Dog Days

When I think about the island my senses are immediately activated. I remember the smells of the marsh, the brackish water, something yummy baking in the oven or fresh crab cakes on the stove. But the overwhelming smell that comes to me is wet dog. Yes, wet dog.

Dogs were an integral part of island life, for the watermen and hunters, and certainly for us. All of my memories seem to include roaming around with a dog, often a wet dog, in tow. When I think about my childhood I think my dogs were my best friends and certainly we led a similar life. We roamed free, were given attention and fed by many, loved to swim and needed to be home by dark. I’m pretty sure all the dogs were big Retrievers or Labradors. I didn’t really think dogs came in other varieties. It was a shock to realize that indeed they did.

Neither the dogs nor I had many rules, just the basics I think. Don’t get hit by a car, don’t drown, don’t tear up other people’s stuff or destroy anything, and of course be home by dark. I only remember breaking these rules when I accidentally set the beach marsh on fire while playing with matches. That was a poor choice and I didn't repeat it. The dogs were pretty well behaved too other than occasionally getting hit. Mom does tells a story of our dogs clearly breaking the rules. Apparently Ms. Teenie’s outside rug was stolen by Missy and Lady and used for tug-o-war. All I can recall of Ms. Teenie is her singing the song “One Day at A Time” constantly and making fried chicken. Now I get to imagine the dogs stealing her rug and ripping it to shreds. Thanks Mom.

Our first island dog was Ginger. I was young so I don’t remember her but I remember the stories of how much my mom loved her. I think when she kicked out the crappy boyfriend Dick (“Dick the prick” as my brother David called him), she was more devastated to see Ginger leave than Dick. Well, and his Porsche. Mom loved driving it super fast on the island road. The juxtaposition of imagining a Porsche parked outside the shack we were living in on Elliott’s Island in the middle of nowhere still makes me smile. It’s a classic example of my mother. In no box or stereotype does she fit.

I remember missing Robin along with Ginger when Dick and his family left. Robin and I shared Ginger the dog. Robin was Dick's son who lived with a devastating heart condition and had to rest a lot. I missed him so much when they left. Thankfully we had puppies to fill the void. Ginger had puppies with one of the Abbot's dogs. We kept two of them, Buddy and Missy. Missy was my dog and Buddy was David's. Missy was hit by a car and died young. I was devastated. I remember Buddy a little more than Missy. He was technically David’s dog but I know we hung out a lot. He was dense and it took a significant amount of physical pressure to get his attention at all. The only real Buddy memory I have is of him getting really sick with heartworm. Veterinary care wasn’t a part of island life so animals often died young of heartworm if a car did not hit them first. Chasing cars was just something most island dogs did. If an animal was suffering you dug a hole and shot them. That’s exactly what mom and Jack made teenage David do when Buddy got so sick. I was horrified.

The dog that we got next was my love and with her are many memories. I named her Missy because I never recovered from the first Missy dying young. The second Missy was my best friend and basically my sole playmate until John arrived on the island. Missy and I went everywhere together. The beach and the water (hence the wet dog smell permeating my memories) were our favorites.

Lady joined us I believe when Missy was a few years old. Lady belonged to a family “from away” on the island that had built a house near my Nana’s. She was a sweet older black lab that I adored. For some reason the family was leaving the island and they had planned to abandon Lady. About a week before they were scheduled to move Lady moved herself to our house and was clear that she had picked us for her new family. She was ridiculously smart.

Lady quickly figured out that Missy needed to believe she was the top dog. Lady ruled the island, but Missy was oblivious. During deer season we would bring home bones from the butcher shop and give them to the dogs. Lady meticulously buried them all over the island and periodically would go dig one up, as she never forgot where they were. For a few weeks my mom kept Lady on a leash after a car had hit her. Mom was mortified to be dragged into everyone’s yard for Lady to look for a bone or more likely to go to the steps of one of the island ladies. Like for example June Mom. She used to leave the dogs fresh cooked sausage or scrapple every morning. Being on a leash didn’t stop Lady from making her rounds. 

