“If you clean even a single fish, they’ll be bringing you all kinds of dead things to clean and dress.” Mom
I got married at St. Charles Catholic Church in Cass Lake in 1977. On the day before my wedding, mom took me aside and said she wanted to give me a bit of advice—the same advice that her mother had given on her wedding day. I was nervous about getting married—one week earlier I had graduated from college. It felt like life was moving a little too fast. “What is it, Mom?”
She smiled, this brave woman who had birthed eight children and was now marrying off her third daughter. “When I married your dad, my mother told me this on my wedding day. Don’t clean any fish.”Share on Facebook Continue reading
I remember the low-bush look on the forest floor and me kneeling or crouching, sitting where the berries dance heavy all around and I can pick sitting down, my fingers bluing with time like my grandma’s hair. I remember the feeling of berries rolling from their ripe, loose hold on the low bush and dropping into my hand and the tiniest sound of berries dropping into the bucket.
The forest makes sounds. It buzzes, sometimes too nearShare on Facebook Continue reading