy and tucked in button shirt, held together by an overly tight army belt. His ever present brown canvas, gum soled walking shoes were the only pair he had. For evening meal in the old, high ceilinged dining hall, Al showed up with one addition to his attire, a paisley tie that must have been around at the turn of the century.
Al might best be described as soft, gentle, yet firm. He had to be firm if he stood any hope of handling the youth of the early sixties. His soft and gentle voice belied a travel weary gentleness.
‘Tommy, my boy, my hopes are to one day find a ruby.’ He’s say this more than once.
Before coming to work at the high school, Al worked with the Peace Corps for the four years that it had been in operation. His missions took him all over the globe. His happiest moments were those in the remote highlands in Singapore, or Viet Nam fog entrenched mountains just before the war.
He told me about when he met President Kennedy during an inauguration ceremony for the Corps.
He’d spent time in the South Pacific, Ireland, South America and others. Al overflowed with life’s experiences and was more than happy to tell of them when asked. Which I did. I loved his stories.
‘Hey Al , tell me that story again about the volcano erupting on that island.’ And off he’d go. If there were no other students around, I was in for the long, fully detailed versions of his travels. He knew how to turn his travels into valuable, dream like teaching opportunities.
One day I overheard another counselor talking with the schools headmaster about Al having spent time in the South Pacific during the second world war. Of course I couldn’t wait to ask him to listen to honest to goodness war stories.
He flatly refused. He assured me that what he did and saw in those hell places would be of no use to me. I learned from the other counselor that Al had been with the forces that stormed the beach heads of a string of Japanese-held islands. The hell he had to have lived must have been unspeakable.
Though the topic greatly interested me at that time, I never bothered him again about it.
Al taught me patience. My school was on the shores of the mighty Lake Michigan, west of Traverse City. In those days, duck hunters still used the old wood duck decoys for hunting. Often times when hunters were in duck blinds just off shore, strong winds would kick up and rip lose their beautiful carved decoys.
The decoys floated onto the beach and over time sun bleached.
Al and I turned it into a hobby to walk the storm whipped beaches for miles in both directions from the school. Our objective was to find a prized wooden decoy. Sure enough, we must have found overall some fifteen of them. Not all at once, of course, if lucky one per walk. We’d go back to Al’s basement shop under one of the dorms and the real work would begin.
We carefully sanded each decoy, removing all the old and crusty surfaces. The beautiful grain of the wood would slowly emerge. We would either varnish or we would oil them, depending on the quality of the decoy. Soon enough, our decoys started showing up as décor all over the school.
No one took notice except me and Al and our Head Master. Our beautiful trophies were set in the huge dining hall. The place looked like one of those ancient and massive and forever rambling hunting lodges of old times. The only thing missing was hanging pheasant and wild pig from the days hunt. Basically the biggest log cabin I have ever set eyes on.
Decoys also showed up in the library, a couple at the student rec center. Blissfully ignored by most. We didn’t care. I told Al I wanted one to take home. He said I could take as many as I wanted. I grabbed one that held a special knotted wood swirl within its body.
The lessons in patience came always in the preparation of the decoys, the careful hours of sanding. He’d say stuff like ’Tommy, just go nice and easy, no hurry. Soon you’ll see what appears.’ He’d tie this instruction in with things having to do with day-to-day life.
Petoskey stones.
Back out onto the beaches before winter covered the land in mountainous drifts and lake ice. Our search was for another highly sought treasure. This was the Petoskey stone. Actually, a prehistoric fossil turned stone. Its marking were small, black dots as though a honey comb. There was a skill in finding them hidden amongst the millions of other beach stones.
With practice, I got so that the corner of my eye would catch the telltale spots. ‘Petoskey!’
‘Good Tommy! Nice find, boy that’s a nice one.’ We’d go for hours and never fail to return with a bag or two of these stones.
Once back in Al’s shop, the process of sanding started. His shop was magical and stuffy, full of shadows and inadequate fluorescents hanging overhead. Tools seemed to hang from every hook and beam in the small space. Saw dust covered the concrete floor. Stacked in piles in the corners were chunks of driftwood and other colorful wood.
