"My Papa's Waltz"

I came across this poem by Theodore Roethke called "My Papa's Waltz" the other day on The Academy of Poets' website and couldn't help but think of my Pappy. It reminded me of a picture I have of him dancing with my cousin at his 50th anniversary party. And it also reminded me of sitting in his lap as a child and feeling his rough "whiskers" when I stole hugs and kisses. His face was often scruffy and he often smelled of wood shavings because he'd usually just come upstairs from his workshop in the basement when we came to visit. He was always tinkering with or building something. In fact, the house he lived in he built all by himself. And one of my prized possessions is a sturdy little stool he built for my mother.

When Pappy wasn't tinkering and building, he was typically puttering around town on his moped, out on his boat, or salvaging things from the dump (like the first bike I learned to ride). Easy to see where I get the penchant for all things aquatic and thrifty.

Pappy was sweet and silly with us grandchildren, often singing us short, funny little songs like "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy wuzzy had not hair. Fuzzy wuzzy wasn't fuzzy, was he?" My favorite is one that I can't do justice to in writing because the refrain involved snorting, razzing your tongue, and then saying "wheedle-ee-ay." We'd always beg him to sing it, and he always would. We'd plead "Faster! Faster!" and he'd sing it faster and faster until we were pretty much peeing our pants.

This same guy who was such a softy was also quite the tough, no-nonsense "man's man" too though. I remember a fishing accident in which a rather large, thick fishing hook went in one side of his thumb and out the other, straight through the nail. It wasn't as dramatic and life-threatening as the scene where John C. Reilly's character gets hooked and goes overboard in The Perfect Storm, but it was pretty gruesome nonetheless. My grandfather? He just grabbed a pair of wire cutters, clipped the hook end, took a deep breath, yanked it out, and stuck it in some hydrogen peroxide for a bit (that last part at my grandmother's stern behest). You know, mythic Chuck Norris-style. When he had appendicitis, he held off going to the hospital for way too long. When my family finally figured out something was wrong and brought him to the emergency room, my mother told the nurse that his appendix may have already burst. The nurse condescendingly told my mother, "Ohh dear, if his appendix had burst we'd know. He'd be screaming in pain right now." His appendix had burst.

Avoiding the doctor had nothing to do with being able to pay for the care. He had good health insurance. It was just that old-school machismo mixed with an earnest desire not to draw attention to himself or put anyone out. And, unfortunately, it was because of this that none of us really knew when he was suffering from cancer-related pain. He'd just grin and bear it. When it got really bad, he'd just go in the kitchen and take a belt of whiskey when no one was looking. When my grandmother would smell it on his breath later, she'd cluck at him annoyed. It wasn't until far too late that he was diagnosed. And we lost him.

It's twenty-three years later and I still miss him very much. Today is his birthday.

The Devolution of the Pedicure

There was a segment on NPR last week called "When Your Pedicurist is a Fish." Did you catch this‽ (Sorry, pun intended. At least it's no worse than the Associated Press' line "Customers were quickly hooked." )

Reminded me of the last time I went to the San Diego Zoo. Pictured to the right here was one of their hippos having dead skin eaten off its belly by fish. And then that reminded me of the part in Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen, when they talk about the hippo in formaldehyde. Ga. Know what it didn't remind me of? A good time.

Seriously, people. Why would you pay for this? I mean, I'm all for sustainable living, . . . but you have to draw the line somewhere. I have to think that if we were meant to live like host fish, we never would have come crawling out of the primordial soup. I realize that that crawling may have banged up your pedicure a bit, but you're evolved now. Let's leave the fish out of it.

Water, Water Everywhere . . .

I grew up in a house located one block from the creek in one direction and one block from the beach in another. On the way to that beach was my grandparents' and aunt and uncle's houses. So, I spent the majority of my childhood summers playing Marco Polo and making a tide pool in my aunt and uncle's pool with my cousins; at the beach catching baby crabs and swimming; eating my weight in lobster and steamed or fried clams or mussels in my grandparents' backyard screen house overlooking the creek; or out on my grandfather's boat fishing. (To the left here, you can see my grandfather, catch in hand. To the right, you can see me providing perspective for my father's catch.) All this is to say that at a very early age, I developed a deep love and appreciation for the water . . . and a neat set of flipper-sized feet. (Coincidence? I think not.).

That love of the water has stayed with me. Pictured here to the left, you see me as a young adult rope-swinging Jane-of-the-jungle-style into a river. And, to the right, that's me taking a surfing lesson in California. Nowadays, my seafood addiction leans more toward the healthier side (I opt to eat my fish raw most often instead of battered in tasty transfats), but it remains an addiction nonetheless. And I'm still utterly incapable of living somewhere landlocked, the thought provoking genuine feelings of claustrophobia - I may have moved thousands of miles away from where I grew up, but it's okay because I'm still near an ocean.

After my husband and I eloped (see us to the left seaside in Big Sur last October), we decided to have little post-wedding parties - one in California, where we presently live; one in Ohio, where he's from; and one in Massachusetts, where I'm from. Matt got to choose what we would do for the Ohio party, we compromised on the California party, and I got to choose what we'll do in Mass. Given what I've stated above, it should be no surprise to find out that I've opted for a clam bake (catered by Woodman's of Essex). When my grandfather passed away, we pretty much stopped having family get-togethers in my grandparents' backyard - my grandmother just couldn't bear it - so it's been a really long time since the whole family has gotten together to do something like this. I know we can't recreate the past, but I'm still really looking forward to doing this with and for my family and close friends.

Since I'm on the subject of water, I thought I'd also mention that I watched a National Geographic special the other night called "Most Dangerous Catch." It's one in a series they're calling "Strange Days on Planet Earth," hosted by Ed Norton. In it, they discuss and show how overfishing and improper waste disposal are affecting the delicate ecosystem of the ocean. They do a nice job of connecting all the players involved in the ripple effect. In the end, I was left wishing eating seafood wasn't so hard-wired into my sense of self, wishing again that I were strong enough to go vegetarian. (Yes, I'm starting to sound like a broken record.) I'm still not ruling it out; it may happen. Alas, for the time being, it's going to have to wait until at least after my party in Mass later this summer. The caterer is set and there's really nothing I can do to get that money back, . . . and I've been craving steamed clams and lobster for, oh, about a year now. What I will do from now on, though, as suggested by the NG special, is only buy fish that has been approved by the Marine Stewardship Council. If you're a seafood lover, I would encourage you to consider doing the same.