The dogs and I were spoiled rotten by the island and thrived in the freedom.  This wet dog smell is way more to me than just a wet dog. It is the smell of magical childhood memories.

Poverty and Perception

My memories of life on Elliott’s Island are perfection. I had freedom to roam the island with my dogs at will. Nature was my playroom and all of my elderly friends filled my head with stories that furthered my endless imagination. I thought our life was wonderful. I was oblivious to the reality of what life on the island was like for my parents or brothers. 

To say we were poor is so inadequate. When I visited the island about three years ago (after many years away) I was so excited to be there and immediately nostalgic. I still see it through child-like eyes and see the immense beauty. I innocently posted the pictures on Facebook. To my shock, people were astounded by the poverty. "Where the hell are you?" people asked. That may have been the first time I looked at the island from an objective perspective. Recently someone looked at pictures I had taken and commented, "Oh, like you were really poor. Like Appalachia poor. " I guess so. The fact that this is a shock to me when people say it is still strange. 

The thing about growing up dirt poor as a small child, is you don't know it until someone points it out. Talking to my brothers and my parents in the last ten or so years, I can get a sense of how tough it was for them. My brothers were teenagers and living on the island just plain sucked. The isolation was smothering. They didn't want to be seen as different, poor or weird. Neither of them wanted to sponge bathe in the kitchen by the sink. I remember David telling me about going so long without a shower and sitting on the school bus after a rainstorm watching how the rain had made the dirt run down his arm. 
 
My parents loved the island with all of their being, but it didn't make it any less hard. Neither of my parents worked the water and my stepfather wasn't working as a hunting guide anymore, so they both needed to commute off the island to make a living. The island road was a single lane pressed gravel path through marshland that was below sea level and frequently flooded. It barely functioned and was brutal on vehicles. 

As I've mentioned before we caught/grew/killed most of our food supply. But still some groceries needed to be bought. Mom pinched every single penny and made it spread as far as possible. Without running water all laundry for our family of five had to be hauled up to Cambridge to the laundrymat. Mom made friends with the owner who would open early so she could use every washer to get the work done as efficiently as possible. I guess we could have used our Swiss Family Robinson style well and hand washed the mountains of clothing, but my mother hadn't the energy or interest for that. 

We all worked our tails off during deer season when we would trek up the road each day to East New Market to work on my stepfather's family farm in the butcher shop. I remember Mom and Jack picking up extra money helping farmer's bale hay in 100-degree humid heat or doing whatever they needed help with. The most shocking job I remember hearing about (not until I was an adult) was that Jack would crawl into dark grain bins and shoot rats for one of the farmers. This still impresses me greatly. 

I remained oblivious for so many years. Once I was in elementary school as the years went by the teasing increased. I began to realize I was different and that we were indeed poor. But still I felt we were so rich. I can remember saying, "We may be poor in money but we are rich in love." I was living in an idealistic world and didn't want anyone busting my bubble. My memories are still so joyous that it remains a continuous shock when I see or hear another's perspective of my dear island. 

Funerals

With so much of the population of the island being upwards of eighty years old, death was a part of life. For my Nana it was always a highlight. She never seemed to be sad when someone died, or at least she didn’t show it. It was an occasion to get dressed up, socialize and eat food. A good funeral put pep in Nana’s step, unless they died at a time when she was away from the island – which clearly irritated her. The images of all the ol’timers in the island church dressed up and stuffing their faces full of food still fills my mind. I don’t remember anyone actually dying, or the circumstances around their deaths. In my eyes they were alive working in their gardens, then we were at the church saying goodbye. My least favorite events were the viewings. Dressing up a body and slathering it in makeup so all the deceased person’s friends could talk about how great the person looked was very strange to me. I can remember telling my Nana in response to her saying how “great” he looked, “He doesn’t look great, he looks dead.” The thought of a viewing still gives me the chills and of course makes me think of my Nana, as it was when she was in her element. It must have been hard to watch the island elders pass on one at a time while just a few, my Nana included, remained. With them, died not only a person, but also a way of life on the island. As people died their children often sold the homes to hunters from the city. One funeral at a time, one house at a time, the island was changing.

