A Child’s July
by Stumblin' Jimmy Watermelon
remember back to the long ago days of one childhood July. Perhaps I was nine or so. You would think that such memories would be filled with the lighted sprinkle of sparklers and the pop of firecrackers and bottle rockets and such. Oh, I did find a thrill in the fourth of July’s fireworks. From their mesmerizing glitter in the summer night sky to the following percussion of their report, it was a time enjoyed. My strongest memories though, are of things a bit more akin to that coastal island life.
There was the barefooted run down a sandy dirt road that skirted the entry to our farmland home. In the mornings the fine sand was cool on my feet as I would amble along, pushing up little drifts just ahead of my toes. The mounding little hills I’d create as I walked along reminded me of the rolling wake of incoming shrimp boats and of the porpoise’ that would glide alongside. They seemed to dance off the motion of the water that the running trawlers pushed aside, following them across the sound and into the mouth of the big river. They played a game of tag, close but never touching, all the way to where the banks began to narrow and the boats would slow their pace. From my first memory of seeing these beings of the water, on outings with Daddy in his boat, I marveled at this seeming feat of magic and grace. A true child of the country, I loved most all things wild, but the mystery of creatures that lived hidden in those waters sparked a particular curiosity for me to what might nearly have been a passion.
There was many a July morning, when I’d follow that dirt road to ‘the crossroads” at one corner of our property and be drawn down the turn-off leading to a wide stretch of sandy flats, Adam’s Creek and the pinnacle of playgrounds, Captain Billy’s dock. It stretched out in earthy colors across a blue and green summer canvas. If it was early enough in the day the foot planks of the heavy timbered dock were cooler than the road and often still moist with dew. Age worn pillars of hardwood, pine and palmetto trunks, footed deep through mud and clay, held the structure above the water. With great rough milled oak timbers, tarred black, for deck stringers and cross-members and four by eight inch and wider deck-planking, it jutted out from the high clay and sand bank like some tree laid on its side. It was only a short walk out to be over deep water and near this end was built what they called “the shrimp house.” It was like an unpainted, weathered wood barn over water. This was where the dock workers would wash the shrimp boats’ catch, separate the kept, size the shrimp and pack and ice them down in big wire baskets. Inside, instead of the aroma of hay and dusty fodder, there was the scent of salt water hosed down wood and the last catch of shrimp and fish still hanging in the air. Add the wafting hint of creosote warming in the sun and you have what was a perfume to my senses. Don’t ask me why, I just loved it, from the salt marsh and pluff mud to all that waited for me in that shrimp house. And that was just what filled one of my senses...
There too were the sounds. There was the water lapping, bird of marsh and air calling out, workers on the dock and hill mixed between talk and song. Captain Billy, when not out on one of his several boats would be hammering and welding, mending or making some part for this orchestra of which he was the conductor. All their voices and all the other sounds around the place, natural as the wind and man-made as the hammer, melded together like some great calliope forever casting out its song.
Add to this, what seemed to a child as ancient ruins, were the quizzical rusting chunks of machinery, abandoned to back sheds. Here and there old shrimp nets nested in piles and iron strapped planing doors lay cast aside. Hanging from covered beams there were clustered strings of once bright, but faded colored tattletale roving. There were coils of old hemp rope hawsers. To my ever growing imagination this was like a far flung land from the one I lived in on our farm. I may have often been in innocent mischief, but I tell you I was seldom bored.
The icing on this cake came when the tides were such that the shrimp boats returned before late afternoon. Just past the shrimp house, the dock made a ‘T” and ran parallel with the creek. This was where the boat pulled up and tied off and where they floated, white and majestic or tarnished and faded, when they weren’t trawling; Sundays and seldom.
As my fascination with, and presence near, the shrimp boats became more obvious and frequent, Captain Billy saw fit to go over a few rules with me. The first two rules were, “Stay clear of the dock when those big boats are coming alongside and tying up.” And, “You’d best wait ‘til the catch is winched off and hauled inside too.” The third rule and one he called a commandment of the seas, “Before you think about setting foot on someone’s deck , always ask, ‘Permission to come aboard.” Though most of the boat skippers were of at least medium temperament, I learned they had no time for a child under foot. That left Captain Billy, with whatever of his boats that weren’t leased out and running to far flung Florida or North Carolina or one other skipper.
