Vi Chronicles: Charming Matty

I grew up in a family of people who love to fish.  When I was very young, I could bait a hook, catch a fish,  gut it and cook it.  And I could eat it, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the process.  The only thing I bait now is my husband. I'm a pretty good husband baiter, to tell the truth.  But that's a whole other story.

We grew up inland, so mostly we fished in lakes.   My Mom, Vi, and her husband, Tony, lived in the city for a long time, however, and the closest water available was the Atlantic. When I would visit them in the summers, we would fish off the pier.

One summer, we spent a lot of time on that pier.  This wasn't a board walk pier, or a tourist pier, or anything romantic. It was just a pier.  A lot of people fished there and it smelled like a lot of people fished there.  It wasn't where you took a girl for a stroll and a stolen kiss.  It was where fish went to die.

One day, I was there with Vi, Tony, their neighbor Matty, and his wife,  whose name I've forgotten.  Matty had a broken leg, probably well earned.  He was reckless, impulsive, gregarious and the life of any party.  That day, he was limping around in a full leg cast, aided by crutches.  I was about 11 at the time.

My mom had given me a pole that I could use to "fish off the bottom", which  basically meant, "sit down, behave yourself, and feel important with this pole that won't catch anything,  while we adults use our much better casting rods to catch the real fish."

Or maybe I was reading too much into it.

There was talk about mackerel vs pollock and I believe it might have been mentioned once or twice that you had to use the casting rods to catch the mackerel, which were the better eating fish, but a little oily.  There was also a lot of posturing and bragging, as the cold beers got passed around from the ever present cooler. I drank my "Sody-pop", as my mother liked to call it, and kept my  eye on the prize, with my stupid ole fishing rod and no casting apparatus, while I kept one ear on the adult conversations to see what bits of grownup mystery I could capture in my net.  I can see me sitting there, all blue eyed and brown skinned, with my denim cut-offs, dirty keds, and my favorite white striped t-shirt.

At some point, I got a bite.  A big bite.  And I yelled, "Hey!  Hey, you guys, I got something here. I caught something!"  Matty came over to help me pull it in.  "Probably pollock or pickerel or something.  Maybe a shoe",  he told  the others.  Well,  we kept working on it, and we pulled that thing in, and what do you think it was?  A beautiful, huge,  mackerel.  "Well, huh.",  Matty said, "Will ya look at that!"   People made a big deal, and took pictures with their gigantic polaroid cameras of me and my two-foot fish.  It was my little moment in the sun, until Matty had to go and steal my thunder.

After I caught the big fish, everyone started fishing off the bottom, as it seemed the good fish were biting there.  Someone else caught one,  and the mood became even more celebratory.  Or maybe that was the beer.  The problem with beer is that it has a window of jolliness, and once that window closes, things can get less jolly without much warning.  Our window closed that day at about 7:30 PM.  At that point, Matty's wife wanted to go home, but Matty didn't want to go, so they had words. Bad words. Then Matty, in a fit of anger, took his crutches and threw them in the Atlantic.

"WELL, THERE!", he said, "Now look at what you made me do!"  and he turned around and limped back up the pier towards a good bar that had cold beer and no cold wives.  The rest of us were shocked into awestruck silence for about a second, and then we laughed, even Matty's wife, because Matty was such a riot.  Everyone forgot about my huge fish after Matty's display of manly bravado.  Later on he cooked my fish and he declared it the best fish he ever ate.  That was Matty's charming side.  Lucky for him, he was more charming than not, and so usually got away with his impulsive drunken acts.

The next day some guys were out on a boat in the harbor.  They saw a crutch floating around, and they pulled it in.  It had Matty's name on it.  One guy said, "Hey, I  know Matty!  He musta dropped his crutch!" He brought it over to Matty's house. Matty got 50% of his crutches back.  Everyone laughed, Matty loudest of  all.

Who do you know that's charming?  And have you ever wanted to go back in time and hug the kid that was you? What would you whisper in the kid's ear before you released her?

