Marzine in Helena MT. Winter, 1947

That winter, Marzine huddled up inside a small cabin on the outskirts of Helena Mt.

The snow and ice covered not only the aptly thatched roof, but her ability to love and trust. She stayed in this cocoon--warmed only by a small roaring fire and a replenished flask of brandy-- for the entirety of the winter months, until the first chirp of spring lit the cabin up like a cinemascope.

She wrote nothing for weeks, only thought about her shit kicker father, and tried to figure out which stories were true and which ones were false. When she thought about it long enough, she realized the difference between the two were negligible, and did not require any further thought.

She never felt more alone than before that period, and until the incident in China several years later, would never feel more sad. The owls at night cooed there way into her dreams, creating endearing sounds that Hershel would utter while rocking Marzine to sleep, in her little crib, while her mother scowled in the background, knitting small blue mittens in front of the licking fire. The embellishments were always over the top, always involved the loving touch of father, the way his hand on your newborn shoulder could fill you with the optimism of a thousand lifetimes, and how mother was always in the background.

She'd wake up in the middle of the night, the crisp silence ripping through her hearty dreams. These were her sustaining life events, the things that kept her alive that winter.

Once a week she'd venture outside of the cabin, and trudge a half mile to the general store. It was how she learned about how influential Hershel's exploits had become. All this time she was generally unaware of the celebrity Hershel carried throught the West. So when the sign for "The Great Jacoby Fish Hunt" announced it self on the rear wall of the store, above the canned molasses, Marzine dropped her glass jar of figs, shattering as it interrupted the background chatter in the store.

Montana was always filled with background chatter. Being outspoken in the middle of Helena was not the way one behaved in 1947, and Marzine found the glances and glares a little unnerving this morning. She raised her voice, and was surprised at how it didn't crack when it came flying out, unaware of the social morass. "What's the meaning of this, is this some sort of a joke, this fish hunt?"

All eyes in the store were now on Marzine. The owner, a frail Ichabod Crane look alike, stood up from the overturned apple basket, shifted his glasses and spoke up.

"Why that's the Jacoby fish hunt." His thin moustache twitched slightly.

Marzine's stare reached right through him, and he shifted a little bit, before responding.

"Hershel Jacoby, he died recently."

Plainly, without moving an eyelash, "I'm aware of that."

"They say that no fish have been found in the 20 mile radius where he supposedly drowned."

"Well that's ridiculous, what kind of person would travel two states to go fishing?" Clearing her throat, she paused for a moment, out of a sudden respect for the local decorum.

"I'd like that poster off of the wall this minute if you please, Hershel was my father, and I'd like not to dishonor him in this way."

The narrow-nosed little man hopped off of this basket, and stuttered a bit, his eyes on Marzine's feet, slowing moving up to her head.

"Why, your Marzine, after the candy, It's an honor--"

"I want that poster down, Daddy didn't die so people could catch fish!" almost revealing her grief out to the store patrons, with her voice hitting a slight high note.

And with that the door suddenly shut with the added padding of snow and ice, as the wet footprints stared the store owner down. For the next hour no one dared say a word.