Making Maryland Biscuits—A Family’s Holiday Tradition

Dolores Hazel and Pat Lum beating the dough

Lum family. L–R: Mary, Melvin, Franklin, Pat, and Jack

Several weeks ago, when Jack Lum, my neighbor and Chesapeake City teammate, invited my girlfriend and me to his house for coffee and a special surprise snack, I wasn’t sure what to expect. When his wife, Barbara, let us in I heard almost at once a loud thumping and banging coming from the basement. So, concerned, I started down the basement steps, looked down and saw Jack and his brother, Pat, flailing away with the back head of heavy axes at a snake that had snuck in somehow. I mean, they were making his soon to be extinguished life miserable. But wait. I was wrong. No, it wasn’t a snake at all, and when I stepped farther down I saw that what they were violating was nothing but an innocent slab of white dough about 12 inches wide, 18 inches long, and an inch and a half thick.

It turned out that they were preparing that mysterious snack that we were invited down to eat and wash down with coffee. They were making Maryland beaten biscuits, employing the world’s most physically violent kind of activity that any recipe would call for. “Geez, Jack,” I said. “You’re sweating! What is this, some kind of weird therapy I’ve never heard of?” “Hush,” he hissed. So, wide-eyed with amazement, I hushed and descended the stairs. After a while they stopped, wiped their brows, and panted with exhaustion. “Sorry, Bob,” he gasped, “I couldn’t talk because we’d lose count. We have to bash this dough a thousand times apiece.  And, no, it’s not therapy; it’s what’ll make these biscuits taste so good.”

Eventually, after the punishment, the dough was processed further. Jack’s brother, Franklin, rolled up the dough, put it into a tub, kneaded it a bit, and rolled up pieces into golf ball-sized spheres. And then, after Jack baked them in the oven and let them cool a bit, we all, finally, with mouth-watering anticipation, sat around the table for the biscuit feast. “The reason we beat them so much is to work the lard into the flour, which turns the dough pure white,” brother Frank pointed out. “Yeah, the process for making these is pretty simple,” Jack explained. “And after they’re baked and sit for a while you can throw them right through that wall over there.” “You’re right,” Brother Pat piped up, “and you can also play 18 holes of golf with just one of them.” “You bet you can,” Barbara said, “but they don’t last very long around here.”

 Then we all sliced open our warm biscuits and saturated them with butter. On the table also were various jams, jellies, and even liverwurst. I chose the homemade strawberry jam, preserved from the berries grown in Jack’s large garden. And, do you know that, as good as that unique afternoon treat was, it wasn’t the best thing about the gathering. No, the best thing was the family’s conversation that enhanced it: an interplay of memories about old Chesapeake City and its historic canal.

Around the table were Jack, his three brothers (Melvin, Franklin, and Pat) and his sister, Mary. Also enjoying the fun were Jack’s wife, Barbara, Pat’s wife, Sharon, and Jack’s cousin, Charles. And they all expressed their own special memories. Melvin, the eldest brother, remembered the most: “Making these biscuits started with our great grandparents, Mary and Charles Carty. They lived on Biddle Street and I remember it well as a little boy. Mary used to feed the men who worked on the ferry, the pilot and the deck hands. In fact, she ran a boarding house for some of them. This would have been from 1943 until the bridge was opened for service in 1949.”

“That Gotham ferry replaced the lift bridge that was destroyed in 1942,” Franklin pointed out. “I have good memories of the old ferry, even though I was only in the first or second grade. I rode it to school and would always go up to the room at the top. The pilots knew my grandfather, so sometimes they'd let me in the pilothouse with them. In fact, I got to know some of the pilots boarding at Grandmom’s house pretty well.

            “Oh yes, I remember the ferry also, Barbara said. “Sometimes, after school, I would have to go to the post office, and I would be late and have to catch what we called the second ferry. That was when the post office was on First Street, right across from Mewhiter's drug store. Upstairs on the ferry was a big, open room, and there were metal poles down the middle of it. We kids used to play up there, swinging around those poles.” “Besides that,” Jack said, “I even remember getting on that little passenger ferry. It was the year I started school, 1942. I was six years' old and I recall the dock and how we used to get on it. On this South Side of town it would come in at City Dock, there where Capt. Hazel keeps his boat.

“You know,” Melvin explained, “I’m old enough to have vivid memories of when our lift bridge was demolished by that tanker, the Franz Klassen.” I was on the South Side at Postell's at the time. I used to deliver papers for Luther Postell. It was such a heck of a commotion. Old Luther came out of his store and said, ‘Goldarn, ain't this hail!’ And, my dad was in Elkton and they brought him down to Chesapeake because I was missing—they didn't know where I was. The family didn't have a telephone in those days, so Schaefer's people brought him across the canal to the South Side in one of their pilot boats. They came up to Postell's and found me. I also recall when the new bridge opened in 1949, how some people threw pennies at Governor Lane because he put on the Maryland sales tax. Lane was there to cut the ribbon that officially opened the bridge for traffic.” “I don’t remember that,” Mary said. “But I do recall that Mom walked me over that just-completed bridge to register for school when I was five years old.”