I am blessed to have spent time with so many of the elders before they died. I got to hear their stories of how island life was when it was thriving around the turn of the century. Hundreds of people lived there, went to the one room schoolhouse (at least for a few years) and worked the water. Over time this way of life shifted, as it was harder to make a living off the water and a life off the island looked inviting for many of the children of the ol’ timers. But they remained on the island, most of them, and lived out their final years without medication usually (as going to the doctor “made you sick and die”) and died of old age. Most of my childhood buddies were gone by the time I was in middle school. Their memories and stories were alive in me though and I still remember them like it was yesterday.

Island Characters

Residents of the island ranged from hard working elder watermen, their children who were learning the trade, elderly ladies who were home makers and moonlighted picking crabs, and shall we say “colorful characters.” One such colorful family leaved across the street form us. Thankfully Pokes Rd. and some trees separated our homes. Colorful is my attempt at being descriptive and politically correct. The elder of the clan was “Old Man.” Really, I can’t remember his name, as we always called him that. I did ask my mom one time if she knew what Old Man’s name was. She replied, “Yes, I know his name. Old Man.” He was married to Lucy and they had three sons. The added twist was the guest living in the outside shed, Lucy’s boyfriend Harry. I promise I am not making any of this up. We had very few TV channels on the island, but who needed TV with all this live entertainment.

Let’s delve a little more into Old Man stories, as he provided so much food for gossip on the island. There are a few that I remember quite clearly. Both Old Man and Lucy had an affinity for alcohol.  They seemed to love each other and also love to fight, especially when under the influence, which was much of the time. I remember mom going over to help take care of Old Man’s burns on his back because Lucy had gotten mad at him and decided to pour scalding hot water (or maybe it was soup) down his back. A little extreme and abusive, but that was Lucy. She was actually really fun to be around until she got too drunk.

Now Old Man was quite a character in his own right. He had this hobby of liking to watch the marsh burn. A controlled burn set by the state you may be thinking? Oh no, that would be him lighting the marsh on fire to start a ruckus. A ruckus he definitely would start. I can remember getting in the car and riding with someone to go and watch what he had done. Luckily we did have a volunteer Fire Department on the island to control the fires. Usually Old Man was pretty good about not setting the fires too close to houses, trees, etc. He was a drunk, and mean, but he seemed to have some intelligence. The same cannot be said for Gorman.

Gorman was another character that played the lead role in many of the colorful stories from the island days. Gorman lived in a very tiny house (one or two rooms) with many members of his family. I can’t remember how many people, but it was way more than it seemed possible to fit. We didn’t see them except for Gorman, but you could see all the clothes hanging on the line. There was at least Gorman’s mother, sister and his brother who was an adult but was in diapers. I never saw him, just the clean diapers on the clothesline. Now back to Gorman. I mentioned Old Man liking to set fires but having some intelligence. Gorman also liked to set fires, but lacked any amount of common sense. He rode around in his car all day. What else he did I am have no idea, other than setting things on fire. He too liked the ruckus it caused. But unfortunately Gorman often didn’t consider the wind, nearby trees, houses, etc. There were a few close calls, but I don’t believe there was ever any major damage. It was also a spectator sport to figure out who had set the fire. Was it a Gorman or an Old Man job? It was usually pretty obvious. Both were often in the crowd of people watching the show. Not much else to do on the island other than watch things burn, shoot things, catch things and gossip about the former mentioned topics.

This brings to mind an all time favorite Gorman story on one dark stormy Halloween night. David and some other boys from the island decided to go get into some mischief. David had this very large stuffed gorilla that he liked to use to scare people. This I remember quite vividly. He would come into my room while I was sleeping and put the gorilla in front of me (or wear a scary mask). His plan always worked perfectly and I awoke screaming, practically stuck to the ceiling. Watching me react was always one of David’s favorite past times. 

