Photography by John Holliger
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The Fish House

12/27/2014

 
Picture



The Fish House

                                            




 No sign out front. 

Everybody knew The Fish House.

It was that grey peeling squat building

wild hollyhocks here and there

distracting the eye from the

muddy windows.



That was the Fish House,

near the pier and beside the river.

Hand-hewn timbers, generations old,

bulk and heft to hold tons of five foot square crates of chunk ice

beautiful pike, pickerel, perch, white fish, walleye, today's catch. 

Three a.m. they left The Fish House in four boats with low humming diesels,

ready to unroll the nets in the dark,

beginning in secret locations never  questioned

found by habit and instinct and passed generation to generation

without a word... rather by example.

There was the unquestioned speed and curve

for unraveling and letting the nets sink just so far,

as the vessel made the  long arc with more-or-less-ness. 

Not a long time

un-raveling,

slow

steady

quiet.

Then came the pulling in,

creaking wheels turning

slow

steady

quiet?  No,

the sounds of flopping fish

shovels tossing ice.

The hoisting continued,

chunks of lake ice created

tossed over the fish

as they wiggled and jumped free but  into the crates

not the lake. 

Hours and hours,

the steady pace unfolded

from dawn 'til the rest of the village began closing up shop. 

All without words

an occasional yelp of pain

but ignored as the pace continued. 

Now returning to The Fish House

the diesels were roaring and smoking

ahead of their own deep wakes,

Everything changed. 

Order emerged out of chaos as

a pent up dam of testosterone

collapsed.

Wise cracks and hollari'

were flung widely

wildly

grins 

pelting laughter

massive slaps on backs

raucous shoves

huge hands pointing with sport

by a  company of yellow clad blokes.


My dad and I loved to enter all this chaos at The Fish House.



 "Hey Doc, what kind today?"

Without waiting for an answer

grabbing a shove

mounds of crystals were scooped and tossed aside to find that one eight pounder.

 "Told the guys, that's for Doc." 

Holding up his prize another yellow bloke gripped

and pounced the prize decisively onto a stack of tough white,

wrapped and taped in one motion,

ending with a hearty verbal period:  "That'll be $2.35, Doc."


There were other nights.

Didn't matter, 2 a.m, 5 a.m.

"Call the Doc.  He'll take care of ya'.  Never you mind noth'n." 

The phone rang.  The shy Doc showed up,  full of energy,


smiling because he was needed,

smiling because they knew he always said yes,

smiling because here was what he longed for,

                              belonging.



 "How much Doc?"  "Noth'n.  Glad we got that one out. 


When you get home have some whiskey when the pain starts." 

"Thanks Doc."



Never got paid. 

Didn't care. 

Priceless, this belonging

by husky men so opposite his deliberate, slow walk

he learned after his polio.

To be adopted

to belong

in a company of opposites

because in their depths a longing, a yearning, shared.

 Loving the joy the freedom the banter the jabbing the poking the nickname.   

Fidelity

In the darkness when the village slept,

Fidelity was their food,

Fidelity was what mattered. 

  

The Doc has disappeared now,

The company of men,

The Fish House,

but I discovered the gifts that lead to fidelity.

a longing,

a yearning,

and  guides along the way. 

My company, my village, my Fish House is spread over many counties. 

No matter. 

This longing that leads to fidelity,

keeps my eyes open, alert, watching for signs of this shared longing,

moments when a pause becomes a gift, another  turning

to lay everything I intended to do that day aside and listen

until all that could be said after that pause, was.

 

This longing is a path to fidelity.

And the gift of the pause always is...

a million times a day.

I go to The Fish House all the time,  my own Fish House.

Thing is, I don't know who I'll meet who knows

this gift of longing

this gift of the pause,

who knows we've been coming toward each other out of the great mystery,

and nothing else matters.




                                                           ©John Holliger 2014

Frank Edmands link
1/5/2015 02:02:58 am

Wonderful image. Very clever and creative. I'm glad it caught your eye and the eye of your camera. I'm trying to figure out if the image was made by ice, discarded eye glass lenses or what? Thanks


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