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Fish Fry

By: Annette Pompano (View Profile)

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. 

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posted: 10.03.2007
Jennifer Hastings
This is so well-written! I can easily imagine you, as a young girl, fishing with all the men in your family. I have family in Southern Ill., and I had similar experiences. I remember wanting to learn how to cook the fish like my auntie and dragging my cousins around, trying to teach them how to fish properly. Sounds like you've held onto some great memories and in writing this piece they never go away. The Italian accents are a great touch! Thank you for sharing.
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