Growing up in East York, Ontario (later annexed by Toronto), I lived across the street from an old man named Sam. Sam lived by himself and didn't seem to have any visitors. When I was 11 years old (and for a few years), during summer school holidays, if I saw Sam sitting alone on his front porch, I'd go across the street, sit on his top stair, and visit with him. I don't know why, maybe I felt sorry for him. Or maybe I was just bored and my friends weren't out playing in the street.
Sam and I mostly talked about hockey, or the goings-on on King Edward Ave., or his love of fishing. Nothing really memorable. He was a soft-spoken, kindly man. Later in life I'd hear stories from other adults on the street that Sam wasn't "right in the head," and would sometimes be seen marching on the street late at night carrying a wooden rifle, as if he were patrolling.
As I got older, I was busier in the summers and stopped randomly visiting with him. I'd still greet him if I saw him, but just a quick "hi, Sam." Or "how 'bout them Leafs."
I moved away from East York and got a place of my own, a good job, and worked on becoming an adult. Only periodically thinking of Sam and how he was doing, my Mom who still lived in the house I grew up in didn't see him much, if any. When I was 24, I got a call from a law firm on the Danforth near where I grew up and was told "Mr. Samuel J. Cranston" had passed away and I was named in his will. I was quite surprised at the call and then sad that he had passed. I wondered why I was in his will and what on Earth could he have left me (he didn't seem very wealthy, lived in a modest house, dressed modestly, and didn't drive a car). My girlfriend at the time suggested he was secretly rich and I was going to inherit a fortune.
I made an appointment to visit the lawyer the following week and went by my old neighbourhood, had tea with Mom, and walked over to the law office. They confirmed my identity and read the portion of the will that mentioned me. All it said is that he was fond of me and left me a token of his appreciation for keeping him company. The lawyer produced an old gun-metal, hand-carry tool box, about the size you would imagine. I asked what this was and he shrugged and said they hadn't opened it. So I signed for it and took it back to my Mom's and opened it with her in the kitchen.
There was a red tray on top, with a pair of worn vice-grips, several screwdrivers (including a Robertson-head screwdriver, a point of Canadian pride), pliers, a tape measure, and lots of nails, screws, nuts and bolts. I lifted off the tray and in the bottom of the tool-box were three things: a keyring with assorted, well-worn keys of various sizes and materials (including a skeleton key), a sandwich bag filled with silver coins, and a beat-up booklet or manual with a blue-grey cover that was stained, torn a bit, and mostly intact.
It turned out the coins were all 1963 Franklin half-dollars, and there were 70 or 80 of them. I thought it weird that all this US money was in Sam's toolbox and that it was all the same kind of coin.
But it was the book that changed me. I stared at the cover and it said "Retro ?" (maybe, there was an ink blot on the word) Field Manual - 1973. And "North American Insertion ?, Volume 14 of the Prime Line ?" I flipped through it and it seemed more like a history book. I couldn't readily decipher what any of that meant (I had studied Electronics Engineering at college, and was used to technical manuals, but this didn't fit that category).
I showed my Mom and she thought maybe Sam was a machinist at Massey Ferguson on King St., or something. I shrugged the whole thing off and took the tool box home.
That weekend I took the book out and read it cover-to-cover. Since then I've stopped talking about it because it made me sound a bit crazy to my friends and coworkers. But now that much time has passed, I've deciphered the cover, reproduced it as close as I could — to try and make it look like it's original form — and published it. Make of it what you will.