Fish festivals
On a particular Saturday ever year, the residents of Vermillion, OH gather to celebrate fish. More specifically: perch. To my limited knowledge, there’s nothing especially special about this fish. A quick Google search yields some facts. Perch is:
Striped
A freshwater fish and
According to dinnermom.com, best served with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, a dash of paprika, and an optional sprig of parsley
Swimming just feet below the festivities on the south shore of Lake Erie, the ordinary perch is oblivious to its status as a local legend. Over a matter of days, the sleepy town center fills with inflatable bouncy houses ready for bare-footed children, craft tents full of knick knacks you *think* about buying for your mom, and approximately 15 different ways to eat fried dough. Everyone is happy to be there. I am happy to have found parking.
I’m there on invitation from a work friend, whose in-laws throw their own backyard celebration every year on the same day as the fish festival. I don’t know anyone else at this gathering and cling to the host’s dog for emotional support. The amount of kids under the age of 10 outnumber the adults 2:1, so I find myself squeezing chubby baby legs and holding sticky hands as I help dish out fresh heaps of pasta salad. The nearest couple to me quietly announces their pregnancy to a select few. Squeals and hugs ensue. I sit under the shade of a beech tree with my paper plate of potluck goodies and listen to a group of old people talk. They talk of their friends who are now in nursing homes, and one who is not because she’s too combative. Janet apparently has a mean right hook for a 96 year old lady. Their topics of conversation are sad and subdued and to the point. Who has cancer, who is still alive, and can you pass the mac and cheese? I’m struck by the dichotomy of the two groups, but continue on with my plate and let the thought pass by. Existential dread is for the winter. Summer is for fish festivals.