fish so cute & beautiful ❤😍

Do Fish Laugh?

Jeff Davis stuck his thin knife into the first bluegill, opening a wound from its pelvic fin to its anal fin, spilling entrails onto the picnic table.
“Do fish laugh?” I wondered.
“This one ain’t,” Jeff said. He was a tenth grader, two years ahead of me.
It was a warm summer day at Portage Lakes, just south of Akron in Summit County, which was the highest elevation on the old Ohio and Erie Canal. If we faced north, water flowed toward Lake Erie, via the Cuyahoga River, and then into the Saint Lawrence Seaway and the Atlantic Ocean. Facing south, water flowed into the Tuscarawas River, a tributary of the Muskingum River, on its way toward the Ohio River, then the Mississippi River and, eventually, the Gulf of Mexico.
Native Americans used the lakes to portage their canoes from one watershed to the other.
“What if a couple of goldfish were circling a submerged castle, side by side. Then one drops back, reverses and comes back round the other way. Surprised, they nearly bump into each other, their puckered mouths touching. Wouldn’t that be kind of funny?”
“Fish got no sense of humor. Look,” Jeff said, poking around its innards, “This one’s heart’s still beating!” Jeff knew everything about fish.
As it lay on the table, we watched the fish heart continue to beat.
“Let’s open another,” he said.
“Maybe we can do a heart transplant!” I goaded. “They’ve done it with pigs.”
“Think it’ll work?”
“Why not?” I shouted, rushing inside to grab a needle and thread. Jeff sliced another bluegill and removed its heart.
When I returned, there were two fish hearts on the table, beating side by side. Carefully, Jeff took the first, and placed it inside the cavity of the second fish. Using his thick thumb and forefinger, he stitched it into place, connecting the arteries as best as he could.
“He’s still alive,” Jeff said proudly.
“But not laughing,” I noted.
Portage Lakes was in a rustic township of summer cottages and simple wooden houses. Or what Aunt Doris in the city called ‘white trash’ territory. In an era where divorce was uncommon, my single-parent Mom struggled to keep the lights on. Perpetually broke, she was often away working.
There were periods when our phone was cut off from lack of payment, we were out of heating oil, or our refrigerator was empty. It didn’t really matter. For my sisters and brother, it was just a typically abnormal childhood. We learned to be resourceful, and always had fun.
Summers were spent fishing, swimming, playing home run derby and running our paper routes. Jeff’s pencil-thin father was a cigar-smoking house painter, and a communist. “Better red than dead,” he’d say with a grin, as he cleaned the day’s brushes. In high school, he subscribed me to Today’s Worker, which I’d display conspicuously between my textbooks.
After Jeff, my best friend was George, our female German Shepard, named by my five-year old sister. George followed me everywhere, whether I was on my paper route, or swimming onto the floating raft. In winter, I’d put on skates and straddle George, hanging onto her collar. She’d gallop all over the frozen lake, pulling me along. At bedtime, if I didn’t get there first, George would have already taken my pillow.
Often I’d listen to an entire Cleveland Indians baseball game on the transistor radio I got for Christmas. Every time heavy-hitter Rocky Calavito came to bat, I’d tense up. “Don’t knock the Rock,” said the announcer after each home run.
Living on the lake, Jeff and I went fishing nearly everyday. Usually we’d use weed-worms, the small grubs found inside ragweed stalks along the roadside. Sometimes at night we would use bread balls to fish for carp, the large bottom-feeding relatives of goldfish. Once, we caught six enormous carp which, still alive, I rushed to my Bubby’s house. Thrilled, she filled her bathtub and they swam happily there, like in a koi pond. The next day she turned them into gefilte fish.
We had an old speed boat, which my mom paid for with tomatoes. Mr. Brewster, the dealer, came to our house every Saturday to collect his installment payment, and all my mom could offer was a basket of beefsteaks from the garden and empty promises.
Using paper route money, I bought a sling shot. Puttering around in the boat with Jeff, I’d take pebbles and aim them directly above us and we’d watch them disappear into the sky. As we drifted, the rock would plunge into the water, sometimes missing us by only inches. We launched more, nervously waiting to see how close the rock would come without hitting the boat, or us. We named our new game Hailstorm.
If mom was home for dinner, she’d put a meatloaf in the oven, sometimes with a ketchup topping. Other nights my older brother was left to cook for us, usually making his ‘goulash.’ He made it sound exotic, but was pretty much whatever he could find, thrown into a pot.
Although our cupboards were bare, one thing we never ran out of was potato chips, which some considered the unofficial state snack. In the Akron area alone, there were 12 local brands of potato chips, including Salem, Flaherty and OK, and we all had our favorite. One of my talents was an ability to blind taste and identify all the major brands.
