pickled salmon
Today I'm really missing my dad. I think it's because we're having such beautiful fall weather, although, that doesn't really make sense because I think of my dad as more of a winter guy, at least in his younger days.
I could get all metaphorical about fall, about how this year the warmth and sunshine seem to be hanging on longer than expected and are all the more beautiful because I know they'll soon be gone, replaced by dark and cold. But I think that really it's because I remember a few years when my dad let me skip school to go silver fishing on the Kenai River with him.
Summertime on the Kenai River is rather crazy. Guides, tourists, locals - all in pursuit of the mighty salmon. Plus, for young people who lived there, summer was a chance to earn some dough. Several years I worked mulitple jobs, making the most money at the cannery, but a few years working literally from 7 am to 2 am, five days a week. Ahhh, money was good.
Summer on the Kenai also means iffy weather. Kenai is often windy, rain and grey skies are common, and it doesn't get a lot of warmth, at least not "back in the day" when I was young. But falltime on the Kenai is often beautiful and calm. Crisp air in the morning, sunshine in the afternoon. And no touristas.
So I remember well the few times my dad, who believed in school and academic excellence, took me out of school for the day to go silver fishing. I loved it - silvers were ususally easier and more fun to catch than kings or reds and the river was quiet. Spending time with my dad was valuable, often rare, and I loved listening to him wax philosophical. We would get home and clean the fish, and the last few times, he undertook the "art" of pickling salmon. He would layer fish, onions, salt, spices and peppers in this huge glass jar and ultimately pour his secret brine over them. After a month or so the fish looked decidedly scary - a pale pinkish color and an oddly pickley, fishy smell when opened. But he was proud of it, and so I ate it (and survived) and actually grew to appreciate it, a little. My parents' refrigerator was always full, occasionally filled with scarily expired items, but I can picture that damn jar of salmon in the back right corner. Sometimes he'd add more pieces of fish as some got eaten, and the various colors of age would measure the jar.
I wonder why I remember that pickled salmon? Something about seemed to embody my dad (and no, not just because he got pickled) because he didn't worry about botulism and e coli. He ate pickled salmon that sat in the fridge for months on end, fried his spam and ate it with wonderbread and velveeta cheese, drank nothing but beer and coffee, unless he craved cookies and milk (a habit my brother inherited). A diet and lifestyle that would have done in a normal human seemed to not phase him, at least not until near the end.
I miss my pa, and with more free time this fall, there are so many moments I think of calling him to share something funny or ask a question about something trivial that I know he knows. Sometimes I'm angry at him for dying. It pisses me off because I think it could have been delayed. (Death can never be avoided, yes? As he liked to say, "Life is 100% fatal.")
So today becomes an odd mixture of peace and sorrow. Peace because it's beautiful outside, and the house is quiet yet imbued with the presence of my kids and husband. Sorrow because.....
just because.
I could get all metaphorical about fall, about how this year the warmth and sunshine seem to be hanging on longer than expected and are all the more beautiful because I know they'll soon be gone, replaced by dark and cold. But I think that really it's because I remember a few years when my dad let me skip school to go silver fishing on the Kenai River with him.
Summertime on the Kenai River is rather crazy. Guides, tourists, locals - all in pursuit of the mighty salmon. Plus, for young people who lived there, summer was a chance to earn some dough. Several years I worked mulitple jobs, making the most money at the cannery, but a few years working literally from 7 am to 2 am, five days a week. Ahhh, money was good.
Summer on the Kenai also means iffy weather. Kenai is often windy, rain and grey skies are common, and it doesn't get a lot of warmth, at least not "back in the day" when I was young. But falltime on the Kenai is often beautiful and calm. Crisp air in the morning, sunshine in the afternoon. And no touristas.
So I remember well the few times my dad, who believed in school and academic excellence, took me out of school for the day to go silver fishing. I loved it - silvers were ususally easier and more fun to catch than kings or reds and the river was quiet. Spending time with my dad was valuable, often rare, and I loved listening to him wax philosophical. We would get home and clean the fish, and the last few times, he undertook the "art" of pickling salmon. He would layer fish, onions, salt, spices and peppers in this huge glass jar and ultimately pour his secret brine over them. After a month or so the fish looked decidedly scary - a pale pinkish color and an oddly pickley, fishy smell when opened. But he was proud of it, and so I ate it (and survived) and actually grew to appreciate it, a little. My parents' refrigerator was always full, occasionally filled with scarily expired items, but I can picture that damn jar of salmon in the back right corner. Sometimes he'd add more pieces of fish as some got eaten, and the various colors of age would measure the jar.
I wonder why I remember that pickled salmon? Something about seemed to embody my dad (and no, not just because he got pickled) because he didn't worry about botulism and e coli. He ate pickled salmon that sat in the fridge for months on end, fried his spam and ate it with wonderbread and velveeta cheese, drank nothing but beer and coffee, unless he craved cookies and milk (a habit my brother inherited). A diet and lifestyle that would have done in a normal human seemed to not phase him, at least not until near the end.
I miss my pa, and with more free time this fall, there are so many moments I think of calling him to share something funny or ask a question about something trivial that I know he knows. Sometimes I'm angry at him for dying. It pisses me off because I think it could have been delayed. (Death can never be avoided, yes? As he liked to say, "Life is 100% fatal.")
So today becomes an odd mixture of peace and sorrow. Peace because it's beautiful outside, and the house is quiet yet imbued with the presence of my kids and husband. Sorrow because.....
just because.
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