When I went overseas to teach in Qatar, I lost track of my life. When I returned, it was like the whole world had gone on without me. One of my greatest losses is my relationship with my grandma. She isn't dead, but she might as well be. There was a disagreement created by an ex-friend of mine and my aunt, which has now snowballed into an icy chasm. Although I think I could melt through the barrier, I do not want to cause strife for my 87 year old grandma. So last night, in my dreams, I went back to a time when I was young, and things were simple.
Summertime in Florida.
We loaded up the truck with sticks, wax covered string, frozen bacon, and a barrel trashcan. My cousins Billy and Deborah sat in the bed with my brother and I, as Grandad drove the old, green, rusted Ford down the sand and dirt drive. Grandma sat beside him, the world's best navigator. The truck was a column shift and no matter how long Grandad drove that ole' truck, he never really got the hang of it. The truck fish-tailed at every turn, tossing us all in the bed like we were balls in a pinball machine. Finally, we reached the paved road and headed down I-10 on our way to the Suwannee River for some crabbin'.
We had a special place. If you didn't know it was there, you would drive by thinking it was all brush and thorns. Grandad took a sharp right into a giant tree only to reveal a small muddy path, which led into a clearing. The Suwannee River was a muddy river. The bottom was silty and squishy. I lost many a shoe in that river bed.
We set our lines, pulled the picnic basket and cooler from the truck and waited until the line took a dive into the murky water. Crab after crab we pulled from the river. They were enormous, or so I remember. I held the body out to Grandma with two hands. "Take it," I squealed. I loved crabbin'. I always pulled in the most. As the oldest and tallest, I was allowed to go farther out into the river. The current wasn't terribly strong, but still, it could easily sweep the feet of my younger, less careful cousins and brother. I trudged out of the river for what seemed the hundredth time with yet an even bigger crab. Grandma pulled the giant lid off the barrel and motioned for me to throw it in. There were so many in there. We were having a little family get together that night, and those crabs would be the guests of honor. Grandma slammed the lid down, stepped towards me, slipped in the dirt and broke her fall on the large rock that marked our special spot. In it we carved all of our initials, like we claimed our stake in the land.
Grandma stood up and wiped her hand across her lime green t-shirt, smearing a read hand print from one side to the other. My eyes were wide. I remember all I could do was point to the stain. I was and still am terribly squeamish when it comes to blood. She looked down at her hand to find a gash in her palm from thumb to wrist. She grabbed an old towel from the truck and wrapped it up. "There," she said with a wink, "this should do until we get home tonight." Even then I knew we should have left and got her some stitches, but she was and is a tough old bird.
We continued crabbin.' There was no stopping us really. I barely made it to the barrel before my line was back in the water, bacon beckoning another hungry crab. We were all in the water. All the kids anyway. I was dead center in the river. I was always watchful of what was in the water, and I saw a log floating our way. I walked a bit out of its path to allow it to pass.
Grandad yelled "GET OUT OF THE WATER! GET OUT OF THE WATER NOW!
He never yelled, ever, so I knew something was wrong, but I wanted to get my last line out of the water.
"ALLIGATOR!"
Now everyone paid attention. It is not as easy as it sounds to extract yourself from muddy muck. And in Florida it isn't really mud; it is more like quicksand. Grandad grabbed me around the waist and plucked me out like you would a turnip. Billy, Deborah and my brother were already on the embankment.
"GET IN THE TRUCK!" Grandad and Grandma screamed in unison. I don't know when the barrel got placed back in the bed, but it was there, all red hot and dangerous. I sat up front because Grandma's cut had bled a lot, and she was fading in and out of lucidity. The pain was intense. I did the only thing I knew to do for her. I gave her swig after swig of vodka, her favorite beverage. By the time we got to the clinic, she was way passed drunk.
"I think she's had enough," Grandad said as he scooped her up and moved into the hospital. He was so tender. They had already been married forty years. They behaved like newlyweds. They married on their fourth date. But that's another story.
Summertime in Florida.
We loaded up the truck with sticks, wax covered string, frozen bacon, and a barrel trashcan. My cousins Billy and Deborah sat in the bed with my brother and I, as Grandad drove the old, green, rusted Ford down the sand and dirt drive. Grandma sat beside him, the world's best navigator. The truck was a column shift and no matter how long Grandad drove that ole' truck, he never really got the hang of it. The truck fish-tailed at every turn, tossing us all in the bed like we were balls in a pinball machine. Finally, we reached the paved road and headed down I-10 on our way to the Suwannee River for some crabbin'.
We had a special place. If you didn't know it was there, you would drive by thinking it was all brush and thorns. Grandad took a sharp right into a giant tree only to reveal a small muddy path, which led into a clearing. The Suwannee River was a muddy river. The bottom was silty and squishy. I lost many a shoe in that river bed.
We set our lines, pulled the picnic basket and cooler from the truck and waited until the line took a dive into the murky water. Crab after crab we pulled from the river. They were enormous, or so I remember. I held the body out to Grandma with two hands. "Take it," I squealed. I loved crabbin'. I always pulled in the most. As the oldest and tallest, I was allowed to go farther out into the river. The current wasn't terribly strong, but still, it could easily sweep the feet of my younger, less careful cousins and brother. I trudged out of the river for what seemed the hundredth time with yet an even bigger crab. Grandma pulled the giant lid off the barrel and motioned for me to throw it in. There were so many in there. We were having a little family get together that night, and those crabs would be the guests of honor. Grandma slammed the lid down, stepped towards me, slipped in the dirt and broke her fall on the large rock that marked our special spot. In it we carved all of our initials, like we claimed our stake in the land.
Grandma stood up and wiped her hand across her lime green t-shirt, smearing a read hand print from one side to the other. My eyes were wide. I remember all I could do was point to the stain. I was and still am terribly squeamish when it comes to blood. She looked down at her hand to find a gash in her palm from thumb to wrist. She grabbed an old towel from the truck and wrapped it up. "There," she said with a wink, "this should do until we get home tonight." Even then I knew we should have left and got her some stitches, but she was and is a tough old bird.
We continued crabbin.' There was no stopping us really. I barely made it to the barrel before my line was back in the water, bacon beckoning another hungry crab. We were all in the water. All the kids anyway. I was dead center in the river. I was always watchful of what was in the water, and I saw a log floating our way. I walked a bit out of its path to allow it to pass.
Grandad yelled "GET OUT OF THE WATER! GET OUT OF THE WATER NOW!
He never yelled, ever, so I knew something was wrong, but I wanted to get my last line out of the water.
"ALLIGATOR!"
Now everyone paid attention. It is not as easy as it sounds to extract yourself from muddy muck. And in Florida it isn't really mud; it is more like quicksand. Grandad grabbed me around the waist and plucked me out like you would a turnip. Billy, Deborah and my brother were already on the embankment.
"GET IN THE TRUCK!" Grandad and Grandma screamed in unison. I don't know when the barrel got placed back in the bed, but it was there, all red hot and dangerous. I sat up front because Grandma's cut had bled a lot, and she was fading in and out of lucidity. The pain was intense. I did the only thing I knew to do for her. I gave her swig after swig of vodka, her favorite beverage. By the time we got to the clinic, she was way passed drunk.
"I think she's had enough," Grandad said as he scooped her up and moved into the hospital. He was so tender. They had already been married forty years. They behaved like newlyweds. They married on their fourth date. But that's another story.
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