Mischief was the goal that Halloween night, and it did not disappoint. Apparently they went to Freddie’s and put the Gorilla in the window and scared his son Kenny half to death. Then they went to Gorman’s street. He was out riding around because, of course, that is what Gorman did. They put the Gorilla in the road as Gorman drove upon it. What do you think he did? He ran over it. That is exactly what you do on the island; if anything is in the road you hit it. Then they decided to go scare Mr. Fischer. Mr. Fischer was quite a character. He was an elderly man living in a small trailer across from Gorman’s. He always wore overalls and a straw hat. He loved to sit in Ms. Nora’s Store and tell stories. 

The Gorilla was positioned outside of Mr. Fischer’s to scare him. What do you think his response was? He shot it. If you can’t run it over you shoot it, another natural response on the island. How do I know all this? Well, the boys were so excited about their adventures, that they ran home and told us all about it. They also had to show off the Gorilla’s injuries from Gorman’s car and from Mr. Fischer’s gun. The best part of the story is what Mr. Fischer told at Ms. Nora’s store the next day. Apparently something was outside his window the night before, “A gorilla or a &%$# or something” and he shot it. What comes immediately to my mind is the unlikely scenario that either a gorilla or an African American (I refuse to use the derogatory slang I grew up surrounded by) would be on Elliott’s Island on Halloween night outside of Mr. Fisher’s window. But, one has to remember, logic was never really considered there on the island. No one questioned Mr. Fisher’s story and the boys got away with yet another adventure.

Another all time favorite story, a classic, was that of Harry and Lucy. Harry was married and had children, a job, a house, etc. He also had quite the alcohol addiction. Unfortunately his addiction overtook him and somehow he ended up meeting Lucy, leaving his family and moving to the island. Now wait a minute, wasn’t Lucy married to Old Man? Yes. Again, I don’t know the details, but somehow Lucy convinced him to let Harry live outside. Harry lived in the shed or garage, I don’t remember really. Occasionally there would be some ruckus and he would be wandering aimlessly on the island for a few days before moving back to the shed. Harry's mode of transportation on the island was quite creative. I have vivid memories of him riding around the island roads on a lawn mower with a trailer towing all of his belongings. It was quite the scene really. My friend John and I used to talk to Harry a lot. No clear memories of this other than he seemed nice, broken, but nice.

The infamous Harry and Lucy story lives in my mind like it was yesterday. Amidst the holes that occur as you age, the essence of the story remains. My best friend John and I were likely getting together to play. Old Man's lane was before Pokes Rd., where I lived. Apparently Harry was walking down the lane hunched over. John went up to him to see what was wrong. When John got close he could see that Harry was bleeding from a stab wound (inflicted by Lucy clearly when her drunk anger got the best of her). The details are fuzzy about if John came and got me and then how and when the ambulance and police were called. But somehow it all unfolded. Harry was taken to the hospital. Luckily Lucy Ms.ed all the important organs and Harry was okay. Just stitches (and likely a bath) and he was as good as new. Lucy was arrested and then released because Harry refused to press charges. Mom and I heard on the radio, amidst lots of chuckles from the announcers, details about the police report. Apparently Lucy denied stabbing Harry. She said she just put the knife up to his big fat belly and it slid on in. After Harry recovered in the hospital he returned to Lucy’s shed and the lawnmower. It was back to business as usual on the island, but with another juicy story.

There was never a dull moment on the island. And if their were moments when someone wasn’t getting stabbed, gorillas weren't getting shot and the marsh wasn’t burning, then it was just my magic fairy land to explore and lots of porches and steps to take a rest on and eat watermelon or a piece of fried chicken.

