Vi Chronicles: Charming Matty

I grew up in a family of people who love to fish.  When I was very young, I could bait a hook, catch a fish,  gut it and cook it.  And I could eat it, but that wasn’t the best part. The best part was the process.  The only thing I bait now is my husband. I’m a pretty good husband baiter, to tell the truth.  But that’s a whole other story.

We grew up inland, so mostly we fished in lakes.   My Mom, Vi, and her husband, Tony, lived in the city for a long time, however, and the closest water available was the Atlantic. When I would visit them in the summers, we would fish off the pier.

One summer, we spent a lot of time on that pier.  This wasn’t a board walk pier, or a tourist pier, or anything romantic. It was just a pier.  A lot of people fished there and it smelled like a lot of people fished there.  It wasn’t where you took a girl for a stroll and a stolen kiss.  It was where fish went to die.

One day, I was there with Vi, Tony, their neighbor Matty, and his wife,  whose name I’ve forgotten.  Matty had a broken leg, probably well earned.  He was reckless, impulsive, gregarious and the life of any party.  That day, he was limping around in a full leg cast, aided by crutches.  I was about 11 at the time.

My mom had given me a pole that I could use to “fish off the bottom”, which  basically meant, “sit down, behave yourself, and feel important with this pole that won’t catch anything,  while we adults use our much better casting rods to catch the real fish.”

Or maybe I was reading too much into it.

There was talk about mackerel vs pollock and I believe it might have been mentioned once or twice that you had to use the casting rods to catch the mackerel, which were the better eating fish, but a little oily.  There was also a lot of posturing and bragging, as the cold beers got passed around from the ever present cooler. I drank my “Sody-pop”, as my mother liked to call it, and kept my  eye on the prize, with my stupid ole fishing rod and no casting apparatus, while I kept one ear on the adult conversations to see what bits of grownup mystery I could capture in my net.  I can see me sitting there, all blue eyed and brown skinned, with my denim cut-offs, dirty keds, and my favorite white striped t-shirt.

At some point, I got a bite.  A big bite.  And I yelled, “Hey!  Hey, you guys, I got something here. I caught something!”  Matty came over to help me pull it in.  “Probably pollock or pickerel or something.  Maybe a shoe”,  he told  the others.  Well,  we kept working on it, and we pulled that thing in, and what do you think it was?  A beautiful, huge,  mackerel.  “Well, huh.”,  Matty said, “Will ya look at that!”   People made a big deal, and took pictures with their gigantic polaroid cameras of me and my two-foot fish.  It was my little moment in the sun, until Matty had to go and steal my thunder.

After I caught the big fish, everyone started fishing off the bottom, as it seemed the good fish were biting there.  Someone else caught one,  and the mood became even more celebratory.  Or maybe that was the beer.  The problem with beer is that it has a window of jolliness, and once that window closes, things can get less jolly without much warning.  Our window closed that day at about 7:30 PM.  At that point, Matty’s wife wanted to go home, but Matty didn’t want to go, so they had words. Bad words. Then Matty, in a fit of anger, took his crutches and threw them in the Atlantic.

“WELL, THERE!”, he said, “Now look at what you made me do!”  and he turned around and limped back up the pier towards a good bar that had cold beer and no cold wives.  The rest of us were shocked into awestruck silence for about a second, and then we laughed, even Matty’s wife, because Matty was such a riot.  Everyone forgot about my huge fish after Matty’s display of manly bravado.  Later on he cooked my fish and he declared it the best fish he ever ate.  That was Matty’s charming side.  Lucky for him, he was more charming than not, and so usually got away with his impulsive drunken acts.

The next day some guys were out on a boat in the harbor.  They saw a crutch floating around, and they pulled it in.  It had Matty’s name on it.  One guy said, “Hey, I  know Matty!  He musta dropped his crutch!” He brought it over to Matty’s house. Matty got 50% of his crutches back.  Everyone laughed, Matty loudest of  all.

Who do you know that’s charming?  And have you ever wanted to go back in time and hug the kid that was you? What would you whisper in the kid’s ear before you released her?

PS  I went fishing around for some info about fish to check my memory and I found this video.  It is so reminiscent of those trips to the pier, that I had to show it to you.  I laughed out loud when I saw it.  I believe this is the State Pier in Gloucester, MA.  We fished off the Portland Pier in Portland, ME.  I borrowed it from a guy named Joey C.  Thank you, Mr. C.!

