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From:
Maggie Knapp
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Tuesday, October 8, 2019
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I'm thinking of a certain summer when I had recently moved from Texas to Cambridge, MA, just after college. I loved living in Boston, but I got a little lonely some weekends. It was wonderful to be able to take the train to Gloucester, where Petie would fix lunch and we'd watch for Jerry's boat out on the water. He was a man of relatively few words, but those words were always interesting.
One weekend, he and Petie came to Cambridge, to my small, 3rd floor walkup apartment. Jerry had suggestions for how I might build a platform bed/bench to increase space and storage. He and Petie took me shopping, hauled plywood up three flights of stairs, and helped put it all together. Love to all the Lakes and Jerry's extended family.
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From:
Mary Everist
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Monday, October 7, 2019
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Lobstering with Uncle Jerry
I feel like I should start by saying this was my idea, not his. No way a 19 year old from Texas was going to be anything other than in the way (at best) on a Gloucester lobster boat at 5 am. Not that I had the self awareness to understand that at the time, but I recognize it now. But he didn’t say “no” when I asked to come along one morning, which probably required a substantial amount of forbearance.
As we drove to the boat (the Dawn Treader, I believe), got things ready, and headed out to check the traps, I recall him telling me what to do. And what not to do. Uncle Jerry was a man of few words, so it probably wouldn’t have been hard to pay attention and listen. He probably kept things simple and straightforward and confined his instructions to the bare minimum of really important things to know: don’t fall overboard, keep away from the claws, things like that. But I was probably tired, and possibly a little hung over. It was really cold, I remember (like he had repeatedly warned me it would be), and I had other things on my mind I suppose.
Eventually we got out to the traps and started checking them. Pull in the trap, get any lobsters out, measure their size, throw back the small ones, band the claws of the keepers. God it was cold and I was tired. And the next thing I know I have a lobster dangling from my forearm. It hurt. A lot. Even though I couldn’t remember exactly all the instructions he had given me, I was pretty sure “don’t let them pinch you” was in there somewhere. Somewhere near the top, I thought.
“Don’t scream," I thought, “it’ll drop off soon.” Nope. They’re tenacious, lobsters. “Maybe he won’t notice’” was the next desperate thought. It turns out you can only work so long, barely breathing because of the pain, with a large (or even a small) lobster holding on to your flesh for dear life, before someone notices. He did eventually notice, after what felt like an hour and was probably 3 minutes, gave me a look, and came over shaking his head. In about 3 seconds he had removed it and checked my arm, then he went back to his job without so much as an “I told you not to do that, you idiot”. I appreciated that, and was more respectful of the claws thereafter.
I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he noticed a few minutes before he rescued me (I deserved it), and it did effectively serve as a deterrent from my imposing my help on him regularly. It wouldn’t be the first or last time he tolerated my nonsense that summer, almost always refraining from editorial comment. But the summer I spent in Magnolia with Aunt Petie, Uncle Jerry and the Lake cousins was a blast for me, and I treasure those memories. Rest in Peace, Uncle Jerry. I know Aunt Petie was there to meet you with fresh toll house cookies.
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Katy Kline
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