Cecil Soil Magazine Haircuts with Herb

Haircuts with Herb by Ed Belote Sr.

Herb Benjamin has been cutting hair in the town of North East, Maryland for more than forty-five years. His barbershop (just off the side of his tackle shop) has become a landmark, and all who visit appreciate Herb’s affable, witty personality.
Getting a cut at Herb’s is like stepping back in time; almost like being in Mayberry — the friendship and laughter beckon you to come back for more. Push open that squeaky screen door — come on in and listen...

November/December 2008: Fish and Eagles and Deer, oh my!

As I stepped into Herb’s shop, he immediately introduced me to a distinguished gentleman sitting in his chair. “Ed, I would like you to meet Mr. Dan Bolt. Now Dan here, is quite the philosopher … he thinks a little differently than the average man. We’ve been friends for a long time.” I found out that Dan is 75 years old and lives near North East, but more important than that, according to Herb, Dan has a large, 10-acre pond loaded with largemouth bass, pike, crappie, and bluegill.

“A company out of Baltimore, called ’Clay Company‘, mined gravel and clay out of this site from 1933 to around 1938,” explained Mr. Bolt. Right beside this site there was a spur off the Pennsylvania railroad where they loaded it up into train cars and took it to Baltimore. It was around 1938 that my father bought the property.”

“I fished that pond when I was just a kid,” said Herb. “We called that pond the Bo-Fritz Pond back then. I’m not sure why. But now, of course, it’s referred to as the Bolts Pond.”

“Just a little bit of a fish story,” continued Herb. “After the War, our family took in boarders, like many families did during those times. I remember this one fellow that stayed with us, loved to fi sh that pond, and he came back one day with the biggest largemouth bass any of us had ever seen. I fi gured it was at least a 10-pounder and was a bit disappointed to learn from this fellow that he guessed it was a good 5-pounder. Back then, even as a kid, I thought, ‘what kind of a fi sherman is this guy … being so honest.’ The fi sherman put that bass in a big tub of water and kept him alive for a number of days, so folks could stop by and marvel at him.”

Mr. Bolt went on to say that they stocked that pond themselves by hauling in bucket-loads of fi sh caught from the North East River. And when I asked Mr. Bolt if he still lets people fi sh his pond, he said, “No, only people I know.”

I guess we were done fi shing … someone asked Herb if he has gotten out to do any deer hunting. Suddenly coming alive, Herb quickly responded, “Why yes, I have. I got out the other day with my bow. Sometimes I think people think that all us hunters go out into the wood with a blood lust ... that we just got to kill something. When I go hunting it’s more like therapy; I let the peacefulness of the woods soak in—the dank woodsy smells, the beautiful fall colors.”

Suddenly Herb was jarred awake when someone loudly said, “Herb, I thought you were going to tell us a hunting story.”

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Herb said. “Anyhow, I was up in my stand sitting on a bucket when I heard a large branch break. You know how it is; you hear a noise and can’t fi gure out where it came from. After four hours on that bucket, half asleep, things were fi nally starting to get exciting. Well this fat little spike buck walks right under my stand, within 15 foot. He circled underneath my stand a couple times, and then slowly walked back the way he came.”

When someone asked why Herb didn’t shoot, he replied, “Well, I didn’t feel like it … I just enjoyed watching him.” After just the right length of pause, he added, “Now towards the end of the season, this very well could be a much different story.” The shop broke up into a knowing laugh.

Gary Pete Crouch from North East joined in on the hunting tales, and with a very soft voice told us stories how back in the old days he would hunt with Pip Pratt (better known as Captain Pratt).

“I remember the first time I went bushwhacking for ducks,” he started. I interrupted to ask Mr. Crouch to explain bushwhacking; “You fi rst lay out a line of decoys … maybe up to 150. You then back off with your sneak-boat … say, 200 yards, and start calling them in. And when a good bunch of ducks, usually canvasbacks, pitch in among the decoys, you would quietly scull towards them, hoping to get close enough for a shot.

“The first time I went bushwhacking was around 1953. Pip Pratt and I borrowed my father’s sneak-boat, and we went out and set up the decoys. We pulled in a bunch of canvasbacks, and managed to get close enough to shoot at them. My fi rst single shot killed two of them. I was young, and I thought, ‘Well this is easy’. You know, I hunted for another 30 years after that, and never shot another double. And something else I want you to know, something that is important to me: I hunted over thirty years with Captain Pratt, and we never had a cross word. He is a good man, and is my friend to this day.”

“There’s one more story,” Herb said with a big grin, “And it’s about Gary Crouch’s six year old granddaughter, Julia. An eagle had landed in their yard (Cara Cove, Elk Neck) trying to catch a squirrel. Little Julia was witness to this amazing event, and she went running to her mother, screaming, “Momma, Momma, the national bird is in our yard!” The shop broke up in laughter. Herb added, “This little girl is smart and pretty as a penny, and so is her sister.” —CSM