ODE
TO A BIG FREAKIN’ CAN OF TUNA
From what I heard, the cashier at Sam’s Club even thought
this was over-sized Have to admit, it’s a monstrous amount of tuna: 4 pound,
2.5 ounces to be precise. Even I can’t consume that many “tiny-fish” sandwiches
and I like tuna. A lot.
I’ll refer to this as the BFC from this point forward,
save myself some typing. Special thanks to Gina Edwards, our lovely hand model,
for her part in artfully displaying the BFC.
The BFC held enough to make tuna salad for the gang at
the writers’ retreat on St. George Island, Florida, November of 2013. This is a
serious-minded group of scribes, a talented bunch that will work endless hours
pounding out a new rough draft, but still take time to yammer and drink coffee.
Gallons of coffee. And chocolate, did I mention chocolate?
I rescued the BFC from the trash. Washed it several
times, used some environment-friendly spray cleaner, yet it still reeks of
fish. Thing is a work of art, the hulk hero of aluminum cans. And it doesn't deserve some landfill as its final resting place. Heck no. I’m planting
something in the BFC, maybe catnip since the scent won’t disappear in this
century. My cat family will love it
.
The BFC illustrates something I have always known:
writers can take anything, anywhere and weave a fantastic tale around it. One
tidbit of overheard dialog in the line at Whole Foods, one flash of shared
angst with a stranger, one glimpse of a baby’s grin: there’s a story in there,
perhaps a novel. And we will find it and write it, in different voices, tenses,
and settings. Yet the shared humanity will echo in our words.
Something as ordinary and benign (mostly, if you don’t
count the odor) as a BFC can inspire, make us ask questions, create the
answers.
It’s how we make sense of the world. Thank you, BFC, for
reminding me of this.
Rhett DeVane