PS  I went fishing around for some info about fish to check my memory and I found this video.  It is so reminiscent of those trips to the pier, that I had to show it to you.  I laughed out loud when I saw it.  I believe this is the State Pier in Gloucester, MA.  We fished off the Portland Pier in Portland, ME.  I borrowed it from a guy named Joey C.  Thank you, Mr. C.!

Vi Chronicles: How to Raise a Thief

Hi World,

My  mother, Violet, had two sisters and seven kids. I was the youngest of my mother's kids, and the youngest cousin.

On the day I learned to steal, the three sisters, Vi (my mother), Tee and Lula,  found themselves a pick-up truck and a willing teen-age driver.  They packed a cooler with ice, coffee brandy and kool-aid, and hit the road.  I'm sure there was another cooler full of sandwiches, but the coffee brandy cooler is the one that sticks in my mind because I was sitting on it, and every time a sister would hand her travel cup through the back window, I would have to move so that one of the older kids could  whip up a White Russian, or a Vodka and 7, if the sisters were dieting..

The sisters were squished in the front, and the assorted kids piled into the bed of the truck, with the aforementioned coolers.  For obvious reasons, this is now illegal, but back then it was an acceptable way to pass a lazy summer day, and keep a lot of kids occupied.  My memory of that day is distilled to one long,  flat stretch of road. The driver hit the gas, and we  flew down that road, the  wind whipping our hair into our eyes and dust flying everywhere, as we laughed at each other, raising our hands into the air to feel the wind fly through our fingers. Except for me.  I did not participate in the finger waving because I was hanging on for dear life, trying to calculate my trajectory should we hit a bump the wrong way.  I'm not called Chicken for no reason.

We came upon a corn field, and I guess the sisters decided corn was as good a dinner as anything, so the driver swerved to the gravel.  The kids all piled out and into the fields, like well-trained soldiers.  We grabbed as much  corn as we could carry and ran back to the truck.  The whole operation took about five minutes.  Then we squealed back out, onto the blacktop, and headed for home, where the ill-gotten gains were husked, cooked, and gleefully consumed, under the watchful eye of Aunt Dot.  Aunt Dot was the Aunt of the Sisters.  She made the biggest chocolate chip cookies in the history of the universe, and she accused everyone of stealing and cheating at cards.  Aunt Dot was a sore loser at cards but we didn't hold it against her.  When you live in the company of a giant cookie architect, you forgive a few things.  Plus, given the corn thievery, it's possible that her paranoia was justified.

I'm  not sure why the sisters thought stealing corn was acceptable behavior. Maybe they assumed that the farmer wouldn't have planted his corn so close to the road if he didn't count on a certain percentage of his harvest being heisted.  Or, maybe, they thought the farmer should have built a fence if he didn't want to share.  More likely, after the White Russians (or Vodka and 7 if the Sisters were dieting), they thought it was funny.

For me, at an impressionable almost-eight years, corn was a gateway vegetable. I assumed  everyone's garden was up for grabs.  I wandered the neighborhood vegetable patches, helping myself to radishes, rhubarb, cucumbers and whatever else looked edible in its raw state.  I began hanging out with the wrong crowd, and moved on to night raids.  On crisp fall evenings, when we were supposedly having a sleepover, we infiltrated the neighboring apple orchard.  Then we went home, made popcorn, and got out the Ouija board.  We stayed up 'til well past midnight, chomping apples, throwing popcorn, and talking about kissing. Just a normal Saturday night in the life of a seasoned produce thief.

This behavior continued until I was about 12 and determined, for myself, that stealing is wrong.  The attack dogs in Lucarelli's Orchard may have played a part in my sudden streak of conscience.  Not that I ever actually  saw an attack dog in Lucarelli's Orchard, but that didn't matter.  We knew they were there.

Hello World, I'm Chicken!  I'm a recovering produce thief.  (Welcome Chicken).

These days, I buy my vegetables at the farmers market.   Or Whole Foods.  Basically, I'll  shop wherever there are no rumors of attack dogs.

