Memories – a selfless childhood friend and mentor

  Sometimes the smallest things trigger memories when they’re least expected.

  A magazine advertisement for a fountain pen evokes memories of inkwells in elementary school desks.

  A song on the radio brings back memories of an old flame.

  A beat-up wrench in the bottom of a tool box summons memories of a long-ago mentor.

  That happened to me last week while looking for a wrench to remove a car battery. There must be a couple of dozen wrenches in my toolbox and hanging from a pegboard in my garage. Most are relatively new, meaning purchased in recent years. This one, however, had been around for decades.

  it was a gift from a childhood friend and mentor who lived across the street from my parents’ home. Howard Snyder was an Idaho Power Co., troubleshooter, the neighborhood fix-it man and a second father to most of the kids in the neighborhood. He and his wife, Fern, never had children, which was a shame. Their kids would have grown up knowing how to build or fix just about anything.

  Howard gave me the wrench and several smaller ones like it, figuring  they would come in handy when I was older. Neither of us knew at the time that I’d inherited my father’s mechanical aptitude gene, meaning limited mechanical aptitude at best. The wrenches have come in handy from time to time, though, and as wrenches go they’re somewhat unusual.

  When you think of wrenches, brands that come to mind are Craftsman, Milwaukee, DeWalt … The ones Howard gave me are New Britain brand. The New Britain company hasn’t existed for more than 30 years. According to Google, it was known for making “vintage, collectible, high quality hand tools.” Howard didn’t skimp when it came to gifts. He even went to the extent of engraving my name on one side of them, my address on the other.

  If anyone in the neighborhood would have a set of collectible tools, it was Howard. HIs garage and basement workshop were filled with tools, literally hundreds of them – hand tools, power saws, a lathe, grinders, welding machines, painting tools, plumbing tools … You name it, he had it. 

  It wasn’t just tools. He had parts for practically anything. A carburetor for your car? Call Howard. A replacement gas cap for your lawnmower? Howard was your man. A ringer for a discontinued  washing machine? Chances are he had it.

  He looked like what he was – a no nonsense, blue collar working man. Except on Sundays, when he dressed up in a suit and tie for church, he invariably wore sturdy work boots and a matching shirt and work pants made of heavy material in hunter green. He wore his hair in a pompadour and except when wearing welding goggles he was never without a pair of glasses on his prominent nose.

  He built soapbox derby racers for every kid in the neighborhood. He fixed our trikes, bicycles, roller skates. When I was a young teenager hoping to start a rock group, he made my first guitar amplifier out of oddments from his garage.

  He loved to hunt and fish and happily shared his knowledge and his time with any kid who was interested. He taught me how to use a shotgun, tie flies for fishing and took me with him on some bird hunting trips that produced indelible memories.

  Despite his clear instructions and patient coaching, I was and remained a lousy shot. Luckily for the birds, I fired time and again without hitting anything.

  Except for one memorable incident on a grouse hunting trip in the mountains overlooking Boise.

   “You walk down here along the road,” he said. “I’ll go up on the hill and flush the birds down to you.”

  Put another way, he was unselfishly giving me an opportunity to shoot and actually hit something.

  Anyone who has hunted birds knows the explosive sound they make when flushed. As a novice, I was utterly unprepared for this. When it happened, I was so startled that I closed my eyes and inadvertently fired straight up.

  You can imagine my surprise when a grouse fell with a thud practically at my feet.

  “Nice shot, Tim!”

 I never told him my eyes were closed.

 We went duck hunting on the Snake River early one winter morning when the trip unexpectedly was cut short. We’d just pushed the boat into the river when Howard noticed my stricken expression.

  “Are your hip waders leaking?” he asked.

  Affirmative. The water was so cold it immediately turned to ice when it splashed against the side of the boat. Inside my waders, it felt like fire.

  Giving up his day of hunting, Howard pulled the boat from the water, told me to remove the waders and my socks, dried my feet and built a fire to warm them. We went home without any ducks – or frostbite.

  I never was much of a hunter, but fishing with Howard was another story. Time and again we brought home creels filled with trout, perch or crappie.

  It was fun just hanging out with him, watching him do mechanical, welding or woodworking projects and learning a little in the process. Or just watching TV over a bowl of popcorn with him and Fern.

  His life was as long as it was productive and selfless. He died in 2002 at 96.

  This is a bit late, Howard, but for everything you did for me – and countless other kids – thanks.

Tim Woodward’s column appears every other Sunday in The Idaho Press and is posted on woodwardblog.comthe following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@gmail.com