One thing that the eastern shore of Maryland has that is unique, is the seemingly endlass salt marshes. Winding waterways that take you back into a maze of narrow paths just wide enough for a small shallow draft boat. The marshes were havens for fugitive outlaws, runaway slaves, and smugglers. Hidden in the marshes are isolated dry spots of higher ground with patches of woods, and the occasional abandoned shack, and sometimes the not so abandoned shack.
It became the usual thing to go to the shore for the summer, and I could hardly wait for the school year to end so I could be off to help my grandad man the Lady Anne. That my grandad needed my help was something I was sure of, as he seemed to enjoy introducing me to the hard labor of being a waterman. That he had Jackson to help him made no difference in my thinking, but that he had a hired hand on the Lady Anne, made it possable for me to go off on occasion with my cousin Barry, or Uncle Pat on some mis-adventure. Jackson was as grizzled as my grandad, and the two of them could get it done in a squall.
My uncle Pat was grandads youngest son, my fathers younger brother and a trial for the family. As much as my dad was sober as a church warden, (exept for the occasional toddy) uncle Pat was a hopeless alcoholic. He was a lovable kind of charater, the kind of harmless drunk that loves everyone, and in times of sobriety is grievously sorry for letting you down. He would work once in a while, crewing on some boat untill the day after payday when he would be too in the cups to remember to get out of bed. But he was my uncle Pat and I loved him. Sometimes that love led too far.
Being down and out alot of times uncle Pat would scheme how to make some money. Sometimes in the old days, market hunters would kill ducks to sell to the resturuants in Baltimore. Uncle Pat got it in his head to build a punt gun to shoot a large number of ducks to sell. He made a replica of a large punt gun to shoot black powder. For those of you who don't know, a punt gun is a small cannon that was mounted in a punt (square ended boat like a john boat) and set off to shoot a large number of ducks with one masive blast of shot. This was done while they were sitting on the water, and approached by stealth.
This one Christmas season I got to spend a large amout of the holiday down at the shore, and Uncle Pat had got his cannon made out of some scrap material. To this day I'm not sure how he got me to go along with it, but one dark cold night we put it in his wooden punt and rowed out to the marsh. Even at the age of 14, I had serious misgivings about this venture of poaching for ducks in the manner of the old market hunters.
We arrived at the scene of the future crime to be, after a cold hour of rowing against a biting wind. I was sure my hands were permanantly frozen in the shape of the oar. There were ducks sitting on the water in the pale light of a half moon, and uncle Pat aimed the boat in thier direction. I watched as he put a large amount of black powder down the barrel, and then a equally large amount of shot. The gun was the length of the boat with the butt rested against the stern transom. Uncle Pat set the gun off.
I thought it strange that an instant after the thunder of the report, and a cloud of white smoke I should feel such cold around my ankles. Then my shins.
The recoil of the gun had rammed back with such force that it shoved out the transom of the punt, and it settled rapidly in the cold water. The dog with us, a liver colored Chesapeake retriever named Sam decided he was out of there and was making toward shore with all haste, leaving a wake behind. Uncle Pat was yelling "Get the gun, get the gun" while I decided to follow the dog. It struck me that Sam was the smartest one out there. Its an amazing thing that water could be so cold and not be ice. The punt sunk, and we regrouped on shore. That night I became a believer in multible layers of wool clothing. We headed for home at a brisk pace and it was a miserable walk. Sam did'nt seem to mind at all, and I never let my uncle Pat talk me into anything again. When I explained to grandad and grandmom why I was soaking wet with a layer of ice on my coat, grandad did some of his very artistic cussing. Uncle Pat stayed gone for a few days. I think he was afraid of grandads anger, but that night I got to have a warm whiskey toddy. That made it worthwhile. What is it about a steaming hot mug of tea, whiskey, honey, and a touch of lemon?
But the best thing about the marshes was that it gave a good side job for my cousin Barry. In the city or suburbs at that time a kid in search of some money could have a paper route, or work at a drug store. But the kids down on the eastern shore had traplines. It seems there was a market for muskrat pelts, and Barry had a trap line. We'd shove off real early in the morning in a john boat with a little Evinrude on the back of it about the size of the common kitchen counter food blender. Barry had a single shot bolt action .22 that went along, and he'd dispatch any still living muskrat. The first time I saw a muskrat skinned I was amazed at how fast it could be done. Even a few years ago, they would have contests on muskrat skinning, and the top guys were in the 20 somethng second range. Barry had his pocket knife real sharp, and it took him a minute or so. Sometimes he'd use an old carbon steel paring knife he'd really thinned and sharpened the blade on, but mostly he just use what ever was in his pockets. Most of the boys down there had a barlow by Imperial, or Colonial. They had thin carbon blades and worked well.
At that time, about 1954 or so, there was a surplus store in Silver Spring Maryalnd near were we lived called Sonys Surplus. At that time it was a real army-navy store with real items, not the made in china stuff like you see today. I had bought a real U.S. issue GI pocket knife, the one like a scout knife with the stainless steel handles, and I had that down there on the muskrat trip. Barry tought me to skin muskrat, and I had the GI scout knife sharp enough that it did well. He told me I was okay for being a city boy. Barry was two years older than me, waterman born and bred, and I took that as high compliment.
It was like an adventure out of Twains Huck Finn, to be prowling around the salt marshes with my cousin. The amount of wildlife was unreal. Hawks, ospreys, deer, fox, even a bald eagle sitting in a dead tree just watching the marsh. I think I would like to move down there for my retirement to be near the water again. I've always loved the plaintive cry of the sea gulls.
