the rix mix

These Ocean City guys did alright. Mine wasn't a fishing family. We crabbed with square traps, which of course required no skill, just patience & bait (chicken in Jersey, not bunker). I liked the places we went to crab, appreciated the pugnacious critters & even tried to pick them up - well, the smaller ones. I thought they were too much hassle to eat, which suited the adults fine. Let the kids have hot dogs. It was a grownups' ritual sitting around a picnic table dissecting crabs & drinking beer.

I have a vivid memory of my Aunt Bella dumping a basket of crabs into a steaming cauldron on the stove, slamming on the lid, & the crabs making the lid bounce trying to escape. It was awful. Why not just keep them as pets? One day, thinking about this memory, I realized that I was looking up at my Aunt & the enormous kettle. Bella could be a pretty fearsome person at times with her muu muus, Irish temper & frazzled hair, but she wasn't tall & I wasn't afraid of her when I was behaving myself. I don't actually know what the crabs are doing. In my memory, I can't even see over the top of the stove, which means I hadn't cracked the three foot barrier. It's happening far above me. I'm a very small child. I am Bobby. Everything is mystery & wonderment & curious, especially on vacation. I can still smell the spices from that pot of fresh crabs in Somers Point.

Labels: growing up, jersey shore, Ocean City NJ, postcard