Story Time, Courtesy of my Father

My father was part of The Greatest Generation and was a B-17 and C-47 pilot in WWII. He grew up in Galveston, Texas, and had fished since he could walk. Later in life, he owned his own small fishing camp in Matagorda and would bring friends and family there to fish from his lighted pier. It was a little jewel.

He and his friend, Curly, (he also had friends named Three Fingered Fred, Gut, and Humpback Jack but those are other stories) got ready to fish one morning and discussed their plan. Curly volunteered to bring the drinks and sandwiches. My dad got the boat and all the tackle ready. As they were leaving, my dad showed Curly the keys to the camp and told him that he was putting them in the corner of his stainless steel fillet table to hide them. Curly nodded. The sun was just on the verge of rising when they set off.

About 10:00 am, Dad asked Curly for a drink. Curly let out a string of expletives. He had not only forgotten the drinks but he also left the sandwiches back at the camp. Now, Curly was one tough dude. He laid brick his whole life and had a very poor childhood (actually spent some nights in a chicken coop on a farmer’s land with his family) so he knew how to take care of himself. Any forgetfulness in the way of security or preparedness was just unacceptable to him, so he took this hard. Dad told him not to worry about it though he said later that he thought he was going to die of thirst about three hours later.

They caught a good mess of fish and decided to head in about 3:00, tired and thirsty with stomachs rumbling. On the way in, the boat started taking on water. My dad was at the stern of the boat and popped out the plug to let the water rush out while they were making way. He told Curly to start bailing to help out. While bailing, Curly looked up just in time to warn my father that he was headed directly toward the shore. My dad, who knows his boat and motor like the back of his hand, was so shocked that he opened the motor wide up instead of bringing it down. After the crash, Curly told everyone that he saw what was about to happen so he faced the front of the boat, gathered his feet under him and prepared to be launched. And launched he was!

The boat hit the shore and Curly was catapulted into the bulrush. My father had fallen out of the boat towards the motor and, by the grace of God, was not injured. My dad said when he surfaced, fish were flopping all over the shoreline and there was no sign of Curly. Dad dragged himself up on shore and yelled for Curly. Curly yelled back weakly, “Over here.” He was bleeding profusely where bulrush had implanted in his neck.

They gathered their flopping fish, righted the boat and slid it into the water where they took off back to camp. When they returned, two extremely tired and aging old men dragged ass down the pier back to the camp. Dad tried to open the door and told Curly, “Uh oh! We’re locked out.” Curly suggested breaking a window. Dad agreed. Once inside, they drank gallons of water and woofed down the pre-dawn sandwiches. They also tended to Curly’s neck which had made his white striped shirt bright red at the top and pink as the blood drained downwards.

Dad went back outside and started to fillet the fish. After gutting and beheading each one, he washed the remnants towards a hole in the stainless steel table (“The crabs and birds get a good meal when I do that,” he explained to me when I told him that was gross to let that stuff flow out to the bay.) The camp keys washed out to the center as he cleaned the table and he grabbed them. “HEY CURLY! Guess what I found…”

Needless to say, once my dad came home with this story we ate it up. He told it at every family gathering and during phone calls to friends and family. No one who knew my dad later in his life was totally surprised by these shenanigans. I told him – half kidding but not really – that he would no longer be allowed to venture out unattended with other old men. (Of course he did and almost killed my then 88 year-old uncle – again, another story).

Father’s Day that June was special. My sister, Lila, has a voracious appetite for stories like this where people bleed and almost die (ask her about a man that tripped on a pipe sticking up out of the ground at the grocery store when she was about two-years old) so she took this puppy and ran with it. She made Dad a cake that depicted the entire scenario. It was a masterpiece. She split the cake in two – one had the shoreline with “Curly” upended in the bulrush and the other with “Dad” sunken in the water by the boat. She wrote “Happy Dad’s Day” and “Oh Captain, Our Father” on it. Dad got a big kick out of it. I never heard if Curly thought this was as funny as our clan did.

©Lori Ziegelmeyer

Missing Mom

My SO and I just got back from seeing two movies, “The Imitation Game” and “Wild.” We saw TIG first and thought it excellent all the way around. Skip the rest of this paragraph if you don’t want to know anything about the movie before you see it, though I don’t believe it’s a secret if you’ve read anything about Alan Turing. Mr. Turing made the first computer to crack German code and stopped WWII two years early, saving thousands of lives. It’s hard to believe that the Queen just pardoned him in 2013 for “illegal homosexual acts” performed back in the 30s. Today, the UK has gay marriage. I thought about that when the last lines crossed the screen explaining that Turing committed suicide after being found guilty of said acts after choosing to take meds to castrate himself (a “cure” for being gay back then) instead of facing prison. How far we’ve come and how far we’ve yet to go.

What I found myself thinking about mostly, however, was the movie “Wild.” I read the book in the spring and couldn’t wait for the movie. I won’t spoil it by telling you much, but it brought me back a time in my life when I experienced a death that rocked my world to its core. Author Cheryl Strayed said her mother was the “love of her life” and I feel the same way. I remember not crying much when my mother died while I was lying beside her. I was able to hold back tears during her funeral, mostly because I had a firm grasp on my beliefs (God is all-powerful and all-loving and that we don’t “die,” we just change form). That gave me great comfort. Also, I firmly believed that if I had shed ONE tear, I truly would have never stopped. Three years after her death I realized that I was showing signs of depression. I would not consider myself a depressed person, save for situations that make me sad for a fairly short period of time. But because of what, my constitution?, I was really shocked that I needed help, especially three years later.  Cheryl Strayed walked the Pacific Coast Trail after she lost her mother.  I took antidepressants.  I wish I had known about the PCT, though she was much braver than I would have been.

This summer was eleven years since my mother’s passing.  She was the second family member I was with when they died (my sister and dad the third and fourth, respectively) and I considered it a privilege beyond measure each time, though excruciatingly hard on the psyche and the soul. “Wild” brought all those I MISS AND ADORE AND LOVE MY MOTHER LIKE NO OTHER HUMAN BEING ON THE FACE OF THIS PLANET feelings: hard but ok. To me, mothers are in a different category than are best friends, sisters or even your partner, no matter how wonderful they are. I know that there’s not another person on this earth that can/could/would love me with the unconditional love my mother gave me. I also know that many don’t have a parent they can say this about and that makes me very sad for them. (If that’s you, it’s ok.  You can tell me “fuck you.” I get it.)

I was carved out of my mother’s love. Like a strong branch, she whittled me to life by showing me how to be in this world.  She formed my character out of respect for my elders and for myself.  She shaped my heart early on with talks about loving and respecting others, no matter the color of their skin. She cut a few ties that bound our mother-daughter relationship: she let me make my own mistakes so that I would know the responsibilities that came with the freedom of choices that I would make. I came to being because I was chosen by her and I believe I chose her as well. There is a bond between us that death cannot separate no matter how often I don’t feel her spirit around me, no matter how much I talk to her in my head, no matter how often I ask her for advice or hope she gives me a sign. She is always with me.

Yes, I was carved from my mother’s love. I am Lucille’s daughter and I only hope that I am worthy of what she carved. Thanks, Cheryl Strayed, for bringing me back to remembering her…to remembering My Love.