Written by Gene Cashman III
Photography by Mark Davenport
usk crept through the trees and ‘round the corners of the house seeking places to light a chilled breath of air. November evenings can cast a cool shadow. This night was no exception. I watched the advancement from a dilapidated beach chair, a rusty relic of summer, still a safe distance from the darkening pall. The fingers on my left hand rolled over a small lighter in my jacket pocket as my right hand turned the handle on a butane burner. The smell of gas filled my nose. In a seamless motion I pulled the lighter and felt the roughness of the flint cap; a spark shot forth igniting the fumes. Instantly a warm flame churned with the ferocity of a runaway locomotive, but soon settled down, resembling the beauty of a lone dancer on a darkened stage. I sat back in my rickety chair, watching the flickering show. In the brief moments since I’d last glimpsed the encroaching shadows, the chill of autumn had advanced quickly. I now felt the cold air wash over me. I snapped up and zipped my jacket, shivering more than a bit. The burner continued to hiss and like a moth to the flame images appeared from the shadows.
I felt a presence to my left. A male voice spoke, “oyster roast.” The words hung awkwardly and then dissipated into the night air without retort. Several moments elapsed; the burner’s hiss the only noticeable sound. “I said,” the voice again commanded, “oyster roast.” The words, this time, were demonstrative. If they were in print they would have been italicized and underlined. The accent was strong, southern, and distinctly rural, like someone had hitched a mule to O in oyster and the T in roast and cracked a whip to pull them to opposite poles. A hint of bourbon flanked the statement. “Uh huh” I offered; not yet taking my eyes from the flame, “good eatin’.”
Soon thereafter, the sounds of order, structure and process approached from the darkness. The thud of heavy-laden burlap sacks and the din of stainless steel hitting gravel announced the General’s presence. “Okay sports fans,” he stated as if mounted atop a white steed “game time.” The metaphor was consistent, but there was dissent in the ranks. “Aw,” the man to my left immediately bemoaned, “them pans ain’t nearly big enough.” The General’s eyes gleamed as he ceremoniously dismounted from his mechanical mount and surveyed his insubordinate. The creak of the old Ford F-150’s tailgate slamming shut cut off any further conversation. Several moments passed without sound, even the burner’s hiss lost relevance. “Nonsense” the General concluded, “it’s perfect.” And so it was-which is, after all, why he is the General in the first place. We all began to unload the remainder of the pick-up’s bed.
The assembly process quickly commenced. The ingredients for an oyster roast are simple really. Oysters, naturally, are essential, as is the desire of someone in the group to not consume them raw - hence the roast. As such, the General quickly used the propane flame to light a pit of oak logs and blackened charcoal medallions. Soon enough the heat from the pit put roses in our cheeks. “Dag-gum” one of the gathered bluff voices exclaimed “it sure feels like Thanksgiving now!” The General looked up from tending fire and shot an approving smile. I concurred and gave my companion a pat on the back. We all held our breath as the General poured the contents of the burlap sacks into the pans. The coals sizzled as salty water from the oyster’s hardened backs rolled off and punctured the hot coals. The growing bluff crowd watched with cool anticipation as the General covered the first batch in wet burlap.
Steam began to rise from the pans. Each stoking of the fire revealed yet another set of eyes from the shadows. The feel was primeval, almost. The smell of tobacco, liquor, and burning oak also filled the chilled air, dampening the solitude and solidarity that had formerly existed amongst the pine and shadows. I had not yet moved from my chair, but it felt and sounded as if at least twenty people were now surrounding the rudimentary pit. Obviously, a roaming dinner party arranged by someone in the big house was on the prowl and they were all intent on learning something about where their “happytizers” would ultimately originate. I sensed that all this non-productive commotion immensely ticked off the General. He labored in and around the elementary questions, secretly hoping it would all go away so he could professionally tend to his fire, his meal and his own desires, whatever they might be. Instead, he fielded the mundane inquiry about why an open oak fire, why burlap, why a roast yielded the best result. I understood, but did not pity the weathering around his eyes and brow. This was, after all, a leisurely meal.
Finally, the crescendo signaling a start to the feast began, as triumphant in the cool night as the fervor surrounding the final third of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture on the 4th of July. Ever so slowly the shells burst forth under pressure from the fire a long awaited prize. The oysters were now ready, and a pack of vultures were ready to pick them clean. I remained planted in the old lounge chair. The General labored hard to meet expectation. I laughed at the irony. In less than fifteen minutes a days worth of excitement, planning and work had unceremoniously been consumed by a horde of passersby. The General looked whipped but upbeat. “How’d they taste?” I bellowed. The General’s face soured. “Ye of little faith” he exclaimed.
I sat back in my chair cockily and watched the General lay two more thick logs on the fire. “Cold?” I teased. He labored without response. Soon the fire was raging hot. The night was once again dark and cold, save the glow from the fire and the working sounds of the General’s stoking. “Let’s go in and see what we can get to eat,” I said to the night. The General did not acknowledge my request. We were now alone. “Son,” the General said, “come here.” I approached with little hesitation. “Yeah pop” I said, “what do you have?” The General smiled, not unlike I have seen him smile a million times before, the joy of a little boy. He produced a steaming piece of burlap. “For us” he stated with a smile, “if you’ll have it.” I looked up at my father and searched his eyes. I understood his commitment to service, his commitment to family, and his love of me. “Sure pop.” We peeled back shell long into the night, feeling no cold, but reveling in fellowship only a father and son can know.
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