Karen Ocamb: Paul Newman Taught Me How to Clean Fish

It's strange how someone's death can trigger the oddest of memories. When I heard that Paul Newman died, I suddenly flashed to the moment he walked into the house where I was babysitting and said, "Come on, kid - let's clean these fish." Piercing blue-eyes. Brilliant smile. Easy-going, if somewhat hurried manner. Tight white tee shirt, blue jeans and some kind of serviceable jacket -- he was holding a plastic box filled with fish he and my summer-job boss and her husband had just caught. Ugh! Of course, it was Paul Newman so I didn't immediately want to tell him "Are you crazy?" Instead I said something like, "Isn't that the man's job?" Well, he would have none of that. It was 1965 in Westport, Connecticut, the woodsy and quaint hide-away for liberal New York artists and media types -- and he knew more about the nascent Women's Liberation movement than I did. Westport at this time was kind of like Haight Ashbury/East -- only richer. Very Age of Aquarius, folk-singing, both all black ... (link)