Gardening and Gathering Food

One of my very favorite childhood memories is of my mom and I working in the garden. We had a large garden that was one of the main suppliers of food for our family. I remember the beautiful flowers at the front and then the rows and rows of veggies. Mom would often chant while she gardened. I could tell this made her happy and it made me feel very peaceful. The many rows of veggies eventually landed in either our pantry, the freezer or were canned. We would sit together at the dinner table shucking corn and shelling peas to fill our freezer for the winter.

Mom would go to the store to buy some essentials, but finances were very limited so we gathered whatever we could. I can remember trading veggies with our neighbor Mr. Dick, who also had a huge garden. If one of us had a good crop of something and the other didn’t we would all share the bounty. It seemed like almost everyone on the island had a huge garden and worked out in it into their elder years. One can’t help but wonder if eating off the land for so much of the diet contributed to the fact that everyone was so healthy.

I loved hanging out in other people’s gardens. I have vivid memories of Mr. Dick’s and Mr. Charlie’s gardens especially. The dogs and I really got around. And the longer we hung out anywhere the more snacks we were fed, which was a nice bonus.

I also loved going out on the water with Jack or with anyone that would take me. Running the crabbing lines was really cool but it required getting up in the wee hours of the morning in the dark, which wasn’t easy. I probably didn’t go out much on the boat crabbing, but it is still such a special image. I can see the sun as it rose and lit the sky. The crab lines were all run by hand at that time so sometimes the crabs would get loose in the boat, which was quite the event.

Picking crabs around the table with Mom and Jack was always fun. I would eat more than I picked, but thankfully they let me hang out. Mom would make crab cakes to freeze. We ate SO MUCH crab all summer long. Crab cakes, crab dip, crab imperial, crab balls, crab soup. By the end of the season we were all so sick of it. My stepbrother John would often mention how expensive it would be in a restaurant, maybe to lighten what felt like a burden to eat crab…again. In the summer if it wasn’t crab, then it was likely fish of some kind, or eel. Eel were fascinating to me – to catch and to kill. Jack would nail them to a board I think and then skin them.

The cycle of life was never hidden from me. Sometimes it grossed me out but overall it was enthralling to watch. We raised chickens for eggs and to eat. We also had a pair of geese. The goal was to let them have a baby and then eat it for Christmas dinner. One year we accidently ate “mama” which was really traumatic. We sometimes had wild goose, but I remember that being really “gamey” tasting. Mom says we would get a turkey each year too and she would name it “Thanksgiving” just so no one would forget why we had it. I have fond memories of being with mom in the goose yard with papa goose on her lap and also the chicken yard. Except when she would go out there each morning to avoid watching David torture me and bring me to tears before school. David would torture the animals too – I wasn’t alone. Papa goose always hissed at David (even when the goose was a senior citizen many years later) – he didn’t forget the torment (which pleased me).

I can remember adults plucking duck or goose, which was fine to me I guess. I hear it was a lot of work getting all those feathers out. The only thing that wasn’t okay for me, was when it was time to kill the chickens. I can remember hiding (and then peaking to see) when they were cutting the heads off chickens and then they wondered around the yard headless, spewing blood. Yuck. I was grateful when Mom and Jack decided it was too much work and would instead crate them and send them off for someone else to slaughter.

A favorite memory is when Mom discovered a snake stealing our eggs. She caught it with her hands as it was leaving the hen house. She held on tight while it peed all over her hands, but no way was she letting it go. Mom was tough when it came to feeding her family. She came a long way in a few years from hippy vegetarian to farm mama. She decided if she was going to eat animals, she was going to learn how to humanely do this from raising them, to slaughter. I respect this (even as a current vegetarian). We all knew exactly where the food came from and not just from some pretty package at the super market. Even though I ate meat it honestly was never my favorite, especially the weird stuff, like muskrat. I did enjoy eating seafood though.

