Some conclusions take a lifetime. I was eleven when a friend and I would sneak into his father’s office to watch the lighted, bubbling tanks of tropical fish. Part of the pleasure was in breaking a rule, but the slow cruising angel fish and clouds of darting blue tetras were absolutely enthralling to me. My friend’s father was highly successful with fish tanks equal to the impressiveness of the rest of the establishment with a book lined study with a real suit-of-armor guarding the door. In a passion of youth I vowed to keep fish when I was able, and I did on a scale more in keeping with my level of success. It took a lot of birthday and allowance saving to buy my first tank that held an entire five gallons which at age thirteen was like owning a private sea.

With ownership came duty. In that era we tended to overfeed our fish and generally produce increasingly toxic water that even the best siphon filter was no match for. Live plants were likely our saving element, but to be honest I could never get a banana plant to do well. Mine would sicken and turn blotchy brown rather like the poisonous algae I also managed to grow with ease no matter how I purified the tank. For short periods of time the tank was a brilliant success. This was usually in the week or two immediately after a full restock with fish and plants. Mortality as a factor was not far behind, but for a few days I was in heaven. The sound of the little piston driven air pump sending bubbles gently rising was pure pleasure as I fell asleep. In the morning while searching for socks and underwear (the tank was atop that dresser) I’d count the dead and dying. If nothing else, tropical fish were a sure way to deplete a boy’s funds and see them flushed down the toilet much as I’d do years later when 3.2 replaced tropical.

My emergence as an aquarium owner came after we’d moved to the East Range. From Hoyt Lakes there was one place to get fish and that was roughly twenty miles distant in Virginia. A thirteen year old had to be dedicated to organize a fish restock in February, but with monthly practice I got fairly good at it and could keep my pets safely warm inside my coat with minimal leakage. It always distressed me that fish looking so wonderful and robust in the many tanks at Woolworths turned to specimens of ailment within 48 hours. White spots, rotting fins, sideways swimming were all but guaranteed as harbingers of demise marked by daily funerals where a final flush said farewell to more hard-saved cash. When a person is young they don’t see the immediate error of purchasing fish at Woolworths five and dime. It’s not the place. An adult knows this. A child does not. If you were to fancy fish and Woolworth’s was your only choice you should stick to the nearly indestructible guppy and be done with it. But, week upon week I insisted on another go at angel fish or an impressive gourami. Tetras and zebras passed on with such rapidity I should have bought them in bulk along with an automatic dispenser to drop in a daily duo to replace the most recently departed couple.

I had one success, a blue male Siamese fighting fish that became sole tank resident. It lived through my high school years into my freshman year before finally giving up its little spirit to follow its many predecessors for the final farewell flush. The mobile life of a college student does not, to be honest, leave much room for fish tanks. Even the durable guppy is undone by college life as they have little tolerance for 3.2 in their water or any of the other forms of negligent abuse accompanying collegiate living which in the 60’s compared favorably with camping out in assortments of rooms and apartments that deserved the condemnation and demolition they received in the 80’s. It was different then. The “house” I moved into sophomore year held over 30 of us. We shared a kitchen and two bathrooms, there being none of the third floor. Somehow, this did not seem all that bad, but it was clearly no place for tropical fish so I had to learn to fall asleep listening to sounds more harsh than bubbles rising through a tank of dying fishes.

Years later my fishy passion returned. The new house would allow a fresh start on culturing tropical fish. Starting down the path in this modern era I quickly learned one had to be part chemist to keep a proper tank with balanced PH and nitrogen levels. The piston pump was replaced by the vibrating diaphragm; not a good swap to my hearing. But, full of ardent faith I soldiered on to eventually set up a thirty five gallon masterpiece in a prominent place where I and my visitors could see it with ease.

The end result was about the same as when I was thirteen except each restock trip was 125 miles each way and the source of supply a lot more professional than the five and dime of my youth. I kept at it for near a decade before reaching the conclusion that should have been obvious when I was foolishly young. My friend’s father had people come in to care for his tanks. If you can bear the cost that’s the way to do it, and I might say the only way unless you desire to be a part time alchemist with an arcane collection of test kits and water monitoring devices. I invested in side filters, bottom filters, strainers, magnetic algae scrapers, flow stoppers, and heaters, etc. not to mention the obligatory bottom ornament bubbler to complete the ensemble. Why did I bother when the result was the same sorry fish-flush known since childhood? Any case, keeping with tradition I had one black tetra that lived on and on despite the neglect lavished on it. After turning spotty it passed away quietly last week. From now on the fish in my life will be tuna casserole or baked salmon.