On a Legend -- A Poem about Grandpa "Dewey"

"Hamburger Gravy"

I

At the market after work

I buy a package of ground beef

And some Yukon gold potatoes.

On the Gas Stove

I brown the hamburger,

Seasoning liberally with salt and pepper

Then add boiling water from the potato pan.

“The secret is to use the potato water,”

I turn to her and say.

“I know,” She says

“You tell me every time.”

After adding boullioun for flavor

And flour to thicken,

I smile as

The smell of the potatoes boiling

Along side the simmering gravy

Conjures strong and

Inescapable memories:

II

I’d wait impatiently on the pier,

Fishing rod in hand

For the infamous whistle

Of the old blue and tan Ford pick-up

Headed down South Rifle Road

At a break-neck pace.

The pitch caused by an undiagnosed air leak

was too high for the old man to hear.

It was not, however, too high for the neighbors to hear

And soon the truck became known in the neighborhood

As “Old Whistler”

You could hear her approaching for miles

Like the sound of a pre-pubescent freight train.

As the noise grew louder

The boy on the pier grew increasingly anxious.

The day had been spent waiting for this moment,

Waiting to go fishing,

Waiting to head out on the water with him.

He’d walk down the concrete stairs

And I’d see his dark, leathered, skin

And thick head of bright silver hair

Disappear into the brown shed next to the lake

To get the Styrofoam “Minnie bucket”

From the shelf next to the large fake deer.

He’d kneel down on the pier

Pulling the frayed yellow rope

Of the mildewed yellow minnow cage,

Meticulously tossing out the dead minnows

And carefully scooping live ones into

The blue-rope-handled Styrofoam bucket.

After several scoops he would look thoughtfully into the water

And say “That ought to be enough, don’t you think?”

Then pause and add one more scoop.

Fishermen are always a hopeful lot.

We would head out to Sam’s Point for bluegill,

Radke Bay for walleye and northern pike,

Bible Camp Bay in pursuit of large musky or little bass,

Sometimes it was Tony’s bay for panfish and crappie.

It didn’t matter.

I learned from a young age,

He had taught me,

“Being out here is the mashed potatoes,

Catching fish is just some gravy on those potatoes.”

Only someone who was born before the depression,

Someone whose deep, deep past holds memory of rationing

and the second world war, would ever use such a phrase.

Sometimes I’d get skittish at the sight of

Storm clouds and thunder approaching over

The dark pine forests of the Northern Wisconsin lake.

As it would begin getting

“Darker than the inside of a black cat,”

He would reassure me that everything would be all right.

“What will be, will be,” he would say.

“The good lord will take us when the good lord wants to take us.”

After fishing for hours, we would head back home,

Where Grandma had already peeled the potatoes.

I would watch carefully as he added ground beef

To an electric fry pan, browning it evenly then adding

Boiling water from the potato pan.

“The secret is to use potato water,” he would say.

He would add two cubes of beef bouillon

And finally some flour to thicken.

Hungry from a long day's fishing,

We would binge on this delicious

“Hamburger gravy” served over potatoes.

Grandma always cooked a vegetable as well,

But these were rarely touched by either him or me.

III

Years later, I am many inches taller

But every year as fishing season begins

I still often feel the anticipation of the young

Boy standing impatiently on the pier

Waiting for Old Whistler to come

Barreling down South Rifle Road.

The house is the same, only now with a

Large garage in the driveway

And a Green Jeep has long since

Replaced Old Whistler,

Undoubtedly an exchange greatly appreciated

By his neighbors.

Now he waits anxiously

For my silver Suburu Pick-up

To come barreling down

South Rifle Road,

A trip I find the time to make

Far too infrequently.

After a brief hello to Grandma

We quickly head to the pier where

He retrieves the Minnie bucket

Scoops four or five scoops,

Looks thoughtfully in the water and says

“That ought to be enough...”

Before pausing and

Adding one final scoop

“For good measure.”

We head out to the same bays

Pursuing the offspring of the same fish

That we chased years ago.

Our hats facing backwards

The 25-horsepower Evenrude pushes

The same 16-foot aluminum boat

With all of its might.

He shares stories from the past

And we reminisce about all of the good times

On the water and in the woods.

All the big ones caught,

And the much bigger ones lost.

About the time the loon swam under the boat

Chasing my bright silver doctor spoon,

Or when the musky nailed the side of the boat

After hitting the pink “hell-raiser” bait that he

Had bought at my request with a promise that

“You’ll never catch a thing on that bait.”

After fishing for hours,

We head back home where grandma

Has already peeled the potatoes,

And we chat as he prepares the traditional

Post-fishing-trip hamburger gravy.

“The secret is to use the potato water,”

He always says.

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