Fish on Fridays
I eat fish on Fridays – usually Salmon. When I eat fish on Fridays I remember my family and my Irish heritage; I remember a bit of who I am.
When I eat fish on Friday, I remember my mother, Mary. She cooked us fish on Fridays. Because we were of limited means, our fish was often merely fish sticks. But it was fish! So when I eat fish on Fridays, I remember my mother.
When I eat fish on Fridays, usually Salmon, I remember my father. He is the one who taught me to fish, to enjoy quiet, and to love nature. So, when I eat fish on Fridays, I remember my dad, too.
When I eat fish on Fridays, usually Salmon, I remember my grandfather, Big John. We visited my grandparents every summer we could, and Gramp would haul me out to the garage early on Saturday mornings to dig some worms out of his wooden worm bucket. Then, we would head out to the lake. He would fish the lake proper for white perch and trout – quite edible, but harder to catch, while I would content myself with catching the not-so-edible sunfish as fast as I could rebait my hook. So when I eat fish on Fridays, I remember my gramp.
When I eat fish on Fridays, usually Salmon, I remember my grandmother, Margaret, too. She was as Irish as Irish could be – being the product of two unrelated Murphy families. I lived with my grandmother while I was in college, and she would confirm and fill in the gaps in my research into her family history. She brought the characters I found in the archives to life! She is also the one who taught my mother the tradition of fish on Fridays. So, when I eat fish on Fridays, I remember my grandmother.
When I eat fish on Fridays, usually Salmon, I remember my great-grandfather, Jeremiah Murphy. Now, I never met him, but my grandmother spoke of him with reverence. I sort of understood why. He emigrated from Ireland when he was very young, and that must have been difficult. When he got here, he managed to break a leg in a railroad trestle, and had it cut off and replaced with a wooden peg. That surely was a trial. Despite that, he established a fishmarket that thrived for several decades. Thursdays were his busiest days, as he would load up his two wagons and make deliveries to all the Irish families in town.. He raised four girls, mostly by himself, because his wife was ill. With all of this, he still had time for his community, too. He was state president of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, an Irish Catholic men’s group, which at the time had eight divisions across four counties of the state.
At first I thought my grandmother’s reverence for Jeremiah was merely the love of a child for a parent. But then one day I met a total stranger entirely by chance, who confirmed my grandmother’s perception of Jeremiah. He was an elderly gentleman, and seeking a connection between us, he began to inquire about my family. When we got to my great-grandfather, his face lit up in recognition, “Jeremiah the fish merchant? Pegleg Jeremiah?” I replied that that was him, and the man eulogized Jeremiah Murphy with the same reverence as my grandmother.
I was so impressed with that, that I decided then and there that my first born son would be named Jeremiah after his great-great-grandfather. And so he was. My boy is grown now, but from day one he has been just as sweet a man as Jeremiah Murphy is reputed to have been. So when I eat fish on Fridays, I remember my great-grandfather, and I remember my son, too.
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