Though it was a beautiful morning, the fog lay eerily on the calm river surface. A sign that the now cold night air is clashing with the still warmer waters of this tiny finger of the Chesapeake Bay. But in the developing bright sunshine of this late October day, it doesn’t take long for the mist to clear.
Activity on the water this time of the year is slow to materialize. The crabbers are gone, the trotlines and crab pots, now replaced by a lone work boat dropping eel pots instead.
The purple martins, one of the early messengers of the approaching spring, are also gone, having already made their migration south to winter in Brazil. The three purple martin houses now sitting atop their high poles vacant in the wind.
Optimistically I baited the crab pots and threw them in for one last attempt to hold on to the summer and enjoy its flavors. But only two crabs were interested in my chicken necks on this day.
Hardly the crab feast I had hoped for.
I let them go.
Stealing some words from Bowie, I realized I couldn’t trace time, but I could be sure that time would change me.
There is no fighting that.
Giving in, I lowered the martin houses to protect them from the cold winds to come.
I brought in the crab pots.
Removing the traces and putting an end to another season.
Winter will soon be upon us.
The sunset, which at the peak of the summer would be straight up the river, now has shifted to the left as it begins its descent earlier than I would like.
The shorter days invite the darkness in sooner than I am ready and I pack up my fishing gear after catching one small perch to put the finishing touches on my day and probably my fishing year.
In contrast to the gloom looming in my winter fears, the flowers I planted sometime around Mother’s Day, still stand tall and exhibit their bright colors, awaiting the frost soon to come.
Who knows what the next six months will bring?
Until then I will keep warm and wait for the day when the first martin returns.
And I will pray that in that six months, time doesn’t change me too much.
And I will be allowed to write about another beautiful day, in another season, in another year, in time.
The waterman typically woke up about 3:30 AM. There was no need to set an alarm, no need to set a time on clock radio or West Bend portable because the “alarm clock” was already up and making coffee out in the kitchen.
The first mate was always the first up as well.
That coffee had to be brewed, thermoses filled, and breakfast made. It would be a while until lunch.
In the early days, before the law was changed that allowed crabbing only after the sun came up, they hit the water in complete darkness. High powered flashlights had to be used to spot the buoys indicating where the trotlines started and ended and on the dark mornings, up and down the river it looked like premier night at the movies. Those mornings when the fog moved in it was a leap of faith.
They worked three lines. The shortest was 1800 feet long, the longest just short of a half mile. About every five feet the 3/16 nylon rope was twisted and a salted bull’s lip was inserted in the space and twisted back.
Bull’s lips were used as the bait. The bait had to be tough. It had to last as long as possible.
Once the lines were dropped to the river floor and the buoys placed to mark the location, the waterman would maneuver the boat back along the route of one of the submerged lines and an outrigger would slowly elevate the baited line to the surface, five feet and one bull’s lip at a time. When a crab was spotted with its claws clinging to the bait it would be scooped into the boat with a crab net. Once the crabs were in the boat, the mate would sort the crabs into the different baskets that at the end of the work day would be taken to the wholesaler and sold for that day’s wages. The sooks or females in one bucket, the jimmies or males in another. And of those, the restaurant sizes, the ones or twos, had to be separated out as well. The peelers in yet another bucket, they would fetch fifty cents apiece.
The name on the boat was Pop’s Lady.
Pop, my dad, was the Captain; Lady, my mom, was the First Mate.
I don’t remember exactly when my mother got the nickname Lady, but it was a long time ago.
When my parents retired and moved from New Jersey to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and settled down on the Little Choptank River they became commercial crabbers. Together, they did this for about 15 years.
The first time I introduced my wife Kim to my parents, my mother was sitting under a big tree with a large bucket of bull’s lips by her side and their trotlines, inspecting and re-baiting the crab lines as was necessary. Pulling out the worn out bull’s lip and inserting the new one, five feet at a time.
I don’t remember whether they shook hands.
My mother…aka Lady, Florence, Flo, Flozzie, Ma, Mom…whatever you called her was and still is as tough as those bull’s lips.
Before her stint as a waterman (or waterwoman), she managed a high school cafeteria for many years. And before that as a young mother and wife she wielded a hammer, laid brick, and maneuvered a wheelbarrow alongside my dad, his dad, his brother, and his friends as they built our new house in Oceanport New Jersey.
She volunteered with the Oceanport Hook and Ladder Fire Company’s Ladies Auxiliary; she was a wonderful aunt in the extended family that made up the little village we had in our little corner of Oceanport.
And she raised four kids.
My sister Pat was born in 1952, while my dad was in the Army during the Korean conflict. My mom wrote my dad a letter every day that he was gone.
My brother Carl was born in 1954 and me in 1956. My brother Gary was born not too long after that new house was finished on May 14, 1961, fifty six years ago today on a Mother’s Day. My dad told me recently he would tell everyone Gary was Flo’s Mother’s Day present from him.
On a recent visit to see my parents, Kim had learned of a website that would tell you the most popular song at the time you were born. One evening we had some fun with that. I was born on June 27, 1956. The most popular song at the time was “The Wayward Wind” by Gogi Grant. My dad remembered it well.
This same site would also take it a step further and tell you the most popular song at the time you were conceived as well.
For me it was “The Yellow Rose of Texas” by Mitch Miller from the movie Giant, “a 1956 American epic Western drama film.”
Wait…my dad is a huge fan of western movies.
Yuck, way too much information.
C’mon Pop! I always thought we had ice cream when we watched movies?
I haven’t watched a James Dean movie since.
But hey, thanks Pop, you did alright with your Lady and we are all blessed to have this one as our mother.
My mom is still riding shotgun with my dad; still fiercely loyal to her family; still managing that cafeteria only now it’s just her kitchen; still the carpenter’s helper; still tends to my boo boos ; takes care of her neighbors; and is still taking good care of us.
So Ma…Happy Mother’s Day!
In my first essay on Musings…Three Score and Counting I twice referred to her as my lifeline. She may not need to be my lifeline anymore, but it’s nice to know she is there.
And I still really appreciate those pork roll, egg, and cheese on the hard roll sandwiches so keep the cafeteria open!
And Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s out there. It’s not always easy but we need you!
