Hobble Creek Review
| Ann Neuser Lederer |
ERIE
Why do they call it Erie? she asks, as we pull at the plate-sized
flatbread freshly shoveled from the heated stone. In the kitchen, an
arm's length from the oven, we gather at the old oak table for
broccoli, cauliflower and tomato soup in spiced peanut sauce, and
make small talk. She is our son’s guest, from Boston. We don't know
the answer, but we begin to guess. A long lost Native American
tribe, most likely. Later, curiosity nudges us to Google, and we read
about Erielhonan, their name for themselves, translated as Long
Tail, or People of the Wild Cat. The lake inherited a short version of
this name. French explorers called it Lac du Chat.
It's the southernmost Great Lake. As the shallowest and warmest, it
is the most polluted. Isn't that the one that caught on fire, she asks,
as the late sun slants through the half-closed blinds, gilding the
bare, scrubbed wood of the table. Weekly, we wipe it down with
straight ammonia.
From the air, at sunless dawn, Lake Erie looks like solid ice, or
sheet metal slightly undulating. Falling into it from here would be
like smashing onto concrete. Its flat gray surface confirms it's the
ugliest. Some say even our accent is flat. All around its edges, our
vowels are similar. When we're somewhere else, people can never
place us for sure, but eventually manage to pin down the general
vicinity.
We explain that the lake is cleaner now, since the zebra mussel
invasion. In some places, you can see the bottom. They probably
came from the Baltic, lurking in ocean liners hauling freight down
the St. Lawrence. Their larvae escaped with the ballast water
flushed into Lake St. Clair , then spread to our murky lake. Their
specialty is water filtration. But this artificial cleanliness is not as
good as it looks. As the mussels multiply, they squeeze out other
forms of life.
Just like those carp imported from Asia to clean the shrimp ponds.
Now they're wildly reproducing, and sneaking north. An underwater
electric fence in Chicago is supposed to keep them out of the Great
Lakes , but at least one for sure got through. They're hideous and
huge: Four feet long and a hundred pounds. The sound of motor boats
enrages them, and they leap into the air and then into the boats. If
they can't be stopped, they'll eat everything and the local fish will
die out.
We used to wade out to the sandbars, dodging the upside-down
floating fish with their eyes gnawed hollow from gulls. In the haze in
the distance, we could make out the outlines of the giant nuclear
reactors that dump their "heavy water" waste straight into the lake
in the middle of the night.
When I tried to get to sleep on the hottest nights, I'd stare at the
orange glow from the glass tubes of the backless radio, tuned to
Canada . "My Girl," "Baby Love," my lullabies. The window fan
hummed along. If I squinted, the domed tops and the lit filaments
seemed like futuristic cities, spooky progeny of those nuclear
reactors rimming the shores and staining its contents. The waters of
the lake and the creatures ever-circling in its cool, shadowy bottoms,
hovered beyond. Now she and her curiosity have also floated back
away, like one of the lake creatures. Like a wave itself: a remnant, a
figment, an afterthought, back to the unseen outer edges.
Why do they call it Erie? she asks, as we pull at the plate-sized
flatbread freshly shoveled from the heated stone. In the kitchen, an
arm's length from the oven, we gather at the old oak table for
broccoli, cauliflower and tomato soup in spiced peanut sauce, and
make small talk. She is our son’s guest, from Boston. We don't know
the answer, but we begin to guess. A long lost Native American
tribe, most likely. Later, curiosity nudges us to Google, and we read
about Erielhonan, their name for themselves, translated as Long
Tail, or People of the Wild Cat. The lake inherited a short version of
this name. French explorers called it Lac du Chat.
It's the southernmost Great Lake. As the shallowest and warmest, it
is the most polluted. Isn't that the one that caught on fire, she asks,
as the late sun slants through the half-closed blinds, gilding the
bare, scrubbed wood of the table. Weekly, we wipe it down with
straight ammonia.
From the air, at sunless dawn, Lake Erie looks like solid ice, or
sheet metal slightly undulating. Falling into it from here would be
like smashing onto concrete. Its flat gray surface confirms it's the
ugliest. Some say even our accent is flat. All around its edges, our
vowels are similar. When we're somewhere else, people can never
place us for sure, but eventually manage to pin down the general
vicinity.
We explain that the lake is cleaner now, since the zebra mussel
invasion. In some places, you can see the bottom. They probably
came from the Baltic, lurking in ocean liners hauling freight down
the St. Lawrence. Their larvae escaped with the ballast water
flushed into Lake St. Clair , then spread to our murky lake. Their
specialty is water filtration. But this artificial cleanliness is not as
good as it looks. As the mussels multiply, they squeeze out other
forms of life.
Just like those carp imported from Asia to clean the shrimp ponds.
Now they're wildly reproducing, and sneaking north. An underwater
electric fence in Chicago is supposed to keep them out of the Great
Lakes , but at least one for sure got through. They're hideous and
huge: Four feet long and a hundred pounds. The sound of motor boats
enrages them, and they leap into the air and then into the boats. If
they can't be stopped, they'll eat everything and the local fish will
die out.
We used to wade out to the sandbars, dodging the upside-down
floating fish with their eyes gnawed hollow from gulls. In the haze in
the distance, we could make out the outlines of the giant nuclear
reactors that dump their "heavy water" waste straight into the lake
in the middle of the night.
When I tried to get to sleep on the hottest nights, I'd stare at the
orange glow from the glass tubes of the backless radio, tuned to
Canada . "My Girl," "Baby Love," my lullabies. The window fan
hummed along. If I squinted, the domed tops and the lit filaments
seemed like futuristic cities, spooky progeny of those nuclear
reactors rimming the shores and staining its contents. The waters of
the lake and the creatures ever-circling in its cool, shadowy bottoms,
hovered beyond. Now she and her curiosity have also floated back
away, like one of the lake creatures. Like a wave itself: a remnant, a
figment, an afterthought, back to the unseen outer edges.
Ann Neuser Lederer is a native of Ohio. Her writing has appeared in Diagram,
XConnect, and Segue. She is the author of two chapbooks: Approaching Freeze
(Foothills) and The Undifferentiated (Pudding House). Ann currently works as a
visiting nurse in Kentucky.
XConnect, and Segue. She is the author of two chapbooks: Approaching Freeze
(Foothills) and The Undifferentiated (Pudding House). Ann currently works as a
visiting nurse in Kentucky.
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