Marks’ fish-head soup forges friendship, memories

The last time I visited Jimmy Marks in June, he was so tired from the combination of diabetes and heart trouble that after about an hour, the only thing he wanted to do was go inside his house and lie down.

It was such a contrast to the flamboyant and feisty Marks I had gotten to know over the years.

In 1986, I was on the beat the day Spokane police raided Marks’ home and that of his father, Grover Marks, in an ill-fated venture that ended up costing the city $1.43 million in a civil rights settlement.

Little did I know that 21 years later, I would be calling Marks on the anniversary of the raid to offer my regards. Marks had come to be more than a caricature of a crazy Gypsy who fought City Hall – and won.

Marks was a man of exceptional family values, deep faith and an undeniable heart. He died on June 27 at the presumed age of 62.

A couple of years ago when I was covering City Hall, Marks learned that I frequently went salmon fishing and would bring home some good catches. He wanted to know what I was doing with the fish heads, and I told him that often I planted them in the garden for fertilizer or they just got thrown out with the garbage.

In the poverty and banishment that forged Gypsy culture over the centuries, throwaways like fish heads were prized.

After his son, David, had brought back two large salmon from the Oregon coast, Marks showed up at my office one day with a quart jar of fish-head soup. Later that evening, he appeared before the City Council with two more jars of soup, one of which he left for then-embattled Mayor Jim West. I don’t believe West ever ate it. Too bad.

The soup was an incredible combination of fish broth, tomatoes, rice, vegetables, garlic, herbs, chilies and hunks of fish meat and shrimp.

Best of all, Marks told me, eating the soup was certain to bring good fortune because, in Gypsy tradition, fish-head soup is God’s food.

Things went pretty well for me that summer. I joked with friends that I had eaten some Gypsy mojo in a jar, and now I make my own fish-head soup, hoping to recapture some of the fun.

The fish-head soup sealed our friendship.

When Marks dropped by my house once to pick up some salmon heads – and a couple of filets – he spotted my vegetable garden out back and delighted himself by picking green apples, beans, tomatoes, chile peppers and cucumbers.

His favorite, though, was the red chard. He said it would turn the brine red in his specialty, hot Gypsy pickles. It was like the blood of Jesus, he said, a sacramental food in the Gypsy world.

For several years running, Marks made a point of dropping off a gallon jar of pickles for the newsroom. I’m embarrassed to say that some here made fun of the pickles.

As a member of a minority, Marks undoubtedly felt resentment over the condescension that too often was doled out by inconsiderate people.

Some months ago, I overheard another reporter using a tone of superiority while interviewing him for a minor neighborhood story.

Just before he died, Marks told me he was so annoyed by the interview that he had put a hex on the reporter, who, a few months later, was nearly fired in a separate newsroom incident and ended up moving away from Spokane.

The hex? I don’t know.

When a friend’s dog was taken by an angry ex, Marks agreed to send up the word to the ancestors to have the dog returned. It was.

After a salmon trip over Memorial Day this year, I called Marks on June 4 to offer two salmon heads. He invited me to bring them to his house. It was the last day I would see Spokane’s Gypsy senator.

No sooner had I walked past his entryway shrine to Jesus and reached the kitchen than Marks had me eating a sandwich of smoked salmon, fried eggplant, red pepper relish and cream cheese on rye. It was delicious.

Then we hopped in my car for a trip down east Sprague Avenue. Marks wanted to show me the Russian and Ukrainian grocery stores that carry all kinds of imported Old World foods.

Afterward, we stopped by the family car lot on Sprague. His brother, Bobby, told me to let him know if I need a new car because he could save me money. Marks became so fatigued that he had to go inside to sit.

I drove Marks home. We talked. He still was angry about the long-ago police raid, which he viewed as a perverse ruse for stealing the Gypsys’ money and jewelry.

As he got out of the car and walked away, it occurred to me I might never see him again.

I thought about how he always ended our phone conversations by just hanging up. He never said “goodbye” – he just hung up. I also thought about how he kept clear plastic bags in his garage filled with cash that had been taken out of circulation and shredded – millions of dollars, he told me – and how he always advised me to eat fish-head soup with a cold beer and a slice of bread.

I had the fortune to be Marks’ friend, and you know I will think of him every time I make a pot of salmon-head soup.