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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
February 24, 2008
Previously unpublished fiction.
© 2008 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Five Fish, 1977
© 1977 by Bud Grossmann
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BANK SERVICE CHARGE
From: David C. Fischer <d—@juno.com>
To: Maureen Morrison <q—@yahoo.com>
Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2008 23:16:34 -0600
Subject: Bank Service Charge.
7:27PM
Hiya, Nurse Maureen. And how are you today? I ache when I go a day without conversation with you.
Had a very full day. About 9AM, in about 10° sunny weather, I helped Gary and Dad get Dad's snowthrower from the basement, onto a sled, up a slope, across deep snow, and into Gary's truck. Then I took Mom to the Pick N Save in Cappella. (Tried phoning Charlene, and we dropped by. Boy, you should see how high the snow is piled, across from your father's house. Look when you come up. Six feet high at least, maybe eight. A young dad was taking a picture of his kid on top of it.)
Mom and I came back to my home and napped, but we got up when Peggy Lanham called to thank me for the slab of Maureen Morrison Pie that I left for her in the Fire House refrigerator. Peggy said she liked it a lot and might make it herself. She gave me a review of the three plays she saw in Minneapolis, or at least of the one she didn't care for, Warm Beer and Cold Women. Should I know Tom Waits?
I bought a ton of groceries today, will feast like a king for a while. If you come to lunch, I'll give you some choices.
Dad must have had a longing for fish Friday night, or for a restaurant-cooked meal, because he came back to the farm from Ninian by way of Fjord and showed up at my door and rang the bell. I was at the computer, and I checked the front door first and then went to the kitchen window and saw a car with a roof rack and thought, Oh, the P.O.L. is bringing my plates back. How nice.
But it was Dad, asking if I would be "up for fish." I had sort-of-a-casserole on hand I could throw in the micro for Mom and me, but I said, Sure. I tried six times to call in our order to the Empire Café, but got a busy signal, so Dad drove downtown and brought back walleye dinners. I didn't discuss with him the issue of tipping.
One good turn deserves another. Today at Pick N Save I bought a tray of fresh farmed catfish chunks, $2.49/lb. Came to $2.71 for what I bought, the smallest tray, and it would have been just right for three people. I invented a batter with sesame oil, egg, milk, flour, salt, and pepper, and fried the fish in butter, turned it with wooden chopsticks, and served it with potatoes and onions and mixed vegetables. Dang, it was good, in my opinion. A shame Mom and I didn't have a guest, I thought.
I have been shy about catfish, having had some muddy-flavored catfish a couple times in recent years. My Hawaii housemate and I used to buy frozen salmon steaks from Costco. Drop a plastic pouch in boiling water, leave it for 15 min., that's it.
Well, I got my Associated Bank statement today and, uncharacteristically, took a look at it. I am disgusted with myself, for letting my bank balance drop below $1,000 and thus subjecting myself to an $11 service charge this month, and, I suppose, another $11 charge next month, too. Guess how much interest I earned on an average daily balance of $1331? $0.14. Yes, fourteen cents. I hope I can muster the ambition to close the account and go back to my truly free account in Hawaii. I pay my Alliant bill and health insurance premium automatically out of this Assoc. Bank acct, but eleven dollars would buy twenty-six 41-cent postage stamps and about ten envelopes. If I decide to close it, I will talk with Mike Nelson first. I opened the account with my eyes wide open, same as bringing a pie to a Njuri on a snowy night. Drop your guard for a second, and they bite you to the bone. I knew it, and still I nodded off to sleep and woke up to find my pockets picked.
My mother was extremely sharp (by latter-day standards) last night and today. Lots of days she doesn't even know my name, but at supper last night I was telling Dad that Connie Dalquist, one of the MoW ladies, asked me if I was related to any Fishers (yes, no c) in Ninian, and I said I might be, and she asked about her second-cousin Betty Lou, used to be a Carlton, wife of my grandpa's brother's son "Stubb." I said, "Dad, what is your cousin Stubb's given name?" In four seconds I could see he wasn't coming up with it, so I went over to Mom's left ear and hollered, "Mama, what is Stubb Fisher's real name?" She hesitated four seconds and then said, "Calvin." Dad smiled and nodded. I hollered, "Who is he married to?" "Betty," Mom said instantly, "Betty Lou." I pushed it, just to see: "And what was Betty Lou's maiden name?" but Mom said, "I'm sorry, I can't remember names like I used to."
Don't know where Calvin got that nickname, but Stubb might have been a good nickname for his dad, Uncle Jacob. He was missing a finger, pinched off by the rope-and-pulley attached to a hay hook.
I want to ask you if you find plausible my story about Hope Bettman, at the Manor after a stroke, serious aphasia, then when I read her a story, a Gramma Letter, about putting up hay, she told a story from her girlhood about her dad and horses in a hay barn, and I said, "My gosh, Hope, listen to you! You just told that whole story smooth as silk, didn't hunt for any of the words at all!" Soon as I said it, she went back to stammering. That's how I remember it; do you think it could happen?
10:55PM. Guess what Dad had for supper? Tuna.
Okay, I tried to think up something interesting for you, but I give up. Have a nice night, a great vacation.
Love, Dave
♦
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