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On Fathers and Halibut Cheeks
...by Sara Glerum
I frequently converse with my father about the meaning of life, and trivial things-how could he eat tripe, vote for
Dewey, or fall for that art dealer's story about the twelfth century scroll. The dialogue is in my head because my dad
died more than forty years ago. I am now ten years older than he was when we had our last real conversation.
When he was alive, of course he was wiser than I. He was more than three decades my senior. I imagined myself on
a wisdom track that would never catch up to him, like some athletic competition where I was starting many laps
behind, and sought his opinions about many things-my choices of college classes, political candidates, world
events, and even, once in a while, my friends.
For the first thirty years or so after his death, I cautiously dipped my toes in the cold waters of his factual
existence and found some pebbles, even stones, of imperfection. He spoiled his children, overprotected his wife,
and fell for strangers' hard-luck stories. But I still kept him on a pedestal. It wasn't until a few years ago,
when I ordered halibut cheeks at a restaurant, that I realized I had failed to take into account my own age and
wisdom. I wanted to like the halibut cheeks because he did, but I loathed them. My father's opinions had nothing
to do with me anymore.
I realized that I had failed to age him, the way they do on milk cartons for lost children. If he were still
alive, he would be asking for my help. Maybe I would be advising him with his investments, reading the fine-print
newspaper aloud, or extending an arm to guide him stumble-free down the street. I have become his peer and then
some, knowing lots of things he never dreamed of-how to download songs onto my iPod, pump my own gas, repair
things with a hot-glue gun, pay bills electronically-and other assorted complexities of the twenty-first century.
So now, in the conversations I have with him, although he still doles out appropriate advice when needed-like not
applying brakes in the midst of a curve, or the need to crush rosemary before adding it to sauce, and checking for
the UL label on small appliances-I have begun to boss him around a bit, albeit gently. I've convinced him to vote
Democratic and when I'm at a restaurant I order whatever I like-the crab cakes or the prime rib. And once in a
while, when he offers his opinion, I retort, "Nope!," in the loudest inner-voice I have, and love him no less
for it.
Scenes from Childhood
A Father's Day Memory
...by Ethel L. Winter
This photo of my father, brother and myself reminds me of the time we went fishing at Three Lakes, near
Wenatchee, during the 1940s.
I begged to be included in Dad's and my brother's fishing trip and agreed to take the pre-dawn awakening in
stride. I didn't want to give Dad any reason to leave me behind.
Dad rented a rowboat and we proceeded to a secluded shore of the lake. The boat bottom sloshed with water that
smelled of fish so I sat sideways and rested my feet on the edge of the boat. Dad rowed while Stoney, my 8-year-old
brother, lounged at the bow. His hand dangled in the water with the tips of his fingers scoring the surface. The
oarlocks rattled and Dad grunted with each stroke of the oars.
Dad encouraged me to bait my own hook. He used only one worm and held it out for me to examine.
"Remember, if the fish can see the metal, they won't strike," he said.
I tried my best to copy his proficiency and when he nodded his approval, it made me feel warm inside.
"Now spit on the worm for good luck," Dad insisted.
Dad looked straight-faced, except for his right brow which curled in a telltale fashion. This always gave his
pranks away and I never mentioned it to him until many years later. With no front teeth, my spitting attempt
left slobber dripping from my chin. Dad turned away, his shoulders shook, and he put his hand to his mouth.
We didn't take any fish home. Fishing was never very good at Three Lakes, but at age 5, the rewards of spending
the day with Dad and older brother were unforgettable.
Ethel Winter has attended several memoir and creative writing classes through Highline College. She is a member
of Seahurst Writers and Northwest Screenwriters.
Please send us your Scene from Childhood. Submit no more than 300 words, including a brief author bio and a childhood
photo. Articles and photos can be e-mailed to Suzanne Beyer at
DLBeyer@comcast.net
or mailed to NWPT, PO Box 13647, Seattle, WA 98198. All submissions become the property of NWPT. Since photos will
not be returned, send a copy. Writers chosen will be entered into our twice-yearly drawing for Anthony's Home Port
gift certificate.
Mt Si at Midnight
...by Dorothea Nordstrand
My best friend, Miggs, loved to climb and coaxed me up anything that was a hill if she could catch me in an
unguarded moment. I hated a stiff climb, as even in those long-ago days I was plagued by shortness of breath.
She could talk me into the effort by reminding me of how wonderful the view would be from the top. I have always
been a push-over for a view.
One night, after we had been to a movie with her friend Jack and her cousin, also named Jack, she suggested it
would be fun to climb Mt. Si, the landmark stone mass that looms over North Bend.It was 11 o'clock at night, but
who has sense at the ripe old age of 19? Miggs' friend Jack,was enthusiastic about anything Miggs wanted to do,
but I was very surprised when her cousin Jack agreed. He was a year or two older, and should have known better,
I thought. I had been counting on him to say "no" and save me from being a spoil-sport.
Cousin Jack was a handsome young man who always looked "just-so", with never a hair out of place. He had that "fresh
from a band-box" look.
When we reached the trailhead at Mt. Si, it was midnight. And it was misting, but now there was no turning back.
We girls were dressed, as we usually were, in pleated skirts, sweaters, and saddle oxfords. The two Jacks were
wearing sweaters, slacks, and tan trench-coats.
At first, the trail was easy and it was fun, our flash-lights helping us to avoid the rocks and the roots that
overran the trail. Then, the hard climb began and with it the huffing and puffing. Half way up, the rain began to
fall in earnest and the path became slippery with mud. Saddle oxfords had slick, red-rubber soles, not the best
traction on that steep trail, but we kept to our feet by pulling ourselves along, grabbing onto branches of salal
and huckleberry. My wool sweater soaked up the rain until it felt like I was carrying ten extra pounds. Miggs'
brown, long-haired, angora sweater began to stretch. She rolled up her sleeves as they grew in length, until there
was a huge roll around each wrist. The neckline had sagged into a big "U". The sweater, which began the evening at
just below her waist, soon hung well below her knees. We were a mess, but we got to the top.
Miggs was the leader on the up-grade, but I could come down a hill like greased lightning. I loved coming down.
It meant that the hard part was done and I just let gravity take over while I ran downhill, the rest of the pack
following as they would. They found me sitting smugly on the running board when they arrived back at the car.
We drove into North Bend for breakfast about 5am. Fortunately, there weren't many people in the cafe at that hour.
My hair hung in sodden strings, dripping streams of water down my neck. Miggs looked like a soggy, brown, half-drowned
teddy bear. Her friend Jack,had rolled up the legs of his wet trousers and his shins were splotched with patches of
blue and green where his Argyle socks had faded. That darned Cousin Jack still looked like a fashion plate. The only
effect the pouring rain had on him was to put a curl into his handsome head of hair.
Whoever said we were all created equal?
This essay first appeared on
www.historylink.org,
the online encyclopedia of Washington State History. This website has posted nearly 40 of Dorothea's stories,
under the section entitled " People's Histories "
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