His trawler was named the M.A. Santos. It wasn’t the biggest, it wasn’t the brightest, but it was certainly the most friendly. I’ll never forget that. I called him “Skipper” and he seemed to like it. He laughed kindly the day I walked up along side his boat’s gunnels and asked, “Permission to come aboard skipper?” I think he liked that I called him such and grant me right to board. On the back deck of his boat, as he hosed her clean, we talked about shrimping and the creatures that he had see in the river and offshore and caught in his nets. I was fascinated with all the life unknown to me that was out there and asked if he’d consider bringing a few of those creatures back for me to study over. Now most of what they called “trash haul” went right back over board when they were running outside, but Skipper agreed to bring in a few sea animals he thought I’d find of interest every now and then. He was true to his word.
Soon I was bringing home strange spotted crabs, sea mammies, giant whelks and puffer fish and the like. I got books about sea life when the county library’s bookmobile came around to the village. I tried to identify what each creature was and learn whatever I could about it. Some I got to dry out at the far end of the yard and keep, but most found their ultimate end in Daddy’s garden.
Now there came a time early into this particular July that Momma’s folks, Granddaddy and Granny came down from Asheville for a visit. In catching up on all his grandson was doing with his summer, Granddaddy was impressed with the interest I had developed in what he called “marine biology” and all the help I was getting from Skipper on the M. A. Santos. He seemed truly fascinated as I was with all the creatures, the ones that dried and would set up on a shelf in the tool shed and even the ones that reeked to no end and faded to the glory of garden nutriment.
Not long after Granny and Granddaddy had left and gone back up to North Carolina he gave us a phone call. It seems that he’d hit on an idea where I could make some good money, perhaps well beyond my quarter a week allowance. He did all the talking to Daddy, but evidently there was an acquaintance of his who taught biology up at the University of North Carolina. Granddaddy said that this professor would pay me for specimens of sea creatures if I would send them to him via Granddaddy. All I had to do was put those critters in jars, pour in alcohol to preserve them, and box and ship them up to him. He’d take care of the rest. Well it seemed so simple.
Momma gave me six of her old mayonnaise jars that she’d been saving. I got them all dusted out and sparkling clean. Daddy advanced me a month’s allowance for the alcohol and even offered to pay for the shipping postage on the first package to go. Things were gettin’ all set. By the third week in July, I had stuffed those jars each two thirds full of sea stuff, topped each one of them off with alcohol from the island grocery and capped them up tight. I even added electrical tape around the cap edges just to be safe. Momma helped me wrap each jar withold newspaper and Daddy came up with a cardboard box that fit them just right. On the top in green crayon I printed Grand Daddy’s name and address, my return on the correct corner and in bold red letters wrote FRAGILE on the other five sides. The Monday morning next up, Daddy shipped my cargo off. All I had to do was wait for the first money to start rolling in.
Now long, long after, in retrospect, I can just imagine Granddaddy with visions of John Steinbeck’s story, Cannery Row, playing in his smart but balding head. He had the mustache for it and even wore a brown fedora. Still, I can’t say for certain who he envisioned as playing the character of Doc, but I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t me. I’m guessing I was one of the colorful locals. That being said and assumed, I can’t imagine his surprise.
About a week after Daddy mailed my package full of hopes and sea critters we got a rather excited call from Grand “Doc” Daddy. Momma answered the phone and though the rest of us weren’t up next to the ear piece with her, we could plainly make out the words, “Damn gumbo,” “Putrid” and “Wrong alcohol.” It appeared neither he nor the professor were happy. We (I) had, however innocently, made somewhat of a mistake: (a) one critter to a jar; (b) wrong jar; (c) and I’d guess the most critical point of all, rubbing alcohol does not preserve dead stuff. Daddy took the phone and politely polished him off. Who knew... So much for my and Granddaddy’s foray into marine biology and the entrepreneurial adventure. I guess you could say we all got our fireworks twice that July.
I went back to just looking at sea critters and my imaginary worlds. I remember it to this day.....