I loved going fishing or crabbing from pots, or more accurately, talking to whomever was doing the work. Sometimes we went up the river or sometimes down at the wharf. Either way it was an adventure. I guess in my eyes, everything was fun and an adventure. Since I didn’t have the distractions of technology like we do now, every opportunity to hang out with elders while they worked in one way or another was entertainment. I don’t recall going hunting with anyone, but hunting was a big deal on the island. Goose, duck, muskrat (yuck), frog and turtle (also yuck) and of course deer.

Deer season was a huge deal in Jack’s family. They ran Kramer’s butcher shop up the road and our family would take off of work and school to work it every year. It provided much needed income and food for our freezer. Deer was our main meat (at least that’s what I remember the most). Everyone on the island ate a ton of deer. Other meat was more of a treat. I guess that goes with the territory of eating what is local and easily available.

Filling our freezers and pantry was a big deal. Mom and Jack didn’t have much income and there were five mouths to feed, so they took storing food, and wasting as little as possible, very seriously when it was available. The grocery list was always intriguing to me. Mom wrote everything down that we needed and kept track of every penny that was spent. I was busy running around the island having fun and eating snacks, while Mom and Jack worked seriously hard to keep it all going. I think having a nice dinner to sit down to, as a family, was the payoff for Jack. It’s part of his German culture as well, especially Sunday dinner.

We always sat down around the table (in our charred-from-the-house-fire kitchen) and ate as a family. Well, at least Mom, Jack and I. The boys, being teenagers, were often gone or preferring to eat stale day-old cinnamon buns from the discount rack at the store. This always horrified me. How could they turn down a beautiful home cooked meal for crap food? I’m still horrified by this concept raising my own teenager.

Foraging for berries was one of my favorite snacks. I can remember getting in trouble for wearing my school clothes out in the black berry patch behind our house. I don’t remember mom baking a whole lot other than cobbler for dessert. That was frequent in the summer and so delicious.

I appreciate that the family mealtime was instilled in me at an early age, both at our home and at the houses of the ol’timers on the island. They ate earlier than us though. It seemed they were still on the rhythm of pre-electricity and the men working the water. Breakfast was eaten early or sent with the watermen to work. The main meal was in the early afternoon when they got in from working the water. The evening meal was very light. I think the main meal was dinner and the evening light meal was supper. Somehow the dogs and I knew when and where to show up for the good stuff – especially the treats. Ms. Dessa’s homemade rolls often awaited me when I got off the school bus or, a fresh pie coming out of the oven. I learned to cook watching the ladies toss stuff in pans, a rarely remember seeing a recipe. (I still cook like that.) They baked a lot though, and somehow I didn’t absorb that knowledge much. But I sure liked eating what they baked. The dogs were well fed too. I remember Mom being horrified one time when Lady had been in a car accident and was recovering so she had to be walked on a leash. Lady would drag mom into yards and there would be fresh fried up sausage or scrapple waiting for her. The dogs and I were well taken care of.

Life revolved around food on the island. But not in fancy pre-packaged food or going out to eat way, like we do now. The men “worked the water” fishing, crabbing, and oystering. Everyone worked in the gardens and helped in storage of the food and the ladies did the cooking. I loved the various smells coming out of the homes as I walked by. Until my Nana died (in her 90’s) she always would call me and ask, “what are you cooking for dinner?” It was a way of life. I am grateful for the respect for food and where it comes from that being on the island gave me.

Ms. Nora's Store - entry

Walking down the island road past the cemetery I would get excited as the change clinked in my pocket. I knew that very soon some sweet candy and maybe even a coke would be in my hand. I would pick up the pace at times to out run the mosquitoes. That was futile as the mosquitas (as we called em') on Elliott's Island must have been the size of birds and could fly faster than a jet plane. At least that is how it seemed to a little child with skeeter bites all over. It didn't matter though when going to Ms. Nora's store was involved. The pay off was worth the pain.

