Life, Laughter, and a Vegetarian Who Loved Fish
Life, Laughter, and a Vegetarian Who Loved Fish
Why My Mom’s Fish Exception Makes Perfect Sense
Life, Laughter, and a Vegetarian Who Loved Fish
Why My Mom’s Fish Exception Makes Perfect Sense
Life is like my mother’s vegetarianism — full of well-intentioned contradictions. Avril Harvey, affectionately called Sister Joan, was born on March 17, 1958, in Kingston. She grew up on Hibiscus Avenue in Tower Hill, a bustling Kingston community where vibrant laughter harmonized with clanging zinc fences, crowded houses, and beds shared by many children. Sundays smelled of Grandma Sister Tiny’s puddings, drawing neighbors like moths to a flame, while Uncle Steve’s melodious songs seasoned the simmering pots with pure joy.
At just three years old, Avril’s beloved pet goat met a tragic fate at her father’s hand, prompting her lifelong vow against meat. Yet she made a curious exception for fish, which I always found hilarious. Perhaps fish didn’t have pet-like charisma, or maybe it was her way of keeping life flavorful amidst her self-imposed rules.
My mother’s strictness was legendary, yet surprisingly comedic. I vividly recall washing my own underwear at six, indignantly questioning if she preferred kids or slaves. Her hearty laughter at my protest became a favorite family tale — revealing her brilliant parenting strategy of mixing self-sufficiency with humor.
Beyond laundry lessons, Mom had unmatched skills as a driver and dressmaker. Her talent shone brightest when exhaustion tested her endurance — like the time she drove home from Rebel Salute, keeping alert by methodically eating ripe bananas while everyone else slept soundly. She could outsmart exhaustion with a bunch of bananas — what’s your superpower?
In the kitchen, Avril reigned supreme, mastering escovitch, curry, and brown stew fish. But her stew peas in coconut milk — creamy, fragrant, unforgettable — were a dish capable of healing even the toughest days.
Her entrepreneurial spirit was unstoppable. Each September she sewed countless school uniforms, crafted bedsheets and pillowcases at Christmas, crocheted stylish handbags and hats, and even ran a bamboo shop at the beach, selling snacks and fried fish. One memorable childhood incident involved me nearly drowning while saving my cousin Lukie near that shop, earning a lifelong scar and a legendary story.
Our years at the Coptic village in St. Thomas were idyllic, surrounded by three rivers, springs, lush fruit trees, and pure freedom. Days there were filled with laughter and adventures, Mom sewing or cooking quietly nearby. Moving to Harbour View when I was about ten brought loneliness and tears. Mom bravely claimed she didn’t miss our paradise in St. Thomas, but her subtle sadness revealed otherwise.
In 2014, peace arrived in the form of a five-acre haven in St. Mary. Yet even paradise couldn’t shield her from heartbreak. Losing her firstborn, my sister Mary, fractured her spirit profoundly, leaving silent tears to trace paths of grief in the quiet dark hours. My mother grieved privately, her strength masking deep sorrow.
Mom taught resilience, independence, humor, and above all, to cherish life’s imperfections. She dreamed of traveling the world, a journey she never took herself but left for us to fulfill. Now, as my brother Shem and I plan to plant lignum vitae trees in April — symbolizing eternal life — we honor both my mother’s and sister’s legacies, letting their laughter and lessons grow forever.
Or maybe the fish exception was just her reminding us that perfection isn’t human — it’s the quirky contradictions that truly make life worth savoring.
Isn’t it the imperfect quirks we cherish most? 🌳🐟
By Willy London on March 27, 2025.
Exported from Medium on April 10, 2026.