My grandparents used to live in a big green house on ██████ Lake. The land had been passed down to them from Grandpa ██████ who got the land originally. Unfortunately, because many of the kids did not do well, they could not support the farm and the land and so they ended up having to sell a lot of it to get money. This is how my grandparents have been staying there, by selling land.
The couple of steps that lead to the door of the house has green wet carpet that must have been there since the day the house was first built, I can only guess at the age with all of the peeling paint. And it is a few feet away from these steps that I stand with a Tupperware container in my hands, ready to bring the cut fish in to the kitchen so my grandma can cook them.
The house still sits up on a hill that you have to walk down to get to the lake. An old dock rests there, where the grass drops down to meet the sand that is always buzzing with dead fish carcasses. Attached to the dock by a frayed and wet rope, is a boat that stinks of gasoline. In the bottom of the boat, there is a pool of lake water with all sorts of insects crawling around inside.
I go fishing on that boat with my brother, my grandpa and my dad. I always hate having to fish in there. Every single time, a hook gets stuck in my finger or a spider creeps up on me, I get my feet wet in that gross water, and I inhale the stench of gasoline. My brother catches all the fish. I don’t know why but even my grandpa has a hard time.
And then there are the times we’ve gone ice fishing. My brother and I sit in this little wood box with two gas heaters and four black holes looking back at us apathetically. The sky is dark because it is snowing and the days are short. Outside of the wooden shelter it’s barely colder than it is inside and my uncomfortable jacket makes me squirmish.
When we get back to the house, grandma brings out the fillet knives and a cutting board. Grandpa has the bucket full of sunnies and crappies staring ahead with a frightened but blank expression in their eyes.
I never particularly enjoy watching the fish get filleted. Mostly because of the process: cold, frozen, scratchy fingers, grasping serrated knives and floppy fish.
I tried touching a fish once. It was slimy and wet. I didn’t enjoy touching it, mostly because touching them is like simply petting something about to die or dying. It feels cruel. When I am touching its slippery body, I can feel the story and life of that fish and I realize that its life has been horrific.
My dad and grandpa fillet the fish. It drives me nuts whenever they cut themselves, their blood mixing with the fish’s. I don’t like the sound the knife makes as it cuts through the side of the fish, or the sight of lake water mixed with blood, dripping off the cutting board on to the grass as the sun sets and a cold comes in from the lake.
