Legacy Magazine

by Ron Russo

His hands were gnarled and bent, twisted by time, hard work, and arthritis. But the old man proceeded with the slow precision of a surgeon out of habit, memory, and deep unspoken emotions. His name was Giuseppe Lanza, an aging master craftsman. He was a small man, slightly hunched over, walking with a cane and growing frailer with each passing day. Some would have considered him minimally educated, but he was packed with the wisdom of ages. He seemed to know so much about so many things. I was in awe of the old man I saw; he had for sure earned a degree in living. For hours at a time at ages 13 and 14, I simply sat there and watched him carve, sand, and string as he deftly recreated models of ships he had worked on as a young shipwright back in Naples, Italy. I would carefully examine each of the ships he had already built that now sat on shelves on the walls until I found some part or some design feature whose purpose or function I didn’t understand. In looking back, I must have pestered him with a thousand questions, but he always stopped what he was doing to explain it in his accented English. When I asked a question twice, he would simply try a different way to answer it until I understood what he was doing. He never scolded me for misunderstanding.

Having retired many years earlier, he said that he had always wanted to come to America and so he and his wife did and ultimately made their way to the West Coast. Now, in the twilight of his life he relived the thousands of hours he had spent fixing, replacing, creating anew all of the pieces and parts that made those 19th- and early 20th-century ships work and sail the vast Mediterranean—all of this in his small backyard workshop in San Leandro, California. He used a few simple tools—a file, a whittling knife, a small drill, a block plane. He used old orange and apple crates for most of his wood with an occasional clear-heart fence post for a hull—all carved by hand. Amazing!

When I knew he was in his workshop, I would climb the fence and knock on his door and he would follow with a warm, “Come in, Ronnie.” He always seemed glad to see me. I suppose he appreciated having someone who was interested in how he had spent his life. At the time, he simply went about his business with me asking questions, watching his every movement, staring in amazement at what those crooked hands could create at age 89. I was his student, he my professor without a word ever to acknowledge the instructive neighborly relationship we shared living next to each other. He was never overbearing or arrogant about what he knew. He was a kind and gentle soul, quiet, humble, and patient.

Sometimes he would work and I would watch for the longest times without saying a word. Ours was not a forceful instruction based on any lesson plans or educational stratagems. Instead, it was a rather low-key, casual “learn by doing and observation,” backfilled with bits of information he alone possessed. I think my interest developed simply because he was interested, skilled, and patient and had such wonderful stories of ships and the sea he knew so well. He had so much to offer that I could not have learned from anyone in my family. I was thoroughly intrigued.

Just before he passed on, he gave me two square-rigged schooners, a couple of ships in bottles, and a large model of a small luxury liner he had made. Then, he was gone, lost to the world from which he had come, taking with him the skill, knowledge, and stories that only a handful of men possessed. I recall going into my bedroom, closing the door, and crying for what seemed like hours. Almost immediately, I began to realize the void in my life, but not yet realizing I would carry it for the rest of my days. There is something about spending time with a master teacher that never leaves you. I stared at those ships for years following his death, admiring his work and recalling his stories, with no idea then of what he had done for me.

Much later, in my early 30s, I found myself naturally drawn to harbors, boats, ships, and chandleries, woodworking, and, more importantly, the sea. One day, I began carving an old Italian-style salmon troller I had seen in Monterey harbor and I drifted back to Giuseppe. Unknowingly, he had planted a few grains of magic sand in me that would become pearls years later—and in a fashion come to honor his memory, his craft. Now, after having spent much of my life fishing and sailing and guiding natural history trips along the bays and outer shoreline of California and serving as a shipboard naturalist in southeast Alaska, I spend a few hours carving from scratch the ships of my own heart and experience. As time and work would have it, my hands are beginning to look like Giuseppe’s bent, cracked, and a bit knobby. It feels like he is still alive somewhere near me.

Now, I didn’t become a ship engineer or designer and I certainly didn’t grow up to own a shipping enterprise. But I did grow up with an immutable fondness for the sea and everything related. The greatest gift Giuseppe had given me were those grains of interest, enthusiasm, and encouragement, so small in the beginning, so beyond my grasp I could never have imagined that they would grow into the pearls that have kept me excited and given me great pleasure all these years. From scuba diving and underwater photography, from fishing and sailing to teaching countless students and docents about intertidal ecology, and finally writing articles and books on various ocean-related topics, I have spent much of my life experiencing and sharing the sea. I wonder how different my life would have been without those treasured times with Giuseppe.

So, it occurs to me that some of the greatest life-changing moments and lessons are softly planted by those of us who take a moment to listen to a youngster, to allow them to share their thoughts and interests, and to share something that comes from their passion and ours. We may be accidental mentors or consciously reach out. The student may come to us or we to them. It matters not, for it is the quality of the time together. It seems to me that the simplest question from or to a child—“What are you doing?”—is a spark of interest that opens the door to one of those grand moments or to a series of them that develop much later. I wonder how many of you have had a Giuseppe in your lives. How many of you are like Giuseppe in your own manner? And painfully, how many children out there desperately need a Giuseppe to help them avoid the dungeons of a life without inspiration, motivation, or encouragement?

Whether a parent, neighbor, or naturalist, it seems so critical that we are constantly alert, ready and willing to act on that tiny spark of interest. Children today, more than ever, need mentors. There seem to be so many bright youngsters that need to be taken under the wing of a master craftsman or just a caring adult. Whether it is with our own children, grandchildren, or the children we will only see once on the trail, we can plant the same kind of magic grains of sand that turn into pearls if we relax, take the time, listen, and encourage their interests, or softly share our passion. The demands of being an adult, no matter how crazy or pressing they may seem at the moment, are really not more important than the too often fleeting seconds when the window is open in a child. Inspiring children need not be rocket science.

Ron Russo is a retired chief naturalist with the East Bay Regional Park District (California). He is a founding member of NAI and was honored with the prestigious NAI Fellow award in 1989.