These Happy Golden Years

Feb 8th, 2008 by Marilyn

Tomorrow morning Josie will be standing onstage at the Douglas County Spelling Bee, with a paper number around her neck and a hushed audience of parents. It will be the third trip representing her school at the bee.

We help her practice with spelling, but we don’t push it – that would be the kiss of death. It’s bad enough that she’ll be in junior high next fall and her attitude toward competition – previously happy and carefree – seems to be waning. It used to be a lark, but now she means business. She means to win.

One of the words on the practice list is “ichthyologist.” Anybody…anybody?

Why, you’re right! An ichthyologist is someone who studies fish.

She’s got that one down, and other ‘-ologists’ too, all experts in fields we cannot comprehend. Greg gives her legal jargon, I cover French dining. Can you spell jurisprudence? Vichyssoise?

It’s early frozen February, and the air is quite dry. I’ve been trying to drink more water – and I love me some icy cold water, especially filter-fresh from the the new fridge. But when I need to drink more of it, when I think about the eight sloshy glasses I should be drinking – it’s all over.

So yesterday, when I poured myself a mid-morning tall one, I grabbed a paring knife, swiped a slice of orange and impulsively plunked it in. Citrus-y fresh equals drink more water – right?

Right.

Here’s something else: our family likes pets. You’ve all seen Cleo – we’re really dog people. But we do not have fish. This is at least partially because I’m something of a fish-killer. An aquarium in my house is the quickest route to belly-up marine life.

I have scaled, gutted and filleted many a salmon or trout in my day, but those fish got sauced with lemon and butter. I get wobbly nauseous at the sight of a bug-eyed, top-floating goldfish.

We had four goldfish growing up – John, Paul, George and Ringo. They lived in a wide fishbowl on the kitchen counter, and we did not clean the bowl and frequently forgot to feed them. One day we could no longer see the Fab Four, just the occasional small-lipped “O” pressed desperately to the glass.

When we finally cleaned the bowl, we did not see Ringo. Where could he be?

The mystery was solved a few days later. A slight odor developed while making toast, and by the time we made grilled cheese, it was an unbearable stench. Apparently determined to leave the hellhole – or perhaps escape the shadow of the other famous three – Ringo had jumped the bowl, landing behind the toaster. A few rounds of nice whole wheat gave him up.

Poor Ringo – dead, ashore, and half-toasted.

Maybe that’s why we don’t own a toaster. Maybe it is not really just loafacarbophobia – I believe that is the “fear of being unable to stop at three pieces of buttered toast.”

As I started sipping water yesterday, Greg passed through the hallway, and I yelled to him.

“Doesn’t it look like there’s a dead goldfish in my water?”

Normally, Greg keeps walking. But he paused.