Advertisements

  11 comments for “Vi Chronicles: Charming Matty

  1. September 19, 2013 at 11:40 pm

    Wow- what a story! Poor you- at least Matty recognized you for that fish later.

    If I could go back and tell the kid I once was something? Hmmm. I guess it would be- You're going to have a really great life.

    Like

  2. September 19, 2013 at 11:49 pm

    Hi Shelly-I was having fun, no worries, there. I recognize that it's not the epitome of a carefree childhood, but I was somehow. I like your message to yourself. I wish that message on every kid everywhere.

    Like

  3. September 20, 2013 at 12:57 am

    What a delightful post that took me back to my children's early days when they caught their first fish. I knew a Mattie once. We probably all have 🙂

    Like

  4. September 20, 2013 at 1:12 am

    Hi Linda-tell that story! The first fish story, the Mattie story…All the stories:-) I want to read them!

    Like

  5. September 20, 2013 at 2:18 am

    I fished when I was a kid, too. Couldn't do it now unless it was after the apocalypse and I was starving. I couldn't even watch the whole video, for pete's sake!

    Like

  6. September 20, 2013 at 2:40 am

    My grandma lived on Lake Lure in NC. She loved fishing. She took us every time we came up. I remember her teaching us to clean them in the kitchen sink.

    Great memories.

    Your family sounds like a hoot.

    Like

  7. September 20, 2013 at 3:47 am

    Hi Jenny-we seem to be much more open to things when we are kids, don't we? My latest thing is every time I eat meat, I imagine it being the days of farm to table, and me having to be the one to kill the beast. I know I could kill a fish, I think I could kill a chicken or a turkey, but I am almost sure I couldn't kill a cow, a deer, or a pig. Which totally is NOT in line with my love of bacon. I'm s till trying to decide what to do about that. I'm hoping bacon meat cubes might be the answer.

    Like

  8. September 20, 2013 at 3:48 am

    This is going to sound gross, but when I first learned to clean fish, I kind of enjoyed it. I think I might not enjoy it anymore. My family is a hoot. A hoot on steroids. Your's sounds the same:-)

    Like

  9. September 20, 2013 at 4:31 am

    Lentils. Lentils are the answer. They don't taste like bacon, but you don't have to kill them either 🙂

    I hold great hope for the fake meat being worked on these days.

    Like

  10. September 20, 2013 at 5:16 pm

    I remember fishing with a cane pole, too, and struggling because it was so awkward. Now I'm the grandma that cleans the fish if we catch any keepers. But the lake where we now rent a place mostly has very small panfish, so the grandkids' lasting memory may be that of eating a fish dinner at the restaurant down the road. Which is okay, too…their parents don't like fish at all so it's another part of our legacy.

    I enjoy your Vi Chronicles; I'll be back to read more. And thanks for stopping by and commenting on my blog. I love that kids are being given traditional names; my granddaughter Vi is named for a great-great-grandmother.

    Like

  11. September 20, 2013 at 10:43 pm

    Hi Blissed-Out Grandma-thanks so much for visiting and reading the Vi Chronicles. I'm glad you like them. There are lots of stories:-) I agree, there is something nice about traditional names, and old family names are extra special.

    Like

Your turn...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

One chicken. So many roads.

Style Splash

STYLE HAS NO AGE LIMIT

Bella Rum

Life on the Pasture

I'm Sick and So Are You

What illness taught me about how truly warped we all are

http://myinnerchick.com/

One chicken. So many roads.

The Way I Sew It

One chicken. So many roads.

B.I. Redux

One chicken. So many roads.

Cup on the Bus

One chicken. So many roads.

idioglossia: the blog

Share yourself: problems, joys, secrets, ideas. We're listening.

Examining the Odd

literature, visual art, music and film

Think Stew

One chicken. So many roads.

Procrastinating Donkey

One chicken. So many roads.

Trainride Of The Enigmas

One chicken. So many roads.

Genial Misanthrope

One chicken. So many roads.

injaynesworld

One chicken. So many roads.

The AC is On

One chicken. So many roads.

La Tejana

One chicken. So many roads.

Pearl, Why You Little...

One chicken. So many roads.

%d bloggers like this: