Chapter 2: From Cornfields to Shellfish

During my senior year at the University of Toledo, my parents—who’d always worked the family farm outside Bluffton—suddenly decided to move to town, saying they wanted to find work.

It was a shock. My folks are as country as they come, spending their lives rising before dawn, boots muddy, hands calloused. The idea of them trading all that for city life sounded like a joke, one of Dad’s tall tales.

Before I could even ask why, my parents showed up with Abby in tow, all three of them packed into our battered old Chevy pickup—the one we used to haul corn. The truck’s bumper was still plastered with faded 4-H stickers and a “Proud Parent of a Honor Roll Student” magnet. When I heard its engine rattling outside my apartment, I couldn’t believe they’d made the drive. Abby was squeezed between Mom and Dad, clutching her backpack like a life preserver. They all smelled like earth and woodsmoke.

They said they wanted to open a seafood restaurant near my campus. I blinked, sure I’d misheard. Seafood? In Toledo? Dad hadn’t even caught a bluegill, let alone filleted a salmon. Our only “seafood” growing up was the odd can of tuna. It sounded like the punchline to a joke.

I quickly tried to talk them out of it. “Our family lives hours from the lake—we’ve barely even seen seafood. How would you know how to prepare it?” My voice echoed in the cramped kitchen. Abby tried not to smirk, probably remembering Dad’s last attempt at grilling fish—a smoky disaster.

Dad glared at me, eyes wide. “What do you know, kid? Your old man’s got connections. Folks’ll be camping out just to get a bite.” He puffed up his chest like he’d just outbid someone at the county fair auction, making you feel like you were missing out on some grand secret.

I was speechless. “You just got here—where are you going to find good seafood? There are only a few reputable suppliers.” I pulled out my phone, ready to show him Google results for ‘fresh seafood Toledo’—it wasn’t exactly the Gulf Coast. But he just waved me off, like always.

“All right, enough. You’ll understand in time.” His tone had that stubborn edge from my childhood—the one that meant arguing was pointless. He’d already made up his mind.

Dad put on an air of mystery, insisting on finding a storefront to rent right away and hoping to open for business the very next day. He marched us around town, checking out every “For Lease” sign, taking notes in a battered spiral notebook. Abby trailed behind, quiet but alert, eyes darting between Dad and the empty buildings. Mom just smiled tightly, lips pressed together like she was holding back a thousand worries.