He had giant hands. Fingers the circumference of quarters. Scarred, scratched, calloused and rough. Shaking his hand was like shaking a catcher’s mitt. But somehow he could tie intricate fishing knots. He could fix damn near anything, and whether it flew, floated or rolled, he could drive it.
He opened an autobody shop at age 16 and stayed in business until he passed away last November at 78. He built tow trucks and dump trucks. He dabbled in real estate and restaurants. He served for decades as a volunteer firefighter. And he fished harder than anyone I knew growing up. For 35 years, he lived with my mom. Though they never officially married, I called him my stepdad.
The stepparent thing can be a roll of the dice. I lucked out. His name was Oliver Helmrich,
