The Fishwife

The Fishwife

For the most part, our lives are a matter of daily routines, as predictable as the orbits of the sun and moon. And yet, there are moments when unforeseen events propel us to act in wholly unpredictable ways. Lilly, the Fishwife, was caught in one such moment. This is her story.

Nestled along the rugged coastline of Northern California is a small, protected cove. It shields a fishing village isolated from the state’s interior by a vast, lush forest of giant redwoods - some of which have stood for more than a millennium. Each morning the sunrise bears witness to an assortment of ageing, rust-stained fishing trawlers slowly poking their way through the wet, patchy fog out into the Pacific Ocean in search of king and silver salmon.

Throughout the long day, fish-laden boats return to the creaking wood docks where impatient fish buyers and agents anxiously pace, waiting to fill the orders of distant markets. As the boats disgorge their loads, the never-ending ritual of price haggling begins between tired, sweat-soaked fishermen and tight-fisted buyers.

Unnoticed, amid all the clamor and activity, a small, stooped-shouldered old woman emerges toting a large, tan wicker basket on her back. Her face is barely visible beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet tied loosely beneath her chin with a long, pale-yellow ribbon. She’s wearing the same old grey Mother Hubbard dress she wore yesterday, and nearly every day before that. A knotted rope around her thin waist cinches a white muslin apron. Draped over her boney shoulders is a blue shawl that too has seen better days.

Trudging across the wood pier, the old woman walks past the boats that had returned earlier and whose fishermen who are now loudly and passionately arguing with buyers about the price they should be paid for their catch. Near the end of the pier, she pauses to watch the 38-foot salmon trawler, Meer Adler, gently pull alongside and tie to the dock cleats. The captain, an aged, angular, square-faced man with peppered grey hair combed straight back, looks up and waves.

“How did you do, Peter?” the old woman calls.

“Not bad, Lilly. I have some wonderful salmon for you.” Unmistakable in his booming voice is an accent that hints of Prussian origin.

“Good, I need five big ones.”

With remarkable deftness, Lilly descended a dockside ladder, rung-by-rung, and stepped onto the trawler’s wet deck. Moving quickly to the fish hold, she pulled back the hatch cover.

“Well, Peter, you did have a good day.”

Inside the dark hold are at least 30 sleek, silver salmon of varying weights and lengths. All have been gutted and cleaned. Brushing aside a cover of shaved ice, Lilly selected five salmon she judged the best and carefully fitted them into her wicker basket. When finished, Peter hooked the basket to the boat’s crane and winched the load up to the dock above. Then the pair climbed up the dock ladder. Without a need for words, Peter lifted the basket and held it as Lilly hooked her frail arms through the shoulder straps. They have performed this ritual many times before. Today, the basket is especially heavy, and for a fraction of a second, Lilly’s knees buckle under the load. Then, she leaned forward, balanced the weight, and set off walking.

No one knew how old Lilly was, nor for that matter, how long she’d lived here. She lived on the edge of town in a one-bedroom, tumbledown shack weathered gray by years of exposure to the merciless sun and the ocean’s salt air. Surrounding the shack is a termite ravaged, waist-high picket fence that leans in some places and leans perilously out in other places. A broken gate hangs cockeyed with only the top hinge binding it to its post. There is no lawn - only a scattering of scrubby bushes, a few sedges, and a half dozen or so overgrown pampas grasses with tall, flowering white plumes. A narrow, curved pathway of crushed seashells leads to the front door.

As far as anybody knew, Lilly did not have a family - at least she never spoke of one. She lived alone - except for a half dozen stray cats of sundry description. Although always pleasant and outgoing, Lilly kept to herself, preferring the company of her cats. Only on Sunday morning would she venture into town to attend church and briefly socialize in the town square.

As a Fishwife, Lilly made a meager living by selling and delivering fish to the few markets and diners in town. In a small, homemade smoke shed, using her very secretive brine, Lilly made salmon jerky. Everyone knew about Lilly’s jerky. It was the best on the North Coast.

Today, the basket straps dug deep into Lilly’s boney shoulders as she walked the two short blocks to town. The uphill grade and the heavy load slowed her pace. Crossing the town square, she entered a small general store. Going directly to the meat counter, she unloaded the salmon and began the job of cutting them into steaks and filets. The scraps she set aside for her cats.

By late afternoon Lilly completed all deliveries. It had been a long day and she was tired. After collecting all the “cat scraps,” she started for home - again walking through the small grassy park that served as the town square.

Lilly loved the little square. It was the town social center. On warm afternoons, old fishermen gathered on benches, played checkers, and told and retold stories of fish they’d caught and of ones that got away. Children played on the swings and chased each other in endless games of tag, screeching with delight. Fat, beady-eyed, grey pigeons paced about looking for any discernible crumb of food they could find or the chance to raid an unguarded lunch. Surrounding the town square on three sides is the town’s business district - such as it is. There are a couple general stores, a post office, and a hardware emporium where an old, black Labrador with gray whiskers can always be found sleeping in the middle of the doorway. The dog absolutely refuses to move for anyone. Across the street is Doc Green’s office, three cramped diners with stool-seat counters, a small church with peeling white paint, and a miscellany of shops including something called “The Great Saltwater Taffy Works.” Many local folks believe, and perhaps with some justification, their sleepy town is the setting, mirrored repeatedly, in so many of Norman Rockwell’s canvassed images of American life.

But the singular thing so incredibly special about the town square is its stunning sweeping view out over the open harbor. On a clear day, you can see out to sea for miles and watch the distant salmon boats slowly trolling back and forth along the California coastline.

