Years ago, when visitors arrived at our house, they were given a cup of my mother’s Finnish coffee, containing eggshells. Finns put eggshells in their coffee. There’s a reason for this, though it escapes me today.
Following coffee and nisu — Finnish sweetbread — my mother would ask the visitors if they were familiar with Gloucester’s Fisherman at the Wheel statue. If they said no, she would gasp, looking shocked. Was it possible, she wondered, there were people in the U.S. who hadn’t seen the statue? Apparently there were, because I got to drive them to the viewing.
At 17, I’d gotten my driver’s license. Although at the time it was a significant accomplishment, it could also be a burden. Particularly when you had to drive guests to Stacy Boulevard, find a parking space, pose them in front of said statue, snap their picture and load them back into the car for the return trip. It didn’t matter whether it was my mother’s relatives from Shrewsbury or my sister’s friends from college, everyone got the tour plus photo, whether they wanted it or not.
One time, in response to my mother’s query, an aunt from Grafton said yes, she’d seen the statue during a winter visit. “Way back then?” my mother asked. “You have to see it in the summer.” She turned to me. “Get the camera.”
The camera was an old box-shaped Brownie that my father used for (significant) family photos. It was so seldom used that when it came time to bring the film in for development, the pictures were two and three years old. When guests posed before the Fisherman at the Wheel and later received a photo in the mail, they may have forgotten posing. Or, they may be deceased.
I didn’t question my mother’s devotion to the statue. After all, I’d grown up with it. I remember joining the throngs who paraded the boulevard in their Easter finery, eventually congregating around the statue. It was a rite of passage.
To my mother, however, the statue was as significant an edifice as the Statue of Liberty, or the Eiffel Tower. For instance, when my sister married and moved to the West Indies, my husband and I later visited the newlyweds. Prior to our departure, my mother arrived at my house, her arms filled with gift-wrapped packages for the new couple. Somehow I managed to stuff them into our already oversized luggage. (Boomers: Remember the days when we could bring two or three suitcases, weight be damned?)
Upon arriving in Tobago, I unpacked my mother’s wedding presents and one after another, they were opened. All had a Fisherman at the Wheel motif: Dish towels, salt and pepper shakers, aprons, pot holders. At one point, my sister’s husband marveled, “Your mother really loves that statue.”
Hearing this, from an “outsider” point of view, gave me pause. I’d never questioned my mother’s fascination with the statue. It was a genuine icon; everyone loved the statue.
When my sister became a flight attendant, my mother, a self-proclaimed “frugal Finn,” took advantage of the free air travel. Her suitcase was always packed. She visited Hawaii, California, the Caribbean, Bermuda and Scandinavia. Upon returning from the latter trip, she spoke of a visit to Copenhagen’s Harbor where her tour group saw the iconic Little Mermaid statue.
I asked how she’d liked the statue. It was nice, she said. “But ours is better.”
Sharon L. Cook, of Beverly Farms, is a longtime contributor to The Salem News and the author of the Granite Cove Mysteries. You can reach her at: sharonlovecook@comcast.net. She’s also a Gloucester native.