Growing up in South Jersey meant we were only 30 miles from the marshes in Dividing Creek, which feeds into the Delaware Bay. I was the youngest of two sisters with two younger brothers. We were elated when Dad started hauling the crabbing equipment out of the garage. We recognized the bushel basket and could already picture it wiggling with crabs.
The terrain in South Jersey is very flat. When the pine trees changed to marsh grass, we knew we were getting close.
When it smelled like we had picked up the bait, but hadn’t arrived at the bait shop, we knew we were even closer. We held our noses and blamed each other for the odor until our parents stopped finding it amusing.
Dad picked up some fish heads at a little wooden building, and we headed down a dirt road with grass as high as the car tires. We got out and divided up our equipment, carrying and dragging things down the path to a spacious area along a stream.
Mother had insisted that we all wear long-sleeved shirts over our summer clothes to protect us from the sun, but we whined about being too hot. Peeling our shirts off, we ran like wild things in our skimpy summer clothes.
Before baiting the lines with fish heads, we helped Dad set up a makeshift shelter for Mother using bamboo poles, rope, and a canvas cover left over from Vacation Bible School, labeled, “Pioneers for Christ.”
Mother would sit with a stack of reading material, crossword puzzles, and a flyswatter. That’s where she proved the saying she repeated her entire life. If you kill a fly, three will come to the funeral. She guarded the metal cooler with the makings for lunch. The menu was always snowflake rolls, fresh-sliced ham, and cheese made to order. We always had cookies.
Everything was homemade. Our lines of heavy twine were wrapped around a chunky stick with the lead sinkers that Dad had made.
Dad would position the sticks firmly in the ground along the bank. The stick would be unwound until the fish’s head was just below the surface of the murky water. If I spotted a crab, I would yell, “I got one!” Dad would come running with a long-handled net. If I hadn’t given the crab whiplash or scared it away, it would be added to the catch.
It was easy to know when to leave. The mosquitoes chased us to the car, but by then we had a bushel of tasty, blue crabs. The sunburn would show up later.
