On the morning of Lille Julaften—the Norwegian “Little Christmas Eve,” December 23—I tapped coffee grounds into the pot’s basket for our morning brew, sensing the gaze of little eyes. There on the counter by the kitchen sink was a Kerr canning jar, minus its lid, filled with water. Inside, a goldfish swam laps.
Oh great.
Memories of fish floated into my thoughts. In our family’s past, we had only known betta fish—those beautiful albeit aggressive creatures who couldn’t share a living space because they’d eat each other to death. Our girls had separate bowls for their three aquatic divas, but if they positioned them too closely together, the tenants glimpsed their neighbors and puffed themselves up in anger.
The fish on our counter that day was likely more peaceful, but there were other concerns. Couldn’t this type grow massive, depending on the amount of space a person gave it? And didn’t it need special accommodations—like an aquarium—to survive?
I learned the lone fish’s backstory. A friend of the girls had given each person in their friend group a fish the previous evening. And suddenly we didn’t have one fish anymore, but four—three belonging to our girls and a fourth that someone at the Christmas gift exchange either couldn’t care for or had forgotten—and they all showed up in their individual jars from who-knows-where later that day. They already had names—Jet, George, Stella, and Lil’ Tom—and I was informed a fifth called Ting had expired en route.
As for the swimmers' trek to our place, I heard all about their ride in a cold car in water that may or may not have been appropriately conditioned and how the finned ones had probably gone without food for a solid day. I cringed at the neglect, but a wave of guilt sloshed over me as I remembered how years earlier, in a flurry to head out of town on vacation, I had flushed one of our bettas who, although nearing his end, was not quite dead, so I wasn't one to talk.
Later that afternoon, I was about to set up the lefse equipment for making the traditional Norwegian treat when Flicka and Ricka returned from PetSmart with supplies. Soon the kitchen table was filled with an aquarium, rocks, plastic plants, water conditioner, and fish food.
“How much did all of this cost?” I said, hoping I sounded calm.
“About a hundred bucks, but we all chipped in,” Ricka said.
“Oh, how sickening. How much were the fish, I wonder?” I said the last more like a statement but got my answer anyway.
“Thirty-three cents each,” Flicka said with a laugh.
I wrinkled my nose.
To make a long (inconsequential) story short, in three days’ time we had zero fish left but one gently used aquarium that can be for sale if you live in the area and have any interest.
Happy New Year to you all! May you live, and unlike us, let live in 2022!
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.