From the cabin
On mother’s day
A parking lot.
A truck with a trailer.
To this? A line up, and a sign:
Lobster $16 a pound.
In my childhood, Mother’s Day was traditionally a big lobster feed.
Sure, we’d have steamed clams and when the muscle ranch went in, we have muscles. They would be potato salad, coleslaw and dinner rolls. Lobster was always the centrepiece.
And despite the fact that this was Mother’s, Day dedicated to mothers my grandfather was always in the middle of everything. But the lobster that my grandfather got never came from the back of a truck in the parking lot. Usually he bought it from one of the fisherman who kept his trailer in my grandfathers campground.
Plastic table covers.
Mother’s Day was the one day a year that my grandfather pretended to cook. He didn’t barbeque and he certainly didn’t boil potatoes. Nor did he make the potato salad or the coleslaw or the dinner rolls for the Mother’s Day celebration.
He did however boil the lobsters and clams. My grandmother just seem to let him enjoy the illusion that he had cooked supper. Was there tension?
But I was small. I did not notice. It was enough that we were all there. It was enough being together.
Today, there will be no lobster. And we will all be together. Not all of us, but a bunch of us. Will there be tension? Likely somewhere. And that will be forgotten about too.
Things change quickly. People change quickly. Memories change quickly. Things I can seem important or significant at the time fade.
I like to remember the delicious lobster and having my grandfather passed me handfuls of lobster legs to chew on while I was sitting underneath the table. Yeah I have no recollection of the water they were boiled in.