.jpg)
The Debt
Here’s another letter from Buck to me not long after his dad passed away. He understandably had several months of difficulty adjusting. This letter related part of that journey.
July 10, 1968 Hoops, I gotta tell you about Uncle Reimo and how we got to be friends. You do know, Uncle Reimo is not really my uncle. As a matter of fact, even though I knew who he was ever since I could remember, I didn’t call him “uncle” until I was fifteen. That was the spring of the most memorable fishing opener I ever had.
Reimo Kannas lives down the road from our driveway, about a quarter of a mile. He is what you call a hermit. Most people know very little about him, and he prefers it that way. By way of the bits and pieces that schoolboys pick up, there were some “facts” that occasionally came to light. Emil Makinen discovered that Reimo didn’t care for teenagers poking around the back of his woodshed. Eino Erkkila’s father told us that he was a hermit because the girl he was engaged to ran off with another man. Tommy Johnson swore he found an old still behind Reimo’s cabin. The story around Balsam was that he spent a night in the woods during the Armistice Day Storm. Separating truth from fiction not only proved difficult, but it also added to the mystery of the man.
One thing was known by all, however. He was unequaled in the community as an outdoorsman. Reimo knew the woods for miles around better than any other hunter. He could cover ground faster than any track man I ever knew. At the end of the year when the men gather around the general store woodstove and the boys stand around the power pole in the middle of the schoolyard to tally up the biggest and the best and the most, all have to agree that Reimo Kannas has more than his share in every category. Dad would make mention of him every once in a while. I kind of got the impression that there was a time when Reimo and dad spent quite a bit of time hunting and fishing together. Why they didn’t continue in later years was never discussed. Dad did say once though, that “if it hadn’t been for Reimo Kannas, there wouldn’t have been a Buck Peura”!
I became more familiar with Reimo the winter of ‘66 and ‘67, after dad died. I had just turned 15, and although I could take care of most of the chores, some needed the help of an adult and Reimo would stop over to help get those done. Mom didn’t drive, so when we needed groceries or other errands in town, Reimo provided the transportation. If the road needed plowing, Reimo would be there with his little Farmall by the time I got the front porch cleaned off.
It did seem somewhat strange that after having lived next to the man for so many years with so little contact, that all of a sudden, he should show that much interest and concern for the well-being of our family. I began to think that maybe his motives toward our belongings – or even my mother – were something less than honorable. As the winter started to turn to spring, my feelings of gratitude began to turn to distrust.
Reimo came over with his tractor and plow the first weekend in May to give our garden a turning over. We stopped for a coffee break and Reimo seemed to go out of his way to talk to me.
“’Spose your kinda itchin’ to do some fishin’ next Saturday. Know I am,” he started.
“Yeah. Got my minnow traps in this morning,” I replied.
“Say - how’d you like to run my new six-horse Johnson for a while in the morning?”
“Thanks for the offer, Mr. Kannas but I won’t need a motor where I’m goin’. Dad and I spent every opener I can remember right on our dock. Did pretty well, too. I think I’ll do the same this year.”
“Well, that’s a good place for the little ones. Twenty years ago, it was the best place on the whole lake, right down in front of your house. ‘Spect that may be the reason your dad built where he did. He ever tell you that it was me and him that found that fishin’ hole? Why, him and me......”
There was a long pause while Reimo looked past where I was sitting. Slowly he stood up. “Never mind,” he said as he swung himself up onto the crooked seat of his tractor.
Mom wasn’t surprised when I told her about the invitation. “He’s been working pretty hard around here this spring and giving him some company on the opener may repay him for some of his labor. Besides, I know he’d like to spend some time talking to you”.
So, there we were bright and early on the following Saturday morning. I had the throttle on the Johnson wide open as we traveled on down the lake to the bay just past Lofgren’s Resort. Must have taken us 15 minutes to get from our place to there.
“Don’t know why we’re comin’ all the way down here,” I remarked. “Everybody knows there’s no fish in here”.
“You’re right – leastways once we get to June,” he said. “There’s a little crick goin’ out the back that most so-called fishermen don’t know about. Best fishin’ I’ve had openin’ weekend’s been here. Your dad and I used to spend a lot of time lookin’ for places just like this. I just never stopped lookin’”.
“You and dad used to spend a lot of time together?”
“Sure did. He ever tell you much about us?”
“No, not really. He did say something about you saving his life one time, but he didn’t fill in any details”.
