OBLEY COLUMN: How the Salmon of Knowledge saved this day

But here I am, and there you are, so away we go.

On the bright side, it is St. Patrick’s Day and as a terminally Irish fellow, I thought I’d spend this week’s missive regaling you with an Irish folktale that has been a part of my father’s family for countless generations.

Obley is my adoptive father’s last name. I am originally a Magee whose paternal familial lineage can be traced directly to Islandmagee in Northern Ireland. I suppose I could take you down that rabbit hole, but I’ll save that story for another day.

I have my reasons for spinning this particular yarn.

In the broad River Boyne there lived the Salmon of Knowledge. Once upon a time, the Salmon of Knowledge had been no different than his any of his kind, but one day it fell from a hazelnut tree into the Well of Wisdom and gained all the world’s knowledge.

(Stop laughing. I have no idea how a fish got in a tree)

It was said that the first person to taste its flesh would become the wisest of men. Finn lived near the river, where he read books and wrote poems. He was one of the wisest men in Ireland, but his thirst for knowledge was itself a bottomless well. Every day for seven years, Finn fished the River Boyne, searching in vain for the Salmon of Knowledge, telling no one of his quest.

Finn’s servant, Fionn, saw his master leave every morning and return every evening. Whenever he asked Finn why he spent his days fishing, Finn would always smile and give no response.

But one spring morning, Finn indeed pulled the mighty fish from the River Boyne and proudly brought it home.

Fionn marveled at the catch. It was a beautiful fish and its body shone like silver. Weary after his long struggle, Finn asked Fionn to cook the fish as he rested, but to not eat any of it. Fionn built a fire and handled the fish carefully, but as he turned it on the spit, a drop of hot oil burned his thumb, which he quickly stuck in his mouth to salve the pain.

When Fionn brought the fish to Finn, the master saw a new wisdom in his servant’s eyes.

“Have you eaten any of the salmon?” asked Finn.

Fionn said no, but that he had burnt his thumb and put it in his mouth.

Finn knew at once that Fionn now had the world’s wisdom. He was sad that he would never be the wisest man in all of Ireland, but he was happy for Fionn, a good and ernest soul.

Fionn eventually joined the warrior-hunter clan Fianna and became the greatest leader and warrior they had ever known.

In the Old Tongue, the Salmon of Knowledge was known as An Bradán Feasa. Over time, the name was shortened to Bradain and became the root of the clan O’Bradain, which considered itself the descendants of An Bradán Feasa. How they arrived at the conclusion that they had descended from a fish probably involved a never-ending quest for the Pint of Wisdom.

At some point, the English forcibly had the clan change its name to Braden. One thing led to another and there came a day when a member of that clan reached America’s shore. Perhaps out of spite, he Americanized the name as Braeden.

In tribute to that long, proud line, stretching into unknowable antiquity to a fish that fell out of a tree, I named my son Braeden. His mom loved the name, too, though I fear once she realized he was named for the fish rather than the man who ate it, she was a tad nonplussed.

Speaking of, he’s airborne now. On his way back to Kansas, so consider my curious tale told.

These days are never easy, but this certainly helped. Harpoon Harry’s might be a poor substitute for someone hankering to devour the Salmon of Knowledge, but they do have the Blackened Mahi Sandwich of Joy.

I shall have it this weekend as I look out on the broad River Peace and be merry once more.