We reeled in the line like we were fighting for our lives
For most people, looking into someone’s fish tank is an easy way to make small talk.
The same goes for me, in most homes. But every so often, I’ll peer through the glass and admire the fish — until I see that evil smirk, those long whiskers, that drab, flabby body — and then I’m triggered. Yes, I’m a soon-to-be 42-year-old, yes, I’m a school principal and a camp director, so yes, perhaps I shouldn’t admit this, but it’s true: the mere sight of a catfish, no matter the size, makes my palms go clammy and my heart pound and my stomach sink — until my angst is washed away as I’m overtaken by the memories of my childhood summers.
We spent our summers in Sheldrake Dorms, an average early ’90s Catskills bungalow colony. Hallways weren’t in style, I guess, because our bungalow consisted of two bedrooms and a small kitchen. My five sisters and one of my brothers shared the second bedroom, while my older brother Simcha and I slept on a pullout couch in the kitchen. The shower sounded like a dying cat when the “hot” water was turned on, and the screen door didn’t screen out much, so there were mosquitoes everywhere.
For a ten-year old, it was nothing short of Gan Eden.
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