Stopping to rest, Lilly sat down on the grass beneath an old Cypress tree. First, she pulled off her shoes and gleefully wiggled, with great satisfaction, her now free toes. Next, she took off her bonnet and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Relaxing, she leaned back against the gnarled and twisted trunk, closed her eyes, and surrendered to the reward of a quiet afternoon nap.

Then some innate sixth sense within her suddenly woke her. Instantly, she knew something was terribly wrong. The air was heavy with static, making it hard to breathe. The sky had transformed from a soft blue to an angry, mysterious yellow hue. The usual offshore, coastal breeze died off - so much so that not a single leaf of any tree was stirring.

Lilly walked to the edge of the town square and looked out to the harbor. The water was as flat as a sheet of glass. Oddly, all the birds had disappeared. Nowhere could she see any pelicans, cormorants, or soaring seagulls. Even the mud flats were empty of egrets and the ever-scampering little black coots.

By now, nearly everyone else in town was standing outside looking at the eerie, yellow sky. No one was talking. Yet, everyone knew with fearful certainty something was about to happen. Lilly was afraid. She looked around but there was nowhere to run or hide. An omen of doom hung in the air.

Suddenly, there was a thunderous “SNAP” that sounded as though a giant, granite mountain had cracked apart. The earth lurched violently to the side, knocking Lilly down. Everything began to sway up and down, back and forth, like waves moving across a storm-tossed sea. After what seemed like an eternity, it slowed to a tremble, then stopped.

Lilly stood. Almost immediately there was a second violent jolt, and the shaking began again. To keep from falling, she squatted. All around her people were screaming hysterically, and children were crying. Wood framed buildings splintered and collapsed in thunderous crashes throwing clouds of debris and choking dust into the air. The little white church was still in one piece but had toppled onto its side.

The trembling stopped - at least for the moment. Shocked, Lilly stared at the destruction of the little world she loved so much. Almost all the fishing docks had collapsed. More than a dozen salmon trawlers had broken loose from their moorings and tossed onto the shore as if they were mere twigs. Other boats were sinking - some leaving only their masts protruding above the water.

When she could, Lilly stood. Dazed, she was unsure of what to do. Across the street, a few men were frantically pulling rubble off a collapsed building searching for anyone buried beneath. But most of the town’s people were either frozen in shock or trying to console each other.

Near one of the park’s swings Lilly saw two little girls sobbing uncontrollably with fear. She recognized them as sisters and the daughters of a local fisherman. She ran to the girls and picked up little Annie, the youngest. Barely four, the trembling girl threw her arms around Lilly’s neck and buried her tear-stained face into the older woman’s shoulder. Carrie, who was five, wrapped her arms around Lilly’s waist holding on as tightly as she could.

Lilly tried to calm the terrified girls. She held them in her arms, rocking slowly back and forth, quietly humming. It was the kind of hum all mothers instinctively do when trying to soothe a frightened child. But Lilly’s humming had the form of a melody. It was a lullaby she’d heard many times as a child. She hadn’t thought of it in years. Now, it came rushing back. Softly, she cooed the old familiar words.

At the end of the lyric, Lilly was quiet. Little Annie lifted her tiny tear-stained face and said, “Please, Miss Lilly, don’t stop.”

Lilly stared at the girl.

“Oh sweetheart,” she whispered, “If only... if only I could sing what I feel.” But Lilly did sing. And with each lyric, her voice grew just a little stronger.

People would later recall what they most remember about this “day-of-days” was Lilly in the town square. There she stood barefoot, amid all the carnage, holding two frightened children and, almost absurdly - she was singing.

Zack, a retired fisherman, who had been watching from a distance, hobbled over to join Lilly. Pulling a silver harmonica from a shirt pocket, he cupped it in his weathered hands, put it to his lips, and began to play.

Other youngsters began to appear.

Another trembler shook the ground. The terrified children screamed. Lilly never stopped singing. She pulled them into a tight group, making them wrap their arms around her, and each other, for comfort.

Then Mario, another fisherman, arrived with his concertina. He too began to play. Lilly sang nonstop. Gradually, her voice grew stronger. She sang children’s songs. She sang church hymns. She sang popular songs and ballads. She sang anything, and everything she could remember including folk songs of her native land.

Mario and Zack stood beside her playing their instruments and trying, as best they could, to keep up. They weren’t always harmonious, but somehow, on that summer afternoon, they were perfect.

The trio’s music flowed out of the small park, drawing others. Soon, most of the town’s children were there. At Lilly’s urging, they too began to sing as a way of calming their fears.

The earth’s violent tremors slowed, then stopped. Frantic parents searched for their children only to find them in the town square with Lilly holding them safely.

When it was over, Lilly walked over to the old Cypress and sat beneath it. She was physically and emotionally exhausted. Leaning back against the massive trunk, she clasped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.

It was several hours before anyone noticed Lilly had not moved. When Mario went to check her, he saw her frail hands had slipped to the ground and her head was hanging down. She was dead.

Later when friends cleaned out Lilly’s shack what they found kept the town talking for months. In a worn shoe box were the faded sepia photographs of an Austrian Baron standing with a group of children in front of a Swiss chalet. One of the young girls, wearing a full-length, white dress with ruffles, was Lilly.

Also found were three bundles of letters - each carefully wrapped with a faded pink ribbon and tied with a small bow. They were the delicately penned words of a young man pledging his love, and begging Lilly to join him in America.

Lilly was buried in the church cemetery with only a small headstone to mark her grave. But her memory lives on. Each year on the anniversary of The Great Quake, the town’s people gather to recount their experiences. The one story told over, and over again is Lilly gathering all the frightened children in the town square and somehow managing to sing.

She is a legend.