The walls almost disappeared behind all manner of hanging stuff.
Two fold out aluminum chairs with several loose hanging straps provided our seating. Between Al had set a rough chunk of tree trunk which served as our table to set our coffee or chocolate mugs on. A large, wheeled wood table island held the center upon which set all manner of shop detritus and of course the all important bench vice and an electric grind stone.
The place had the invigorating smell of solvent.
We’d go from courser to finer sand paper, then onto polishing powders. Al taught me the craft of stone polishing. Before long, we had built up an impressive inventory of brightly polished stones.
It was during these times in the heated shop, cups full of his heart warming hot chocolate, outside the pre winter wind howled around us that Al would share his knowledge and his life with me. He told me his wife had died of cancer. That age had finally forced him to settle down a little.
He repeated yet again that it was still his life’s endeavor to find a ruby. That he wanted to find one before he died. Death was at that time something that seemed impossibly far away from my grasp.
Not so now…
Al spoke to me about kindness and compassion. How to treat the creatures, the trees and fellow humans. The late afternoon sun would streak through the basement windows and light up his golden hair. It was as though Al was showing off a halo!
Winter set in and it was forever picking up animal tracks and identifying them in the fresh fallen snow and following them for miles.
Off we’d go again. This time in spring. Hunting knurls! Knurls were none other than rounded stumps of tree trunk growing out the side of a tree. The bigger, the better. We’d carry saws with us and a burlap bag. After hiking all over the hilly back country, we’d happen upon a huge tree with the desired knurl.
On occasion, we’d happen upon huge, thick trunk trees, called ‘old growth’ left by the loggers from the eighteen hundreds. These were good for growing knurls.
The knurl is sort of anomaly. It’s like a knot, as though the tree decided not to grow there anymore and sealed itself over. Some knurls formed from branches cut years before. The saws were used to slice the chunk off and put it into the bag.
The trees were not harmed.
Once again at the shop, the rather tedious task of sanding out the big knot and shaping it into a unique bowl started. The effort took weeks, but soon enough there would emerge a natural treasure. The circling grain of the wood, as though tortured into impossible forms, came to light.
We sanded until fingers passed over the smoothest wood surface. Under the surface was an incredible storm of wood grain as the tree for who knows how many years struggled with this growth.
Every single knurl bowl was, of course, unique. Impossible that two could ever be alike. Al would take the opportunity to launch into talks of individuality, the same yet different. Patience was his hallmark. ‘Do you see Tommy boy? See the magic of a little effort? This you apply to all the things in your life…’
That was my freshman year. I had been a perfect recruit for Al’s teachings. As my sophomore year rolled around, I went into all the sports. From the side lines Al would wave. Something had turned. Girls suddenly filled my every minute, my reason for being. The way to girls was sports.
Good bye Al. Things change. I moved on in a way. But youths eventually do grow away from things.
He taught me so much more which I shall tell another time. With him, I learned the names of every tree, every bush, every wild berry. Which ones I could eat, which ones would kill me. Under his guidance, the rich northern woods were opened to me, their secrets revealed.
Spring time morels were collected and taken back to the shop and thrown into his small frying pan. The bugs and the birds all were explained to me. Pheasants, black squirrels, foxes and river ducks, porcupines, geese and countless deer all fell prey to Al’s and my harmless observations.
Time goes on. Reality demands this of us all. Al never returned after my sophomore year. The Head Master told me Al had taken another Peace Corps mission in Africa.
I have always believed that Al’s decision to not return had more to do with the upheaval in the social fabric changing everything. The youth became wild, me included. Drugs, sex, took priority in a huge way.
Change is a law.
I remember how some of the students laughed at Al, mimicked and ridiculed him like the useless foolish clowns they were. At that time I was too little and gutless to stand up for him.
Later this changed but too late.
I was lucky to have him as a teacher and guide. My highest regard for him is more alive than ever, as through the years his lessons have only grown in meaning and importance.