How sad that so many of the kids now grow up in townhouse communities, hang out at malls, play video games and never experiance the wild places. To be out someplace where you can live of the land trapping and fishing, and see nature in all its glory. What a bland life the next generation is going to lead.
It became the usual thing to go to the shore for the summer, and I could hardly wait for the school year to end so I could be off to help my grandad man the Lady Anne. That my grandad needed my help was something I was sure of, as he seemed to enjoy introducing me to the hard labor of being a waterman. That he had Jackson to help him made no difference in my thinking, but that he had a hired hand on the Lady Anne, made it possable for me to go off on occasion with my cousin Barry, or Uncle Pat on some mis-adventure. Jackson was as grizzled as my grandad, and the two of them could get it done in a squall.
My uncle Pat was grandads youngest son, my fathers younger brother and a trial for the family. As much as my dad was sober as a church warden, (exept for the occasional toddy) uncle Pat was a hopeless alcoholic. He was a lovable kind of charater, the kind of harmless drunk that loves everyone, and in times of sobriety is grievously sorry for letting you down. He would work once in a while, crewing on some boat untill the day after payday when he would be too in the cups to remember to get out of bed. But he was my uncle Pat and I loved him. Sometimes that love led too far.
Being down and out alot of times uncle Pat would scheme how to make some money. Sometimes in the old days, market hunters would kill ducks to sell to the resturuants in Baltimore. Uncle Pat got it in his head to build a punt gun to shoot a large number of ducks to sell. He made a replica of a large punt gun to shoot black powder. For those of you who don't know, a punt gun is a small cannon that was mounted in a punt (square ended boat like a john boat) and set off to shoot a large number of ducks with one masive blast of shot. This was done while they were sitting on the water, and approached by stealth.
This one Christmas season I got to spend a large amout of the holiday down at the shore, and Uncle Pat had got his cannon made out of some scrap material. To this day I'm not sure how he got me to go along with it, but one dark cold night we put it in his wooden punt and rowed out to the marsh. Even at the age of 14, I had serious misgivings about this venture of poaching for ducks in the manner of the old market hunters.
We arrived at the scene of the future crime to be, after a cold hour of rowing against a biting wind. I was sure my hands were permanantly frozen in the shape of the oar. There were ducks sitting on the water in the pale light of a half moon, and uncle Pat aimed the boat in thier direction. I watched as he put a large amount of black powder down the barrel, and then a equally large amount of shot. The gun was the length of the boat with the butt rested against the stern transom. Uncle Pat set the gun off.
I thought it strange that an instant after the thunder of the report, and a cloud of white smoke I should feel such cold around my ankles. Then my shins.
The recoil of the gun had rammed back with such force that it shoved out the transom of the punt, and it settled rapidly in the cold water. The dog with us, a liver colored Chesapeake retriever named Sam decided he was out of there and was making toward shore with all haste, leaving a wake behind. Uncle Pat was yelling "Get the gun, get the gun" while I decided to follow the dog. It struck me that Sam was the smartest one out there. Its an amazing thing that water could be so cold and not be ice. The punt sunk, and we regrouped on shore. That night I became a believer in multible layers of wool clothing. We headed for home at a brisk pace and it was a miserable walk. Sam did'nt seem to mind at all, and I never let my uncle Pat talk me into anything again. When I explained to grandad and grandmom why I was soaking wet with a layer of ice on my coat, grandad did some of his very artistic cussing. Uncle Pat stayed gone for a few days. I think he was afraid of grandads anger, but that night I got to have a warm whiskey toddy. That made it worthwhile. What is it about a steaming hot mug of tea, whiskey, honey, and a touch of lemon?
But the best thing about the marshes was that it gave a good side job for my cousin Barry. In the city or suburbs at that time a kid in search of some money could have a paper route, or work at a drug store. But the kids down on the eastern shore had traplines. It seems there was a market for muskrat pelts, and Barry had a trap line. We'd shove off real early in the morning in a john boat with a little Evinrude on the back of it about the size of the common kitchen counter food blender. Barry had a single shot bolt action .22 that went along, and he'd dispatch any still living muskrat. The first time I saw a muskrat skinned I was amazed at how fast it could be done. Even a few years ago, they would have contests on muskrat skinning, and the top guys were in the 20 somethng second range. Barry had his pocket knife real sharp, and it took him a minute or so. Sometimes he'd use an old carbon steel paring knife he'd really thinned and sharpened the blade on, but mostly he just use what ever was in his pockets. Most of the boys down there had a barlow by Imperial, or Colonial. They had thin carbon blades and worked well.
At that time, about 1954 or so, there was a surplus store in Silver Spring Maryalnd near were we lived called Sonys Surplus. At that time it was a real army-navy store with real items, not the made in china stuff like you see today. I had bought a real U.S. issue GI pocket knife, the one like a scout knife with the stainless steel handles, and I had that down there on the muskrat trip. Barry tought me to skin muskrat, and I had the GI scout knife sharp enough that it did well. He told me I was okay for being a city boy. Barry was two years older than me, waterman born and bred, and I took that as high compliment.
It was like an adventure out of Twains Huck Finn, to be prowling around the salt marshes with my cousin. The amount of wildlife was unreal. Hawks, ospreys, deer, fox, even a bald eagle sitting in a dead tree just watching the marsh. I think I would like to move down there for my retirement to be near the water again. I've always loved the plaintive cry of the sea gulls.
How sad that so many of the kids now grow up in townhouse communities, hang out at malls, play video games and never experiance the wild places. To be out someplace where you can live of the land trapping and fishing, and see nature in all its glory. What a bland life the next generation is going to lead.
