Loose Leaf Notes

My brother John figured in “The Jim and Dan Stories,” the book I wrote about growing up as one of nine children in Hull, Massachusetts, and the deaths’ of two of my brothers in 2001. John was the one who added to our family’s plumbing problems when he was a kid and he tried to flush a potato down the toilet after using part of it for pop-gun ammunition. He didn’t want to get in trouble for wasting food and thought the toilet would be a good place to hide it. Later, he was referred to in the book as the “black sheep fisherman rogue” who always has a good story to tell. The following is a magazine story written about the Fish Company John works for in Minneapolis, in which he figures in as the central character. And I mean character.

For an altogether different experience, get yourself over to Captain’s Select in North Minneapolis.
When I stop in, a timid-looking young couple stands in what might be called the vestibule of the building, adjacent to a typically disheveled business office.
“How do we go about purchasing the seafood?” the woman asks.
“Just tell me what you want!” The brusque grizzled east coast voice is John Redman, who tells me he’s not the owner, “just the guy who does everything.”
“We don’t do retail as a rule, but I’m not gonna turn down a dollah!” I’m not gonna tell ya I won’t sell to ya!” He shows the couple a stock list, making note of the live lobsters, and tells me I can take a look at the facility if I want. I stop to ask the couple what they are looking for, and they tell me conch. “Seventeen dollahs for a little quartah-pound block, Redman tells them. “Very expensive right now.” I’m going to ask the couple more about this conch business, but Redman is already striding quickly towards the butchering area.
“Come on, hon!” He’s yelling over his shoulder, and I spring into actions the way I do when working under a maniacal chef. He means now. So I follow obediently.
An employee is hosing down butchering tables, and soapy water washes against my exposed flip-flopped toes. I feel a rush of shame for my footwear choice.
“We have the freshest fish in town, because you’re gonna see it filleted right in front of you.” He brings me into the coolers and shows me impeccably packed and iced whole fish and oysters, and the live lobster tanks. He brings me into the freezer and points out a box of fish heads headed for a Chinese restaurant.
“We’re the only country that wastes,” says Redman. “We eat 25 percent of the fish and throw the rest away. Other countries, they’re using the bones to make toothpicks! They’re using the skins to make pants!” He laughs at himself.
Just then my flip flop snaps. I’m standing one-footed, trying to fix it.
“What, did your foot freeze to the flooah?!” It did. He’s laughing, and he’s long-striding back to work.
“Thanks for stopping by, hon!” and he’s gone.

Post Notes: For the complete potato pop gun story and other plumbing miseries, read “A Flood of Old Memories” HERE. For another big fish story with a photo of John, go HERE.