PLUNK!!!! The gray net slowly sank into the water. The spray hit my face. I licked my lips. My grandfather shouted orders to my uncles; it was his own language, half Italian, half English. My uncles were operating the small wooden motorboat about 20 feet from the shore.
“Don’ta runna the motor so fast, manage!”
That and other words that I couldn’t and probably shouldn’t have understood. Grandpa waved his one free hand to my uncles. He tried to maneuver the net with his other.
“Okay Pa!” my uncles shouted together.
Uncle Tony slowed down the motor; Uncle Andrew guided the boat closer to the shore. Uncle Gerry (we called him Chicky) jumped down from the boat, and pulled it closer to help my Grandfather drag the net to the shore. The muscles in Grandpa’s strong brown arms grew tight and he pulled it closer and closer. I could see the grimace on my Uncle Chicky’s handsome face, they both pulled as hard as they could. When the net reached the shore, it came alive with tiny jumping silver treasures. My cousin Larry and I had the job of scooping up the fish and throwing them into the buckets of water. Fish jumped everywhere. There was a gorgeous puffer fish in the catch. My cousin poked at the fish with a sharp stick.
“Don’t do that. You’ll hurt the poor thing,” I screeched.
“Oh leave me alone.” He continued to poke at it till the fish deflated.
“See! I told you. You killed it. You are such a big fat bully, Larry” my voice cracked.
“Don’t worry about it; it’s only a stupid fish.” Larry then kicked sand at me and continued to laugh, his eyes squinting more and more the harder he laughed.
He’s such a big fat brat, I thought.
“Commona kids, scoop upa the fish,” my Grandpa ordered gently.
We scooped up handfuls of cold slimy fish, some wriggled right through my fingers. I was afraid to squeeze them too hard. Slosh. We carried a large full bucket of slosh up to our Grandparents cottage. I turned and looked left. There, next to a chicken wire fence, was a tomato garden my Grandmother and I had planted the day before.
Even though most of the ground that surrounded the cottage was sandy, there was a small patch that my grandfather had tilled and nurtured that was dark and rich. Just right for a garden. Noni (An Italian word for grandmother and pronounced Naw-knee) and I had put in eight tomato plants, three basil plants and three parsley plants. We watered them carefully.
“It will be your job to make sure the plants have enough water” she wiped the sweat from her brow and adjusted her glasses.
“I will, I will, Nawn” I was so anxious and willing to assume this responsibility.
I turned my attention back to my task of carrying the bucket of fish. Mine was so heavy I almost dropped it a few times. Noni came out to the back porch. She had a dishtowel flung over her shoulder.
“Catch many fish?” she wiped her hands on her flowered apron.
“You’re gonna hafta fry up a lotta fish, Nawn” I said trying to catch my breath.
“Why are you carrying that heavy bucket? Where are your uncles and your cousin?”
“They’re helping Grandpa get the boat in and Larry is right behind me. He has bucketful of fish too”
“What am I gonna do with all this fish? Well maybe the Espositos next door would like some; he’s been outta work for a few weeks,” Noni said while answering her own question.
“Nawn, can I help you cook them?” I loved watching my Grandmother cook and I was hoping she would teach me how to this summer.
She nodded. Just then Larry waddled like a turtle in slow motion up the gravel driveway, water splashing everywhere. He looked a little like that puffer fish only much redder.