Chicken out

Corn begging to be stolen

  

A Rite of Passage

"Ok, littleb, are you ready?  We'll do it together.  3...2...1...and go!"

We each pop a piece of gum into our mouth.  

We'd just been to CVS to pick up a few supplies, and littleb's  attention was drawn to the gum, as it has been the last few times we've been to a store.  Usually, I steer him away from the gum, and towards the chocolate, his first true love, but today I call his bluff.  He surprises me by following through with the purchase.

Afterwards, in the car, we talk about the ritual of gum chewing.  Gum must never be swallowed, because it will stick to the sides of your intestines and stay there like spackle.  Where are the intestines?  What is spackle?  

I remind him that when he was five and I gave him gum, he swallowed it.  Immediately. Even after we had the conversation about not swallowing the gum.  But that was an accident.  An automatic  response to chewing something.  He is almost seven now.  It's time for another go.  We both agree that this time, we will not swallow the gum.

Ok, littleb, are you ready?  We'll do it together.  3..2...1...and go!

We each pop a piece of gum into our mouth.  

We smile at each other.  We are both chewing  and smiling. 

I turn toward the front and shift the car into drive.  I check the rear view mirror before pulling out, and there is littleb, waving his arms.  I put the car back in park, and hand him a piece of paper.  He spits his gum onto the paper.

"What's the matter, littleb?  Didn't you like the flavor?"

"I did.  It was good.  I was just done chewing it."

"Oh.  Wasn't there any flavor left?"

"There was still flavor."

"Well, you know you can chew it until the flavor is gone, right?"

"Oh.  Can I have another piece?"

He pops in another piece and I put the car in gear.  We drive down the street, bobbing our heads to the song on the radio,  chewing our gum.  The September sun streams in.  We smile at each other in the rear view mirror. He turns to look out the window, smiling to himself.

I watch him, my handsome little boy, who is old enough to chew gum.   I am going to miss these days.  

Chicken out

Almost 7

I'll Bet You Think This Post is About You. Don't You?

Hi World,

When  we are young, we do stupid things. It starts, maybe, with touching a hot stove and progresses to running with sharp objects, and may even involve some petty theft.  If we are lucky, we don't scar, we don't fall, and we do get caught.

As we get older, and  assimilate all that we've learned, most of us get with the program and commit fewer cringe-worthy acts.  And then we die.  But that's another post.  

The late teens and early twenties are one of those periods of time  when we are particularly at risk of embarrassing ourselves. Maybe it's the hormones still raging, maybe it's the abundance of technology, maybe it's a growing sexual confidence.  Whatever the cause, our twenties can be a minefield of social gaffes.  

I think, in my early twenties, I may as well have walked around 24/7 with my skirt tucked in my pantyhose and toilet paper flowing from the bottom of my teetery, tottery,  too high shoes. I was that witless sometimes.

But this post isn't about me.  Any witnesses to my lapses in judgement have mostly lost their memories by now. Kidding. People I used to know, please do not write me about things you clearly  remember.  No one is interested. Trust me. 

We're lucky, you and I, that we can pretty much count on our skeletons to stay put in their cozy little closets. The famous are not like you and me.  Their regrettable moments are always at risk of making an appearance on some seedy little blog somewhere.  Like this one.

I say ________ you say _________

Monica Lewinsky

Marla Maples

Brittany Spears

Madonna
Anna Nicole Smith

Angelina Jolie

Marilyn Monroe

Paris Hilton

And you know, sometimes, even after you get a little older and wiser, you still mess up.  Do these names bring back any memories:

Arnold Schwarzenegger

Jimmy Swaggart 

Tom Cruise

Bill Clinton

Charlie Sheen

Woody Allen

(Is it me or is there a trend here?)

What I'm saying is this:  If we see a little sister make an ass of herself, maybe we can cut her some slack for being young and foolish. Why should Little Sister be deprived of the opportunities the rest of us had to humiliate ourselves in public? 

Chicken  out

probably regrets this photo