Vivid Imagery

There is a moment from my early years in Alabama when I was about seven years old that stands out in my mind, so much so that I've written about it a few times in the past. Even thought it's been a while since I put pen to paper regarding that memory, I can still smell it and feel both the physical and emotional texture.

My granddaddy Jackson used to take us out on his boat. The men would fish -- and the women too, I think -- and I would wander around the boat, eating, drinking Dr. Pepper and trying not to get sick. Inevitably, I would throw up at some point. I'm thankful that the last time I felt motion sickness like that was when I was seven or eight, although my mild morning sickness when I was pregnant four years ago felt similar.

That one day when I was seven, we'd caught a bucket full of Spanish mackerel. Once we were back on shore, granddaddy went to clean the fish before we drove home and I went to help him. At the end of a long wooden pier, there was a covered area with counters where people cleaned their catch. I don't remember specifics about the covered part of the pier, except that there was a lot of dark wood, although it may have appeared dark because it was waterlogged.

Granddaddy, a tall man with a mostly bald head and humongous hands, grabbed one of the mackerel out of the bucket and put it on the workspace to scrape off the scales. I wanted to help, but there was no other knife, not that he would've let me use it if there were. I can see his kind face smiling but concentrating on his work. I can smell the water and the wet wood.

Standing there in my blue, white and gold bikini with my hair in pigtails, watching granddaddy work, I picked up one of the slimy, scaly mackerel and held it ready for him. The pungent scent of fish beginning to dry out and die was strong in my little nose -- and pricks at my brain even today -- but I was proud to be there helping him in the small way that I thought I could.

I don't know how long I stood there, taking a new fish out of the bucket after he took the one I held in my hands. It seems like it was a long time, but when you're seven years old even five minutes stretches on for eternity.

When we were done or when I gave up on the chore, I ran back down to the start of the pier covered in fish scales and slime. Granddaddy, grandmother or my mom made me jump in the water and swim around before I changed into my clothes for the ride home. I'm pretty sure I still smelled like fish anyway until washed off the stink later that night in the bath. I washed away all remnants of the day except for my memory of it.

Granddaddy died the next spring and there were no more fishing trips on his boat. His death and my first funeral gave me another memory for which the details are still strangely embedded in my brain -- his pale emotionless face as he laid in the coffin without smiling at me like he always did when he saw me -- but I prefer to let the other smelly, scaly, smiley memory float to the surface.