The day after school let out my Mother and I would high-tail it to our cottage. Many residents of the District of Columbia followed suit to escape the broiling heat and suffocating humidity of the D.C. summer. My Father would come down on weekends. Weekdays he was air conditioning the District of Columbia.

     A 3’ high chain link fence separated the back yard of our cottage from the neighbors yard. The neighbors were rowdy and one of their kids had an outie. We were dubious.

     My Mother, my Father, and myself, were in our yard one hot, still, summer afternoon when the neighbors returned from a fishing trip. Adults on both sides of the fence were drinking beer. We all had lawn chairs slung with that new wonder material, plastic.

     They were butchering an eel. They started by nailing its head to a 2X4. It was not dead and this did not kill it. A box knife was used to cut a subcutaneous collar below the eel’s head. A second slit from the collar down the length of the eel was cut. Lapels were peeled back at the collar. They were gripped by pliers, torn apart and down removing the skin in a ripping motion. The eel was still thrashing. I was horrified but couldn’t look away. My Dad was honor bound to get with the program. My Mother had gone inside. They told me the eel would not die ‘till sundown.

     On my birthday that year my dad told me my name

spelled backwards was EEL.