George

George (center)

I’ve taken up a new occupation. Some might call it a hobby. I certainly can’t make a living at it, but it gets me outdoors, and it’s lots of fun. Given the cost of groceries these days, it helps with the budget too. It’s called shell fishing. 

Last week, I accompanied my neighbor, Tony, to one of his favorite spots for the first time. The views were spectacular, and our haul was, well, pretty good too. We took home four dozen quahogs, and I also took home one scallop, which my wife promptly named George. I had had second thoughts about bringing George home when I noticed that he kept opening and closing his shell in my basket at the salt pond. Was I really going to cook him? Tony must have sensed my reluctance also because he asked me if I was thinking about throwing him back in. But in the end, I decided to keep him. 

Once home, I proudly displayed my haul to my wife, who helped me clean the quahogs and George, and put them in the refrigerator. We planned to cook them the next day. Then it started.  Every time I opened the refrigerator door, George would acknowledge my presence by opening and closing his shell. This was getting a bit too uncomfortable for me. I was beginning to form an attachment with this scallop. Now I can understand having a fondness for a dog, a cat, a rabbit, a gerbil, even goldfish, but a SCALLOP!!! Why didn’t it bother me that I was going to cook George’s cousins who were in the bowl with him, but I was having a hard time going through with cooking him? Was it because, like the deer in the meadow and the robin in the garden I wrote about in Like a Love Song, I had developed an affinity for this saltwater-loving creature who was now living inside my refrigerator? 

I held George and his fate in my hands, and I knew in my heart what I needed to do.  My wife had come to the same conclusion. She had already grabbed a container and put salt in the cold water. He uttered a thank you, I believe, by opening and closing his shell one final time. With George in tow, I drove back to the salt marsh where we had been the day before, and I set George free. At that moment I felt free as well. It felt so good to let him go on living the dream in the marsh. This week I was back there, and even though I didn’t see him again, I felt pretty sure that he was buried there somewhere nearby, as it should be.