One thing, they say, leads to another. And so it is that a piece at a time a puzzle came together. To the 1940’s, when two sons of Preston, “Biggest Small Town in the USA” went into partnership to sell farm supplies, hardware and Case tractors. O.B. Blades & Clarence Phillips built a modern concrete block building halfway down what was then Maryland Avenue adjacent to an older building Mr. Blades owned. By the end of the fifties the partnership was dissolved; a body repairman named Eldon Messick rented the block building and hired a young assistant, Ducky Gadow. In the meantime, O.B.’s brother, A.T.Blades (founder and head of the mighty Preston Trucking Company) needed some space. See, even the most careful shipper occasionally damages some freight. When it happens, well, the company pays for the item and takes ownership. A.T. rented his brother’s place to store the goods. As it piled up they started opening up to the public to sell the merchandise. At some point they hired a young man with experience in the grocery business, one Bill Jones.
Eldon bought a boat, and decided he liked it better than running a body shop. Duck found himself in business for himself; it was later that Mr. Blades passed away and Dad purchased both buildings. Imagine that: a landlord to the largest business in the county! At some point he struck up a conversation with Bill next door. Their backgrounds may have been a bit different but in comparing notes they found both loved to hunt and fish. A friendship grew.
Once, in the seventies, Dad spotted a small fiberglass boat at the Preston Salvage, except it wasn’t a boat: it was the top for a high-top conversion van. The price was right so Dad went to work creating something seaworthy (or, at least, creek-worthy.) It took quite a bit of bracing with lumber to make that flimsy thing safe but, more or less, it worked.
We used to catch crabs off of the rickety wooden Hunting Creek Bridge. A length of clothesline with a chicken neck tied to the end, and a net, and you were in business. As kids, we learned the basics. Slowly, ever so gently, we’d lift that rope. “Feels heavy, Dad! I think I got one!” You had to be gentle not to lose them, and quick with the net. Once landed you better measure to make sure the crustacean is legal. My first spoken phrase, so legend says, was in answer to the question: “Bryan, how do you measure a crab?” “Point-to-point!” Hmm…might be a good title to a book someday. These days you can get free plastic measuring sticks but back then Dad made his own, from an old piece of redwood fence. I still have it. If it never again touches a crab, it will touch me. Later Dad bought some traps, ingenious wire cages that you drop in the water. When they hit bottom the sides fall open, the crab wanders in to dine on the chicken neck, and when you lift the rope the sides close shut. A lot less drama for 7 year old boys; now I can’t mess up! And so it was that at some point before the seventies were in the history book Gadow & Son were motoring up Hunting Creek, a string of crab traps spread out just north of the bridge with old bleach jugs for floats. As Dad worked a fussy 7.5 horse Chrysler outboard, young Bryan reached his little hand down into the warm waters and grabbed for the rope hanging from the float. Sometimes he’d miss, but Dad never complained; we just made another pass.
Professional crabbers looked down their noses at “chicken-neckers”. Bill Jones was not a chicken-necker. It was the eighties. The man my Dad always called “Jonesy” had a ‘72 Mako 17 center console with a 100 horse Evinrude, a “real” boat. And he had trot lines. What are they? I don’t know how long they were but would I be wrong to guess a half-mile? A short length of eel was cut up and tied to the line, perhaps every 18”. To each end was a heavy chain hooked to an iron weight, to hold it down, and a 5 gallon pesticide jug as a float (so you could find and grab it.) The line was stored in a big plastic trash can. Saturday morning Bill would toss the weight and float out the back of that Mako then idle along as the line sped off into the waters stirring behind us. After a bit of time he’d motor back to the beginning and idle that Evinrude up to the start, grab that rope and lift it up on a home-brew roller hanging off the side of the boat. Bill had fashioned it using rubber rollers from an old wringer washer and he expressed concern just once about what he would do when they wore out. For some reason this remained a constant concern to me: what would Bill do, what would he do?
Slowly the baited line lifted up out of the water, over the roller and back down beneath the sea. Crabs are a greedy sort so they will blindly continue eating while they ride this escalator. Be ready with your net; on a good day you can fill a basket quick. I can remember days when the catch was so great I can only assume they must have sold their excess. “Real” crabbers, the sort who rely on the water to pay the mortgage, change the bait daily. The old fashioned waterman would have his wife do it in the afternoon after he got back in, but Bill just dumped rock salt all over the line as it was put away each day. Eventually Jonesy tied the two lines together; we were starting to look like we knew what we were doing (or, at least, Bill was!)
Bill and Dad and me, every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday, too. Always, as I recall, the same spot, where the crabs were the fattest: the Miles River, on a straight length of water just off a skinny peninsula. None of us knew who lived there, in that fancy house with snazzy cars, but the men came up with a name and it stuck. I can’t exactly bring myself to repeat it to you here but…they decided this fellow was so rich that he had two of everything. I don’t guess his given name really was Richard, but they called him Double…
Yeah, I learned some things. Sat back and absorbed. I rarely worked the line, never ran the boat. Didn’t say much. Listened. Two men, blowing off steam with good, clean fun on the weekend. The conversation never turned to politics or religion. Dad might have been worried sick about his business; Bill’s darling little daughter was fighting cancer, and don’t think that wasn’t on his mind. They talked about those things sometimes, and gave a little encouragement to each other. But mostly, they told tales, made each other laugh, and soaked in the day. I heard stories these fellas would never tell their girls, like what made Dad cut a date short one night, or what happened to Bill’s hat the day he skipped school. Not yet recognizing the beauty found in the sound of silence, this young teen would take along his boombox so he could listen to American Country Countdown while we ran the line. Jonesy liked the lyric “I can run a trot line” from the song, “A Country Boy Can Survive”. He also had some good comments to go with Charlie Pride’s “I’m Gonna Love Her on the Radio” but we won’t go there.
It seemed as though there might have been a thousand of those summer days, though I now realize those days numbered only in the dozens. There was a first time, one I don’t remember, nor do I know when the last trip came. They all run together, simple memories like running my hand down into the ice in the cooler to grab a root beer (or a Natural Lite for my companions). The food was great, as terrible as it was. Something about a cold honey bun, or roast beef sandwich, fresh out of the Igloo. Earlier today I cracked up at a memory: whenever anything would go wrong, like a sudden rainstorm or a motor that wouldn’t start or something flying overboard, oh, I can hear it now in Jonesy’s voice, echoing the old beer commercial: “Well, boys, it just don’t get no better than this!” I can still hear him cackling!
It’s over now, you know. Never again will Bryan & Ducky & Bill go crabbing down to Miles. The body shop is gone. Dad has gone to his reward. The salvage store moved across town and later Jonesy came to own it. He’s retired now; I don’t run into him much anymore. Way back when, he used to tell me I’d have to grow up and write a book about those exploits. I might get there yet.
As for that Hank, Jr. song, well, I never was much good with a gun. Never owned a four wheel drive. Don’t have much of a green thumb. Don’t drink whiskey, don’t roll smokes. Well, heck what good am I? Hey, Dad. Hey, Mr. Bill. Thanks.
I can run a trot line.
I want to thank Bryan for this article, it brought back a lot of memories. I remember all of this and his dad ,Ducky, is my son’s godfather. We spent a lot of time with his mom and dad. I miss Duck, even though over the years as our family was growing we all drifted apart. I think of him often, again thanks for the memories.