This Dad poem came out of a free write a Robin’s workshop. I started to remember all sorts of “interesting” memories.
Old Nylons and Salmon Eggs
Whirling snow on Lake Superior
in early spring meant it was
time for Dad’s fishing trip
for the salmon spawn.
Each catch of salmon held their eggs
filled with the promise of procreation.
As the fish were cleaned Dad collected
clusters of the squishy orange beads.
Evenings after dinner he took his place
at the head of the dining room table,
orange salmon eggs slithering around
in a kitchen mixing bowl.
He asked my mother
for her old nylon stockings,
cut the sheer into dozens of small squares.
One by one he spooned a large glob
of glistening eggs onto a square of nylon
like caviar on a cracker.
Taking a spool of thread,
he snipped a length of it,
gathered four corners of
the nylon square to a peak,
wrapping thread around the top,
knotting each tiny packet.
One by one little pyramids of eggs
lined up across the dinner table,
tiny pink sacks of jewels ready
to be bundled away
into the white chest freezer
in the basement
preserved for the next fishing trip
juicy orange bait ready
for the next salmon run
in whirling snow on cold Lake Superior.
ALG 12/07/2021
I totally re-worked this poem, took out excess words. Looked up facts about spawn and migration, (I had it wrong before.) Salmon spawn Sept-Dec. Hatch in late winter, upstream in the river, then migrate back to Lake Supreior in April. I recall my Dad making this wintery fishing trip every spring to a very remote cabin. My mother worried and thought this trip too dangerous every year.
Old Nylons and Salmon Eggs
Autumn evenings after dinner
Dad sat at the head of our dining table,
orange salmon eggs slithering
in a kitchen mixing bowl.
He asked mother for old nylon stockings,
cut the sheer into dozens of squares,
then spooned the squishy orange beads
onto a square of nylon
like dollops of caviar on a cracker.
Gathering four corners to a peak,
he wrapped lengths of thread
around the top, knotted each tiny package.
One-by-one, small pyramids of bait
lined up across the dinner table,
tiny pink sacks of jewels
ready for the freezer.
Come April, Dad drove north
for the annual salmon migration
with thawing eggs and fishing buddies,
trailing a small boat.
Loaded with gear and excitement,
they followed the shore
bouncing across open water of Lake Superior,
whirls of snow leading them
up the river to a remote log cabin
baited with old stories,
bourbon, and salmon sacks.
ALG 01-13-2022