One morning in April of 2015, I left my apartment and drove to Cockeysville, Maryland, to meet one of my heroes. Garden & Gun magazine had given me a dream assignment: Go write a comprehensive profile of the fly fishing legend, Bernard “Lefty” Kreh. They did not have to ask twice. (The story can be found here.)
A few hours later, I pulled into the driveway of Lefty’s house. Cockeysville, when he’d moved there four decades ago, was mainly farmland. Now, it had become a suburb of Baltimore, with rows of modest ranch houses like his lining the gridded streets.
Lefty and I talked for a bit at his house. He was 90 at the time, sharper than most 45 year olds I know. He sat on his couch, under a giant replica of a tarpon. After a while, he told me that he was hungry and suggested we hit his favorite café in town. He insisted on driving.
So we hopped in Lefty’s blue Toyota 4Runner. He had a homemade armrest that fit into the driver’s side door, for comfort, he said. He kept a paperback dime-store western between his seat and the console “for when the traffic backs up.” He had an orange fishing float at the end of the car’s antennae, which made his vehicle easier to pick out in crowded parking lots.
We sat down at the café, and Lefty ordered the fried flounder and French fries, both “well done.” During lunch, he used a well-cooked fry that had all the pliability of a steel rod to demonstrate the casting motion. When he was done with his demonstration, he popped the fry into his mouth with a loud crunch. He talked about his time in World War II, the time he was exposed to anthrax and the time he was nearly excommunicated from the fly fishing world for his views on casting, which at that time, anyway, seemed very radical.
During lunch, two gentlemen settled in next to us. They motioned to Lefty, and it was clear they knew who he was. Lefty didn’t seem to notice them. The two men sat there during their lunch, wordless and eavesdropping, not missing a word he said.
When lunch was done, Lefty invited me back to his house. He wanted to show me his fly-tying room, his photos, all of the fly reels he kept in his basement. He wanted to talk his upcoming fishing trips, and about the love of his life, his late wife, Evelyn.
We jumped back in his car and pulled out of the parking lot, headed toward one of those suburban four-laners where people seem to drive way too fast, always in a hurry. Lefty downshifted as he told me a story about a trip to Cuba in 1960 when he fished a marlin tournament with Castro and Hemingway. The car rolled forward. He was looking at me and not the highway. I glanced over his shoulder and through the driver’s side window at the highway. A row of cars was zooming our way. Our car kept moving toward the highway. I felt the hairs on my arms start to rise, and just as I was about to yell, Lefty softly braked, easing the car to a gentle stop with a yard to spare before the highway. He paused his story for just a second, still looking at me. My face must have betrayed my terror, for, almost immediately his face opened up into that wonderful smile that encompassed his entire head and exposed that mischievous gap between his upper front teeth. His smile seemed to say, Don’t worry, young man. I got this. It was brief enough that he didn’t miss a beat in his story.
The light changed, and Lefty pulled out as he told me about how Castro had won that tournament, and had done so legitimately.
I’ve thought about that grin a lot since we lost Lefty last week.
I miss him, and I know I’m not the only one who does.
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