Viva Brighton Issue #38 April 2016

column
...........................................
Amy Holtz
The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan
On the road, in Minnesota,
in Casey’s General
Store, my father-in-law
(Brighton through and
through) puts a cup that
holds 32 ounces of hot
liquid below each of the
coffee dispensers for
about 30 seconds each.
“Look at this - toffee,
hazelnut, French vanilla.
Fantastic!” He dubs his
creation a ‘Mochachacha’,
to the bemusement of the lady at the till.
Up north, in the wilderness, at Walmart, my
partner visits the hunting section while my
father-in-law does a recce of every section like
it’s Disney World. I ask the salesperson where
the Twinkies are while gauging the magnitude
of my accent. Since getting off the plane, it’s
veering from Martin Freeman towards Frances
McDormand. I stack several boxes under my
arms - no one judges here.
In Aisle 13, my partner picks out a sturdy fishing
rod, in a whimsical red, and turns to choose
the line that will haul up the unlucky fish. He
lingers near the ones thick as rope.
“30lb line?” my dad says. It’s his diplomatic
voice but we’re all thinking the same thing. So I
just say it. “Whaddya think you’re gonna catch
in the lake - Moby Dick?” My father-in-law
joins us with some beef jerky, a box of Junior
Mints and a hat with an eagle on it.
Out on the boat, my partner hasn’t caught anything
larger than a mouthful. This doesn’t stop
him from crafting the next
headline in the Park Rapids
Enterprise: ‘Skilled angler
from Brighton, England,
snags huge, menacing monster
in Third Crow Wing
Lake.’ FIL offers whiskey, a
purchase he’s proud of, despite
its previous residence
in a suspect liquor store in
Akeley: bottom shelf. Ancient
Age bourbon comes in
a plastic bottle, wears a coat
of dust - a self-fulfilling prophecy.
My partner is tutting. If he doesn’t catch
anything, he’ll remind me that he’s missing
two, maybe three Albion games for this. When
he’s away from home, it’s this that hurts the
most. When Zamora returned to the fold, he
and his father shared man-hugs and sporadic
dewy-eyed reflections of past goals - touching
stuff. But he’s in my neck of the woods now; I
demonstrate this by pulling up my own huge,
menacing monster.
The sun is nearly down, and some nimrods have
parked their boat nearby, with a soundtrack of
hip-hop. My dad tuts. My partner tuts. My father-in-law
tuts. I pretend not to hear and sing
along under my breath; it’s a sunfish, not a lake
monster. He looks happy, unlike my partner,
and I have second thoughts about eating him.
“Better keep him,” my dad says, starting up the
motor. “Or we’ll go hungry.” He turns to the
wheel but I think I hear him muttering “30lb
line.”
....35....