The Miracle of the Fishes

I’ve dreamed of living in a commune ever since my three or so days as a hippie. (I did the best I could at a conservative Christian College; I went without makeup and a bra, but no one noticed.)

In my dream, I live in a balmy clime with fellow carefree idealists. Our make-shift accommodations are simple but sturdy abodes filled with handycrafts and repurposed junk. I spend my days creating objet d’art, gardening, sewing, dancing, singing. I do not cook.

My dreams have come true—sort of.

My current situation involves communal living in which I do not have to cook, but that is as close as it comes to my original concept. My husband and I live in a unique community of 65+ year-olds who have been brought together primarily by impecuniosity. Our accommodation is a 1960’s era one-story apartment building conceived as a retirement home for impoverished widows. It is now coed with a few apartments for married couples.

The common areas of our abode are lavishly decorated, some in Danish modern and others in Spanish Colonial. European antiques and original oil paintings are scattered throughout—a far cry from the simple life of my dream. But the non-profit foundation that supports it all has suffered financially, and much of the upholstery, carpets and fixtures should have been replaced years ago.

Which brings me to the fish—sort of.

In January, Bruce and I moved here on the same day as another couple; I’ll call them Ike and Mamie. After a couple of days, Ike, an avid fisherman, noticed some empty picture hangers on the fireplace wall in the south den and proceeded, with permission, to hang up four, stuffed, wide-mouthed bass. The hangers were not particularly well-placed for said fish, and an elaborate, bedraggled, artificial flower garland from some previous tableau hung at a strange angle over the whole arrangement. It looked—I will try to be kind—odd.
“If the garland stays,” I told him, “I will have to fill the fishes’ gaping maws with flowers.”

The garland disappeared, and the fish were rearranged to look natural—sort of.

Two days later, the fish disappeared.

Turned out that, according to Ike and Mamie’s all-knowing, all-seeing neighbor, Bruce and I were the culprits who had hung the fish.

“No one is allowed to change the décor in any way,” she told them, “and those new people,” meaning Bruce and me, “are troublemakers.”

So, to protect us from the neighbor and her delusions, Ike took down his fish.

“You tell her,” I said, when I heard the edict, “that those fish are symbols of our religion, and we go into the den and worship them twice a day.”

I don’t believe Ike took my advice, but Lo, I sayeth unto thee, the fish are back.