This story has it’s beginnings way back in 2003, when my then six-year-old daughter, Clementine, lost her pet Beta fish, Purpley. (In case you were wondering, by “lost” I mean that Purpley died. I know that most of the time this would be obvious, but in cases involving Clementine–the girl famous the world over for her ability to leave the house wearing two shoes and come back wearing only one–a certain amount of clarification does seem to be the order of the day.)
Now, when it comes to dead pet disposal, I am a fan of the “porcelain burial at sea” method: it’s quick, it’s clean, and, for a fish, it’s appropriate. Clementine, however, is–for such matters at least–a strict traditionalist: for her it was a shoe box (or, in Purpley’s case, a matchbox) or nothing. And therein lay the problem.
You see, while all deaths are untimely, Purpley’s death had come at an especially inopportune time for us: we were right in the middle of trying to sell our house. And while I wasn’t too worried about what potential buyers might think if they came upon a fish graveyard before the sale (if they found the remains we could always just tell them that Purpley’s corpse was a really bad likeness of St. Joseph), I was a little bit worried about what might happen afterwards. After all, it was hard to imagine a funeral conservative such as Clementine willingly foregoing all of the usual rituals that accompany grief: the erecting of memorials, the annual visits to the graveyard–maybe even the sharing of “a wee dram” with some friends as they toasted the memory of “good ol’ Purpley.” And, while having a dead fish in your back yard might still be considered on the edge of acceptable, having a morbid little girl hanging out would not be.
Given these circumstances, I decided to go the Ted Williams route: I stuck the late Purpley in a baggie in the freezer and moved him with us into our new home. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent arrangement–I had every intention of giving him a proper burial–right up until the very moment when I forgot all about him.
Flash forward to 2007: I’m finally throwing out the dozen or so black frozen bananas lining the bottom of my freezer that we also moved with (twice, according to my husband, who– when I point out that, no, actually that was two different sets of five-year-old frozen bananas– gives me a look that makes the one he gave to the black bananas practically affectionate by comparison), when I come across a baggie holding what appears to be a small blue paint chip and suddenly realize that I have just discovered the lost tomb of Purpley. Now what?
Do I show it to Clementine so that we can hold the long-delayed funeral services, knowing that if I do I will likely be opening the door to a whole new round of grieving–not to mention the accusations of neglect. (“He was in there for four years? You said we would bury him right away–I’ve eaten fish sticks out of that freezer!”)
Or do I give him a secret burial, praying that she won’t remember his neglected burial years later in the middle of a therapy session and wind up accusing me of leaving Purpley behind. (“But I kept him for four years!” “Oh yeah? Prove it.”)
In the end, I decided that indecision was my best decision; I stuck Purpley back in the freezer from whence he came. And just to make sure that no one else will ever find him, I put some overripe bananas on top of his hiding spot. I don’t have the time right now, but someday those bananas are going to make some awesome banana bread.