Title Page

Dedication

For my mother, Carol,

also known as Goldee because she is bra som guld.

Good as gold.

And for my dad, Bernie,

research assistant, bottomless font of trivia,

and recaller of necessary historical details.

And for Amy Burke Mastin,
whose loved ones met her at the station far too early.

Family Tree

“O boating on the rivers,

The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,

The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft

and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,

The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook

supper at evening.”

—Walt Whitman,
“A Song of Joys,” from Leaves of Grass

Part One: The Fisherman in Love

“There’s a small hotel

With a wishing well

I wish that we were there together.”

—Rodgers & Hart

July 1941

To Look at Her with Intention

Long ago, on the shores of the St. Lawrence River, there was a small hotel.

It was built at the turn of the century and named for the family who owned and ran it: the Fiskares. Fisk is the Swedish word for fish. Fiskar is the plural. One fisk. Two fiskar. Add an E to a school of fish and you make a profession: fiskare means fisherman.

The river folk had no trouble pronouncing Fiskare, yet they couldn’t seem to attach the surname to the new inn on Clayton’s waterfront. From the start, the locals called it the Fisher Hotel. Rather than correct their neighbors, the Fiskares simply repainted the sign:

The Fisher Hotel

Clayton, New York

Est. 1895

Built in the shape of an L, the hotel’s short end, with its double veranda, faced the river. Over the wide front steps, a large wooden fish was suspended by two chains.

“The fish was carved from wood salvaged from a shipwreck,” the guests were told. “Legend says a gold coin is in the fish’s belly, and Swedish tradition says wishes made on gold always come true. So touch the tail and make a wish.”

Over the years, both the fish tail and the fish tale grew smooth, the varnish worn away from countless wishes and countless tellings.

On a July day in 1941, the school of Fiskares went together to meet the train from Watertown. This simply meant crossing the street, for the Fisher Hotel was situated kitty-corner to the Clayton station.

Gathered on the platform, they made a handsome clan. The patriarch, the widowed Emil Fiskare, stood with his brother, Major. Neither man was tall, but each stood straight with arms crossed, chins jutting a bit and gazes squinted over the river. When still, they seemed immutable as two pillars, but when walking, each man limped. Major had been stricken in the polio outbreak of 1894, while Emil’s lame leg carried a load of shrapnel from the French front.