Journal of a Living Lady #221

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

 

I am funny about my refrigerator. It is unlikely that you will find anything in there that isn’t bagged, wrapped, or covered. Buddy is just the opposite. “Why bother?” is his open-air philosophy.

 

It is sort of like the toilet-seat controversy, though I won that one thirty-nine years ago after returning from our honeymoon in Bermuda. In the middle of the night, my posterior unexpectedly dropped into the cold porcelain bowl. That was the last time Buddy left the toilet seat up. There were other skirmishes to come.

 

Everybody has likes and dislikes in food.  Mine happen to be lemons, citrus fruit, and cantaloupe. They are off-limits in the Kelly refrigerator. Even the smell of such produce often makes me nauseous. Buddy keeps a small icebox in the shop for things he solely enjoys. Though I don’t eat fresh tomatoes either, they are allowed in the refrigerator as long as they are covered when sliced. I am not totally unreasonable.

 

So, as persnickety as I might sound about certain types of food, imagine my surprise when Buddy freaked out about one little, pint-sized white cardboard container on the bottom shelf. The circular lid, with tiny pinholes poked in the top, is unquestionably tight.

 

Surely Buddy was over-reacting.  I smelled the small, cylinder-shaped container. It would be a stretch to say that it smelled like anything except maybe cold cardboard. The red wigglers inside would need some kryptonite from Superman to push up the cover.

 

Now, come on. What harm could those little worms do?  Buddy imagines them invading the celery, the left-over pot roast, and skinny dipping in the milk.

 

All anglers know you can keep fishing worms for a long time in the refrigerator. The cool temperature makes them play dead. Take them outdoors to a warmer environment and they practically resurrect.

 

Newly revived wigglers resist being hooked with energetic aerobic stretches that, if duplicated, would exhaust Richard Simmons. It is as if these worms know their fate is death by drowning.

 

Ten years ago Buddy and I bought our house, partly because it had a little stream that ran through the property. I call it a creek. Buddy sarcastically refers to it as a ditch.  When I vehemently protest his use of such an inaccurate, inappropriate, and uninspiring word, he smugly smiles in amusement.

 

Granted, it is not much wider than a yard stick in some places, but our creek is not some wet crack in the mud. It is an enchanting brook so close to our country house that you could throw daisies into it from the side window. I love watching the vibrant stream trickle over the narrow rock bed. It almost talks.

 

Yesterday I scooped up a handful of the rushing water and asked rhetorically, “Where have you been and where are you going?”  Immediately my attention was diverted by a brief splash in our misnomered ditch.

 

I took a closer look. Two brown-speckled trout were trying to nudge heir heads under the jutted portion of a large rock. The swishing tails of the frightened pair betrayed their attempt to hide. I am sure they feared being my lunch.

 

Those little fish didn’t need to worry. I only had one thing on my mind. Finding Buddy.  We don’t have a ditch. No sir. We have a genuine mountain trout stream.

nancyk@alltel.net