Winterguide 2020

By Ben Emery

My father, a lobsterman like me, died on his birthday. So did his father, and his grandfather before him. All different days on the calendar, different ages, and different ways of kickin’ the bucket. My mother called it a family curse, “but they didn’t go tragically or nothin’.” Still, it’s weird, right?

My family didn’t reveal our dark little secret until the week before my twenty-fourth birthday. Ever since, I schedule a doctor’s appointment a month ahead of the big day—January 31—and then a second a week ahead, just to be sure. My wife thinks I’m crazy, but truth told, she gets fidgety once winter’s full-blown. She blames it on all the snow and ice, but I don’t buy it.

As the day grows close, my Martha shows all the signs. She’ll fuss about the house and the yard. She’ll curse the mailman for leaving the box open after he takes off, but she won’t let me lift a finger. She takes it out on the dog, the cat, on one of our kids if they come around. They always stop by the house the colder the days get—even if it means seeing the wrong side of the old lady. Since I’m on the edge of vanishing, Martha makes sure I get my picture taken with our lil’ cunnins more. And if they don’t make it over to say goodbye before my ominous day, they call early. They, too, blame it on the weather, but I don’t buy it.

Spooky. That’s what the boys at the pier call it. Every year on the eve of You Know What, as long as it’s a day we’re haulin’ in Casco Bay, they bring out a case of the good stuff—none of that Lite trash—and give me a royal toast. We ain’t much for sentiment, and they like to play it up as a joke, but I don’t buy it.

Well, I’ve had those appointments with the doctor, and he says everything looks good. The ticker is what they really like to keep an eye on. It’s thumpin’ along just fine, they say. He’s a science man, Dr. Goodrich, so he doesn’t believe much in my so-called family curse, but he seems intrigued anyway. One of the nurses at the office always calls our house a day or two after my birthday. They say it’s to follow up on some paperwork, but I don’t buy it.

Tomorrow’s my birthday. If I make it through till midnight I’ll have beaten my old man, the current record holder, at 71 years and one day old. Martha, the kids, the guys at the pier, and Dr. Goodrich always point out how at ease I seem near my birthday, and I always say the same thing. It’s not so bad having so many people fretting over you. I’ll be missing you all if tomorrow’s the day. But I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty sweet knowing you’ll be missing me back. That, I’ll buy.