Every week the OK Potato Chip Company van would deliver a new 5-gallon tin to our house. We were always snacking on them. And when the lid was closed, the large can gave us another seat for watching TV in the living room.
During the years we lived there, our house was in a constant state of remodeling. When money was available, mom would purchase some used lumber or plumbing supplies and we’d cobble together some kind of home improvement. Abnormality was normal for us. It was only embarrassing when Aunt Doris came to visit.
Despite the chaos, our house was a magnet for neighborhood fun and games. Compared to their everyday lives, friends found hanging out at our house much more interesting. We’d play board games, create crazy water activities or plan brazen escapades. You never knew what might happen next. Mr. Green, our perturbed neighbor, kept a wary eye on us.
So it was no surprise to learn my big sister invited a friend over to spend the day at the lakes.
“Does she fish?” Jeff asked.
“She’s from Fairlawn,” I explained.
“Lets show her our heart transplant,” Jeff said, looking inside the bucket at the fish. Although it was floating on its side, one gill was moving slightly. “It’s just in shock. It’ll heal.”
“I’ve still got some bottle rockets. Remember the time we scared Mr. Green’s cocker spaniel back into his dog house and it wouldn’t come out all night? Mr. Green was so angry he called the sheriff!” I continued, “Why are spaniels so dumb?”
“Collies too. And they bark too much — look at Lassie,”Jeff said, “always barking.”
“Let’s take her on the boat. We can play Hailstorm,” I suggested. Pulling out my sling shot, I aimed it at a nearby mallard duck, scaring it into flight.
“She’ll want to go swimming, for sure,” I added.
Gathering his fishing gear, Jeff began to head home for lunch. “I’ll do my running summersault dive for her,” Jeff bragged.
“You can’t summersault dive!” I shouted.
The afternoon paper route always started at Etters, a wood-frame Pure Oil gas station which had two pumps, one for regular and another for ethyl. Mrs. Etters, an elderly widow with long grey hair braided in an updo, ran the station and lived in the rooms downstairs. Beyond the gravel driveway stood the Lakeview Church of Christ, which she walked to every Sunday.
Inside the station was a large glass display filled with dozens of candies, such as Pixy Stix, Jawbreakers, Lemon Drops, Chicklets, BB Bats, and Licorice Laces. A cooler held bottles of soda and there was a counter with four barstools. Mrs. Etters would tend the bar while waiting for a car to pull up looking for gas. Everyday I’d begin my route sitting on a barstool at Etters, sipping pop and eating penny candy while reading the news I was supposed to be delivering.
“Mrs. Etters, are you ever going to buy a car?”
“Why? I can walk to Lakeview Market, and anyway I’m working six days a week.”
“But you could have all the gas you want, for free.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she laughed. “Let me have a look at the Woman’s Page.”
“Sure,” I said, handing her the section. My head was buried in the News, reading about the Gemini space program, and nibbling on a marshmallow-filled miniature ice cream cone topped with sprinkles. After finishing the pop and the Sports section, I folded the paper back together.
Mrs. Etters asked “Ready for another?”
“Can’t. Company’s coming. She’s sixteen, and from Fairlawn.”
I raced to finish my route early, not even slowing down at Peggy’s house, the prettiest girl in my class. Peggy was planning to be a beautician. In high school I quit my barber, Mr. Yarducci, so I could have Peggy give me haircuts, and she was quite eager. A few years later, returning from college, I was perplexed when her mother informed me that Peggy was no longer able to cut my hair. “Peggy has a boyfriend now.”
At Mr. Yeager’s, I marveled at his new Buick. He bought one every two years. A bachelor living with his elderly mother, he was a devoted catholic, and had a wooden leg. Some evenings Jeff and I would go to Mr. Yeager’s just to hang out. He had a pool table, a small refrigerator filled with Coca Cola and a color TV. We never dared ask what happened to his leg.
When I came to Mr. Sheets’ house, he stopped me and motioned, “I’d like to show you something.” He was my seventh grade science teacher, so I followed him to his backyard. He showed me how he kept apples through the winter in a deep hole dug in his garden. “Winter is coming,” he warned, pawing at the dirt.
After admiring the quality of his apples, I rushed off. “I’ve got to finish early today, Mr. Sheets.”
As I surreptitiously approached 88-year old Mrs. Nanamaker’s, she spotted me just as I left the paper on her porch. Very short and talkative, Mrs. Nanamaker often kept me for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, telling me about the tragic events in her life. She had 88 years worth of sad stories, and was intent that I hear every one. “Yes, Mrs. Nanamaker,” I’d repeat.
