By and large I keep to myself when I go to the gym. Although I no longer have the running regimen I once had, I still put myself on the treadmill in solitary activity… oblivious to those around me.
My post work-out sauna is the one time when I will engage in brief conversation with fellow regulars. But in truth, even there I would prefer to sweat in solitude.
One of my favorite regulars is Joe Debone. He’s retired, drives a pick-up, has a big Harley for weekend cruising, is an avid hunter… and his hobby of many years is taxidermy. According to Steve, another regular, who has visited his digs in Norwalk… his home is a combination of the Museum of Natural History and the hunting lodge of Sven of the Fjords. He stuffs and mounts for other folks, too (his wait list is 6 months long); but everything on display in his “trophy room” he has bagged. I have not asked if that includes road kill on the Merritt Parkway.
I guess you could call Joe a “sportsman”. I guess that goes hand-in-hand with being an outdoors man… motorcycles and all… hunting… and maybe a bit of fly fishing and camping, too.
My family is no stranger to the outdoor life. I can recall one of my tee shots at Race Brook’s par three second hole coming perilously to the swan peacefully swimming in the pond fronting the green. Or joining my Dad on the patio of the Bagshot House in Barbados… our mission was to acquire a healthy tan.
I could also mention sitting on the 50 yard line for the Yale-Princeton Game in a chilling rain… but that seems a stretch.
Sure… sneer if you will. But our family did possess a true sportsman. Or should I say sportsperson?
I don’t think that my Mother would be fussy about the label. She needed no outside acknowledgement of her quest to rid Long Island Sound of its weak fish population, nor confirmation for what that quest represented. I’ll be honest… I think she was looking for a diversion as she pursued her true passion… acquiring a healthy tan. That, and schmoozing with her fishing partner, Bunty Cohen.
Still, there was the day when I stood at the shore of Erich’s Day Camp in Branford and saw my Mother and Bunty in Bunty’s “fishing yacht” (a ten foot row boat with a kick motor) hoisting their recent catch for me to see of some two dozen weak fish between them. I guess my Mother knew how to fish.
It was some years after, Mom got her own yacht and still took it down the Mamauguin River to where it empties into the Sound… and she still sought to reduce the amount of fish in that body of water. Speak to Joe Dubone, or my Mother for that matter… and there is this strange respect for that which they hunt. And maybe for the finest specimens there is a need to honor their nature by preserving them.
And what compelled Joe to fill his home with the former lives of animal, birds and fish that he had “experienced”, moved my Mother to do the same. Two of her weak fish she took to the staff of Yale’s Peabody Museum to be mounted (she didn’t know of Joe Dubone at the time, and neither did I).
The mounted fish were put on display in the breakfast room of my family’s house on Alston Avenue. There was nothing else in that home that would give even the slightest indication of the outdoor tradition of our family. So… to an outsider it might seem out of place. But that’s OK… to an insider it was out of place, too.
And I think of it today… and say, “Mom, you did a helluva job.”
I wonder if she named those two fish? The breakfast room (the “trophy” room) is where she and Mommie Soph would light the Sabbath candles. A simple and beautiful ritual that has been performed by women for thousands of years. Cover the head, circle the candle flame and bring the spirit to your heart, cover the eyes, say the blessing. So, maybe on a Friday Mom would go into the room, prepared to light the candles; but before doing so she says, “hello Bert and Ernie…” addressing the fish, that is. Or, “hello Abbot and Costello…” or “Shabbat shalom Rogers and Hammerstein.”
I don’t know if she named the fish. But if it were my Sister Lynn, those fish would certainly have been given names.
And this more a story about my Sister than it is about my Mother.
Lynn has a gift. She can identify the spirit of something and give it an appropriate title… a name that somehow embodies that object’s essence. Stuffed toys, cars, pets, plants… you name it and Lynn can find the handle. It sounds simple; but it’s not. And somehow a lifeless object or a pet becomes infused with a personality and an attitude. And more importantly, our attitude towards the object becomes more respectful. There is a harmonious balance between the object and oursleves.
Identifying what is important in something, what is emblematic, is a process. And I got to witness this process at close quarters. I had just purchased a new car, a Saturn. Although it was my car… it was destined for Suzy’s use. And I think it was Suzy who felt the car needed a name… and knowing that this was an area of Lynn’s expertise, she was enlisted in choosing an appropriate name.
But before deciding the name, Lynn needed to know more about the nature of the car. For example, it could me maternal… Lynn suggested Mrs. LaPuffsky. Or maybe some what flighty or flirtatious… Lynn suggests Mitzie. There was a give and take. Names suggested to Suzy and responses back. Finally a name that seems to fit the character of the car, and blend with the attitude of Suzy: Carmella. Or, how it is really pronounced… Car-Mella. Which, in turn, became abbreviated to Carmie.
And Carmie it is.
My Sister is a treasure. It’s like having a shaman in your family.
It’s not naming of this stuffed toy, car or pet… that’s not really that hard. It’s understanding the toy, the car or pet… and our interaction. And it is the understanding that sets Lynn apart from most other folks. There is an intuition.
An intuition that speaks of her appreciation of life. And it is her appreciation of life, that I love the most. And while I might not have guessed it right… I think that Bert and Ernie would suit Mom’s weak fish just fine. How Lynn sees it… well, that just might be another story.
