fish fry

I’m sure I could count my age on
the fingers of one hand:
our landlord’s son, a fighter pilot
home on furlough, and a buddy
took my young sister and me
out of town to spend a weekend
at his family cottage
which crouched on high rocks
over a deep dark lake.

My mother may have been there;
I can’t recall — probably she was,
but I can’t picture her there.
I remember going out fishing in
the cedarstrip motorboat,
and I remember the overpowering
smell of gasoline and naptha lanterns
and kerosene and flytox sprays.
We caught two large pickerel
which he fried for breakfast
— I had never had fish
for breakfast before.
He dipped them in batter
and fried them in a black iron skillet.

Those were the main fish against which
all fish meals compare. Gordie was wearing
his air force turtle-neck and navy pants.
His bespectacled buddy wore a gray
sweatshirt and blue dungarees.
Mainly I remember the fish
and the times I have spent remembering
the fish: golden, steaming, delicious.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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