As I tried to get away, she decided to “Let me pay you now,” even though it was two days early.
“I’ll come back on Saturday,” I protested, trying to get away.
But she went inside, returned with her pocket purse, and began to count out coins. When she started telling me the latest news about her sister who had a stroke ten years ago, I was able to cut it short. Disappointed, she asked me to “Come back Saturday and I’ll give you your tip.”
“Yes, Mrs. Nanamaker.”
With the route finished, I passed our mailbox on the way home. Inside was a manilla envelope addressed to me. Excitedly, I tore it open and pulled out my credentials from the Universal Life Church, which I had ordered via the mail. Now I was an ordained minister, and the certification cost only one dollar!
Examining the gold-foil church seal and its registration, ULC #26857, I thought to myself “I need to frame this!”
“Hi! I’m Candy.”
My first crush was in our house. Her hair was flipped up in a bob, like Jackie Kennedy, only blond. She wore pink lipstick, and a bra.
“Candy brought Herman’s Hermits’ new album,” my older sister said.
“I also brought Twister,” Candy added, in a perky voice. “Would you like to play?”
“Sure,” I mumbled, and then immediately phoned Jeff. “Get over here quick!”
When Jeff arrived, he bragged about our heart transplant. He brought over the bucket, and showed her the floating fish, pointing out the stitches.
“Eww!” Candy said.
“It’s not moving,” my sister complained.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Jeff answered, without conviction. “Have you ever seen a catfish?” he asked Candy.
“A catfish? Ew. Gross,” she said.
I grabbed a ragweed stalk and showed her how to slice it to find weed worms. In my rush, I cut my finger and it began to bleed.
“Get a bandaid!” Candy reacted, “and some Mercurochrome.”
“Just a flesh wound,” I said bravely, sucking on it. “Wanna see George do tricks?”
I summoned George and commanded her to “Heal.” George followed by my side, as we walked a few steps. Then I said “Crawl George,” and she crouched down and crawled to me. Proudly I continued with “Sit.” Then “Shake.” Finally, “Speak George. Speak!” George dutifully barked, and I gave her a loving pat.
“She’s so smart,” Candy approved.
“She can Rollover, and Howl too.”
“My Dad’s a communist,” Jeff blurted.
“Quit bothering Candy,” my annoyed sister said. “She came to spend the day with me.”
“Look,” I said, waving my Certificate of Ministry. “I’m an ordained minister! Now they can’t draft me.” Then I added, “I can perform marriages too.”
“You can marry me,” Candy said flirtatiously, looking at my credentials. She saw me blush, and added “But I don’t have a boyfriend yet.” My face was on fire.
“Let’s go,” my sister announced, as they ran upstairs to change. “We’re going swimming.”
Candy came down wearing a pink bikini that matched her lipstick.
We went swimming and I threw a stick for George. Jeff’s summersault dive turned into a cannonball, soaking us all wet. Finding a patch of grass, we played Twister, and tumbled through many games.
Later, Candy asked if we’d like her to stay and make us dinner. “As long as it’s not goulash,” I joked.
“How about a fish fry?” Jeff suggests. “I’ll go find more weed worms.”
My sister turned both thumbs down, “Yuck! No way.”
“What’s goulash?” Candy asked. “How about fried chicken?” she suggested, looking into the refrigerator.
“Yes! Fried chicken!” I said.
“There’s nothing in your fridge,” Candy questioned.
In my pocket, I felt the coins from Mrs. Nanamaker. “I’ve got money. Let’s go get some.”
We walked to Lakeview Market, and I used all of Mrs. Nanamaker’s money to buy the chicken. When we got home, I didn’t bother asking Jeff to stay for dinner. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Our anticipation grew, as we watched the prettiest cook ever working in our kitchen. Fried chicken was a rare treat. Suddenly, when Candy asked for flour, everything came to a stop.
My sister realized there was none. “I think we’re out,” she said, chagrined.
“What house doesn’t have flour!” Candy exclaimed.
Mortified, I tried to make a joke. “Maybe we should make goulash.”
Candy looked at the 5-gallon tin of OK potato chips in the living room. “Don’t worry. It’s not a problem!” she smiled.
Jeff and I watched as she confidently filled a large bowl with chips and smashed them into a crunchy batter. George sat nearby panting, her wet tongue hanging out.
“George! No begging,” I scolded.
Candy turned the stove on and began frying. The potato chip coatings turned golden brown. When she was finished, we had the best crispy fried chicken I’d ever tasted!
As I devoured my dinner, I gave George a taste, and she licked my fingers clean.
“You’re a really good cook!” Jeff exclaimed.
“Is the chicken OK?” Candy asked.
“It sure is!” I confirmed.