Ms. Nora's store was the only store on the island (most of the time). Occasionally another store would open and close, but Ms. Nora's was an institution. It was a small decrepit building with one gas station out front. Ms. Nora was always there in her moo-moo dress. As I approached I may have seen her pumping gas or filling water from the outside spicket. I don't think the store had running water as I remember. My house didn't either so it wasn't odd. What was odd was that Ms. Nora chose to live in the back of the store most of the time instead of in her house. There was a lot that seemed odd about Ms. Nora.

Looking back though, maybe through her grouchiness she didn't want to leave the store either. It really was the pulse of the island in many ways, at least in the late 70's and early 80's. Whatever happened on the island was certainly talked about again and again on the benches and chairs at Ms. Nora's.

I can remember as I would get closer I would start thinking about what candy I would buy and begin to wonder who might be at the store that day. In the early years it was always full of people. They were very old, so as I grew they died and the population at Ms. Nora's dwindled. But it the late 70's Ms. Nora's thrived.

Maybe I would get a candy bar. Or possible one of those colored sugar things in a piece of plastic fruit. The excitement was part of the journey. As I passed the graveyard my pace quickened as I was almost there. Plus I really didn't like graveyards. There was always someone dying of old age, maybe that was part of it. Death was just part of life on the island.

Just before the staircase I might get lucky and catch a glimpse of Warren's car. Warren was Ms. Nora's son. He commuted back and forth to the city (I think). He was a character in his own right. I saw him as pretty odd, including his car that was always packed to the gills with God-knows-what. I don't even know how there was space for him.

Ms. Nora's store was no different. It was packed from front to back. One had to be careful with what was bought. No cans. They were often bulging because they had been on the shelf so long. Even candy bars had to be bought with a little inspection.

After climbing the stairs and flinging open the rickety screen door I would b-line it for the candy case. It was as if the heavens were singing. It was pure joy for a little island girl. Until I had my treat I couldn't be bothered with even seeing who was at the store or eaves dropping on their conversations. Picking the right candy was important business. I can remember Ms. Nora getting frustrated because she was standing at the register waiting for me instead of listening in on the conversations. She would try to hurry me along but it was futile.

Finally, once the candy and maybe soda pop (if I was flush that day) was procured I would head to the register to pay. This was my least favorite part. Although I ate meat at that time it never was my favorite. I do think I have always been a vegetarian at heart. Staring at jars of pickled pigs feet and knuckles was torture. This was when Ms. Nora would chat with me, probably because she liked to see me squirm.

After the journey was complete, my skeeter bites and me would take a seat on the bench and prepare to listen to the highlights of gossip coming from the mouths of the island old timers. It was pure bliss.

Freedom

I realize now how special and unique my experience of Elliott's Island was. I was a cute little girl without a care in the world. There were folks like my mom and stepfather that were either off the island working, working the water, or working at home. Then there were teenagers like my brothers who took every opportunity to stay somewhere other than on the island. According to my brother David, the island was, "mind numbingly boring." This concept is foreign to me, because most of the time it was magical and I loved it.

My mom compares my freedom on my bike to that of the dogs. We both ran free without a care in the world. We got to hear, see, taste, and experience fully every inch of that island. I knew that life was hard and that my parents were busy trying to keep things a float. But I didn't really understand how different or poor we were. I now see what a blessing that was.

I was lucky in that many of the elder men were still alive when I was riding my banana-seat bike around. I was privileged to remember Mr. Happy, Mr. Smitty, Mr. Brice, Mr. Fisher, Mr. Dick and Mr. Charlie. I got to hear their stories. They died long before their wives as I assume they were older then them. But I remember them. I got to spend time with June-Mom and her 100-year-old sister Ms. Flossie. I remember Ms. Flossie being nice and staying off the gossip train. She was at home most of the time and I loved to hang out with her. I remember her having extremely long grey hair that she would meticulously brush and then braid each day. I got to see Mr. Charlie mowing his lawn and working in his garden as he neared 100 in age. He would kindly fill my bike tire for me if it was flat. I rode my bike all the time so I went through tires a lot. He would help when he could. I got to know Ms. Teenie and eat fried chicken with her. She wasn't teenie at all which is why she died rather young in comparison to everyone else.

