The Lobster Story

Monkee gave me a tatted lobster. Why did she give me at tatted lobster? Two reasons: first, I wanted one. Second, I told her the lobster story. Of course, the only reason I wanted the tatted lobster in the first place was because of the lobster story, so I guess the lobster story is actually the only one reason why I was given this cute thing.

When my brother and I were young, our parents liked to take us on long, educational family trips. When I was eleven and my brother was twelve, we went on a road trip from Iowa to the East Coast. My best friend, Margaret, went with us, too. On this trip we visited New England, the Washington DC area, and Pennsylvania.

In Mystic, Connecticut, we had lunch in a seafood restaurant by the water. My mother ordered a lobster.

[Side note of explanation before we continue this story: This took place YEARS ago. At that time, fresh seafood was not very readily available in Iowa. For most people, “eating seafood” involved either dining at Long John Silvers, baking fish sticks, or catching fish in a lake.]

None of us kids had seen a lobster before and we found it fascinating. Margaret in particular was enthralled. Mom entertained us by doing her best to keep the shell intact while she ate the lobster. When Mom was finished, Margaret asked if she could keep the shell. Although Mom, Dad, and the waitress all found this request very funny, Margaret was given a paper doggie bag in which to store her “treasure.”

The first few days with our lobster friend were quite fun. Margaret, my brother, and I would put the pieces of lobster shell together and make up stories about the lobster in its previous life. But soon, despite Mom’s best efforts at washing the shell, our little lobster friend started to smell. A lot.

The poor lobster became too smelly to travel in the car. But Margaret still wanted it and my brother and I believed that getting the lobster to Iowa was of utmost importance. So we strapped our lobster (still stored in the paper doggie bag) to the luggage rack with the luggage. And when we stopped at a hotel, we three kids would hide the lobster somewhere outside on the hotel property. Obviously, it could not come into the hotel with us. The lobster traveled with us in this undignified way for more than a week.

Sadly, our dear lobster did not make it all the way home to Iowa. We forgot to retrieve it from his hiding place when we left a hotel in Ohio. Maybe it was better that way. I’m certain that Margaret’s mother would have tossed that smelly thing in the trash as soon as she got home. Hopefully, the lobster decomposed and helped fertilize the grass by the hotel. (But more likely, it was crunched up by a lawn mower or dug up by a passing animal.)

To this day, my brother and I snicker whenever lobsters are mentioned. Every now and then I send him a lobster-themed gift. But he’s not getting my tatted lobster!

Knitting update: Lady Eleanor is blocking. She's huge.