Reimo didn’t say anything for about 20 minutes. I kept casting my spinner and he just stared at his bobber. Finally, he broke the silence.
“You know, you remind me a lot of your dad. Not just the face but the way you cast that spinner. He was always partial to a #2 gold spinner. Yeah, him and me went way back. Grew up ‘cross a 40 from each other and started fishin’ together before we were 10. Used to walk ‘round your grandpa’s pasture and kill partridge with our slingshots. Him and me were quite a pair all right”.
Again, there was a long silence. Reimo was fishing with a big sucker minnow, about six feet below the surface. The minnow was strong enough to keep the bobber skipping across the water and watching it tended to be kinda hypnotizing.
“Yeah, guess you could say I saved your dad’s life,” he began again “but did most of the work himself. Out duck hunting one fall in the river bottoms. Knocked a couple of mallards down and your dad went out in the canoe by himself to fetch ‘em. Windy that day and had a strong current out past where the dekes were. Your dad reached out for one of the drakes and the wind caught the front of the canoe at the wrong time. Flipped him right out and away from the canoe. Current started taking him downstream pretty fast. Water was cold and there was a rapids a couple of hundred yards down. I grabbed a rope outta my backpack and started runnin’ along the bank. He finally kicked close enough so I could get the rope out to him. Scared us both, bad.”
“So, you really did save him. I’m glad I finally know how.”
“Yeah, but I almost kilt him once, too.”
Another long, quiet stretch. I caught one small walleye. Reimo’s bobber seemed to be slowing down.
“It was duck season a couple of years after the accident with the canoe. Him and me were jump-shooting some potholes along the Range Line Road. We were walkin’ back up to the car from one of the potholes. Your dad was ahead of me. It was a warm day, and I remember thinkin’ how hot I was gettin’. Had our hunting coats on and carried Duluth packs with decoys and lunch. Wore our hip boots through the woods, too.
“I used a model 97 Winchester 12 gauge, and those things had a bad reputation. Used to walk with the hammer on full cock, in case we saw some partridge. I never really knew what happened – brush musta hit the trigger. Heard the gun go off and looked up just as the charge hit your dad in the back of the legs. He screamed – ‘I’ve been shot’ – and I lost control of myself. I couldn’t help him. He even walked to the car by himself. We were almost 30 miles from town, and I knew he was gonna die. I was shakin’ so bad it must have took me half a minute just to get the key in the ignition. Got him as far as your grandpa’s, helped him out of the car and took off. Saw your grandpa was there, but even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t have taken him any farther.
“Thank God your dad didn’t die. Doctor said his hip boots probably slowed the charge some, and some of the shot missed because it went between his legs.
“Went up to see your dad in the hospital. Never seen him that mad.
“Bad enough you shot me, but when you didn’t help afterwards, that’s unforgivable. I hunt only with people I can depend on. I never want to hunt with you again!”
“Never did hunt together again. Matter of fact, barely talked to each other after that. Felt bad many, many times that we didn’t get along anymore. Used to think that maybe I could go over and make things better between us. Never did seem to be the right time, though. Sometimes I’d just get stubborn, sometimes I just couldn’t find the time and sometimes I was just plain scared to talk to your dad. Your dad got married and you came along and just figured we’d gone our separate ways. After he knew he had cancer he came over to talk to me and make peace.”
“This has gone on too long” he said. “And you know, he was right.”
Again we stared for several moments at the barely twitching bobber. I had stopped throwing the spinner out several minutes before.
“Your dad asked if I could keep an eye on the place and maybe take you fishin’ once in a while. I told him I would – it was a debt I owed him. Watchin’ you and gettin’ to know you these last few months, I realize how much of my life I wasted on bein’ stubborn. We shoulda been doin’ this as a threesome for a long time. If’n I can teach you that much, Buck, it’ll be more help to you than any amount of errands I can run”.
As he talked, his bobber went down. Reimo horsed the fish around for a few minutes and I finally netted a walleye that had to go over seven pounds.
Uncle Reimo and I spent a lot of time together after that. He showed me how a buck will backstep in his own prints trying to lose a hunter that’s tracking him. He showed me the trapper’s trick for getting snowshoe rabbits to come check your set out. He showed me that cowbells were for catching trout and not to tell where old Bossy was at. Every time we go out, he shows me something new. Guess he figured he’d had a lot of stubbornness that he had to make up for.
‘Bout time for us to get out for a bit of fishing. I’ll stop by next week.
Buck
