Fiddle Sticks and Random Bits

A Change in the Tides: Part One

The tiny coffee shop on West Willow street was one of the first renovation projects in the area, part of the mayor's attempt to bring in new families and their money. Bless his soul, trying to civilize us "salty sea villagers," moving us into the modern age of fast food chains and supersized Wal-Mart's. 

Until now, the quiet folk of Dennis Port were content with our rust stained signs, sand sprinkled streets, and sun-bleached houses, all of which had been untouched since the repairs done after Hurricane Bob in 1953. But now, people are seeing the opportunity for revenue, they imagine convenient stores that sell eighteen brands of toilet paper, they want four-way intersections that have new LED lights, they are giving up the things that once made this town home.

"They're all changing, each one of these quiet towns turning into a tourist hub," my uncle told me after docking "The Codfather," his beloved bucket of bolts, into the marina after one of his longer fishing excursions.

"It was only a matter of time," he said grabbing fish chum and flinging it at the dock, just barely missing my feet.

When I was five, my uncle Caleb started living with my mother and I, sleeping on our itchy tweed couch that my mother had gotten from the neighbor's garage sale after their house was finally condemned by the state officials. "BLACK MOLD, RODENT INFESTATION, UNSOUND STRUCTURE" the bright orange sign on the door warned all passers by. 

Apparently, my mother deemed the couch salvageable, but for precaution, sprayed it down with disinfectant before transporting it into our home and allowing my uncle to sleep on it. When I was young, I thought my uncle looked like a weathered mast, tall with white wisps of hair, like seagull feathers stuck in dried salt flakes left deserted on top of a pole.

I put my toes into the water just enough to cause a ripple, feeling the chill go up my leg as I watch Caleb on the dock. Despite the heat of July, the sea always manages to stay refreshingly cool.

"You going to your cousin's baby shower today?" He asked.

"Yes, I will, but maybe I'll show up fifteen minutes late. Call it a mini peaceful protest."

My cousin thought it would be fun to have her party in the newly renovated coffee shop because of its "cheerful colors" and "interesting artwork." I suggested The Moose Lodge, where every event from weddings to birthday parties had been held in the past sixty years, but apparently, it's antique feel wasn't a fit for this sort of occasion.

"You know what the ancient fishermen would say? The fish that leave the school and cannot move with the tides quickly dry out," my uncle said mockingly.

"Ah, wise words of fishermen's past. Haven't used those against me in a while."

When I was young, he would make up proverbs and say, "These words were passed down from fisherman to fisherman just to help steer you in the right direction."

"I'm just saying, go to that baby shower or you'll never hear the end of it."

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The walls of the coffee shop are a red-orange, like diluted ketchup with a texture that looks like someone attacked it with a thousand sponges. Jazz music plays in the background and the smell of espresso is blown around by the multiple fans and AC units in the room. Signs hang from the ceiling that say, "It's A Girl," and a long banner that stretches over the main door has only one word repeated over and over, "Baby."

With my head spinning from all the pink rattles and ribbons I make my way over to the counter. A young guy around my age, mid twenties, with thick black hair and a hint of scruff on his face turns around and smiles. His canine teeth are pushed out in front of the rest of his large white teeth and he has a dark freckle over his left eyelid.