Interestingly enough I don't remember details of how anyone died. Somehow it wasn't traumatic to me. It was just part of what happened. They lived until well into their 90's or more and then they were gone. That's all I remember. I wasn't sheltered from it. But somehow it wasn't taboo either.

I'm fighting the urge in my head to write details about stories that are flooding in. But that is not the purpose here. This is really about childhood freedom. Adults my parent’s age may have had this experience. And maybe some people my age, but I think it is rare. And my child’s generation certainly does not have this freedom or the experience of being outside with nature and talking to elders from sun up to sun down.

A typical bike ride for me would start with Poke's Road and end with running down (later it was climbing due to erosion) the hill to go to the beach. When I was done with that fantasy play and staring at the water I would hop on my bike and head towards Ms. Dessa's. Mr. Dick was likely in his huge beautiful garden so I would chat with him. I would stop in at June-Mom's (Dessa's mother) and get some sweets and then to Ms. Dessa's. Ms. Dessa always had something good cooking and maybe she was knitting. She was nearly blind but that somehow that didn't stop her. Then I was on to Nana's. On the way I might see Mr. Junior plowing a field. Mr. Charlie was in the garden and maybe Ms. Margie and her sister Ms. Elma. If I didn't want to go to Nana's yet I could pass her lane and head to Ms. Delema's and Mr. Happy's and maybe even stop at Ms. Mills. If I were lucky all the ladies would be gathered at Ms. Mills to gossip and puff on cigarettes. Then I would venture onward to Nana's. She was likely outside on the pump box eating watermelon or maybe she was on the phone gossiping with the other ladies or she could have been picking crabs. I loved to watch her because her hands moved so fast. It was amazing to me then and still is today. (More on the ladies and their crab picking careers later.)

After Nana's I would head back to the main road. There was maybe another stop at Ms. Dessa's and then to the Fire House to see if anyone was there. After that I would see Ms. Dot (after she retired it was Mr. Leroy) at the tiny closet sized post office. It was loads of fun to hang out with Ms. Dot and help her with the mail. Then I would stop by the church and see if there was anything happening there. I would peer in the graveyard on my way to Ms. Nora's. Ms. Nora's could provide hours of entertainment. I would get a coca-cola out of the old machine and probably some candy. Then I would sit on a bench and listen to the elder men tell stories. They could gossip even more then the ladies. They were there instead of being out on their boats in the water for one reason or another. I loved sitting at Ms. Nora's. They talked with such a strange accent that sometimes you couldn't understand them, but what I heard was always entertaining.

After that it was on to the wharf. There was likely a stop at my second favorite beach (Poke's Road was my favorite), and then onto the wharf itself. There maybe was someone, like Mr. Bill, under the pavilion drinking beer. He did that nearly daily as he was quite an alcoholic. He was so pleasant and entertaining though. Once I tired of that it was on to the boat docks. Maybe someone was baiting a line. I could watch that for hours and hours. It was almost hypnotic. I don't even think they would talk much to me, but I still liked to watch them. I would look out to see if anyone was coming in because I might get lucky and see someone unloading lots of crabs. That was always fun.

I remember how excited I was when the state put in a new dock area where the boats were. I called it my boardwalk. I would fantasize about this for hours as I rode my bike back and forth on it a million times. I occasionally got a little crazy and once even dumped my bike into the marsh. My Walkman sunk and I nearly followed suit trying to rescue it.

Occasionally some big boat from "away" would come in the summer and visit the island. I remember a sailboat or two. That was super exciting. Also exciting was if the teenage boys were at the wharf jumping of the lighthouse railing. It wasn't actually a lighthouse but it was something in the water with light to guide in the boats. I don't think I ever went swimming off it but it sure was fun to watch them having fun and being crazy. It was better then them growling at me which is what they did most of the time.

It was an amazing time of freedom and childhood exuberance. A time I am very grateful for.