After a while, family members gave their hugs and said their goodbyes. And I remember being disappointed . . .  because I could have listened to those dazzling stories all night long. So these were just a few that were told that special morning, and just before we left with a bag of biscuits for home, as I sat there laughing with the laughter, I thought about the richness of that holiday tradition: a family gathering beginning with the physical exertion of creating the biscuits and ending with the enjoyment of eating them just out of the oven and, most importantly, the joy of telling once again the age-old stories of certain indelible events, events embellished by the sometimes hilarious antics of long-gone Chesapeake City characters.

Especially touching for me were the reminiscences, punctuated with laughter (always laughter), smiling faces, and body language that expressed not only their joy of being together but their genuine love for one another, highlighted by and permeated with an aura made especially meaningful because of the magical holiday season. And so, it turned out that my response when I first saw that biscuit beating was accurate. It was therapy, after all.

Editor’s note: Not long after this family gathering, Pat Lum, 64, passed away in the Christiana Hospital. Pat will be greatly missed by his wife, Sharon, as well as his other loving family members. Since he especially looked forward to reading this piece about his family, This story is dedicated to his memory. (Patrick Iler Lum — 1944-2009.)

The Daredevil of City Dock

The Daredevil of City Dock

South Chesapeake City, with Rees’ Granary at far left, circa 1950

Aerial view of the Chesapeake Boat Company, circa 1955

            I was a happy boy that day back in the early forties because I knew that Uncle Ernest would be at the farm with us for a few days. And, alert reader, I’m sure you remember the story he promised to tell me about his magic submarine and his girlfriend, Helen. But he arrived late that first day so he only had time to mention the story before he had to leave the house for what he called his “rejuvenating night of liquid entertainment.” So, that next morning, excited, I got up early just in time to see him sort of wobble through our screen door and collapse on our living room couch. Well, I knew he’d feel better later, so after breakfast I crossed the field and headed for City Dock to take a swim in the canal.

            Most of the time I swam there at the pier next to Ralph Rees’ granary, a monstrous, dilapidated shell of what it once was. I’d dive down and grab mud off the ten-foot bottom, bring it up and treading water heave it at one of my buddies, who usually saw it coming and ducked under in time. But our water skills were child’s play compared to a crazy and doomed fellow we called Gibby. Gibby was a marvel. He’d climb to the rooftop of that 30-foot granary, almost falling through the rusted tin roof, and stand there with his coal-black hair waving in the air, a human weather vane. Now, Gibby had occasional seizures—fits we called them—and when he had one he was like a wild man. I recall hearing about the last one he suffered in town. Bystanders reported that his uncontrollable frenzy culminated in his heaving a brick through Charles Tatman’s grocery store window. And so, he was sent to a special asylum in Cambridge, never to be seen and marveled at again by us local teenaged ruffians.

            But Gibby is still there in my mind’s eye, there atop that long-gone granary (its rotting pilings can still be seen at low tide. They’re just beyond the Canal Creamery that stands in its place). Oh sure, he’s still there, waving his arms histrionically for a few minutes before his swan dive into five feet of water. At which point he’d disappear and be under for a long time, maybe three minutes, and one of us would say, “My God, he’s had a fit under there!” But then, just when we were ready to panic, one of us would shout, “There he is!” And we’d all see his head bobbing somewhere way out in the canal. Or, maybe he’d emerge across the basin near the Corps’ Mindy Building.

As we watched he’d disappear again and emerge again at a spot where we’d not be looking, far from where he first was, like a crippled duck you’re chasing and trying to shoot before he dives again. Then down he’d go again, and maybe pop up out toward Schaefer’s wharf or maybe toward the North Side Ferry Slip. Strangely enough, I don’t recall that he ever returned to shore to mingle with the pedestrian antics of us amateurs assembled at City Dock. And if I didn’t know better—know about Cambridge—I’d think that he was still out there somewhere, ducking under and bobbing up just where you’d least expect him to.

            All of a sudden something clicked in my brain for I remembered that Uncle Ernest was at our house. So I ran on home, even taking the shortcut across the north field. And, sure enough, there was Unk relaxing on our porch swing. That ancient swing still hovers on the front porch today, serving our grandkids, just as it did when Pop first hung it up back in the thirties. Cousin John Sager had one just like it. He told me that they were sold by the Chesapeake Boat Company when Townsend Johnson owned it. The site is under water now, having been dredged out in the sixties when the canal was widened and deepened.

Anyway, Townsend Johnson was T.H. Johnson’s dad, and T.H. was my first Sunday school teacher. That’s right, I was five and he was six when he schooled me in how to fight with my feet, elbows, and knees. Somehow we had both crawled under a table where his lesson was indoctrinated with authority. Oh yeah, our raucous interplay caused quite a disturbance until Helen Foard separated us. So it was concerned reader that at five years old I figured that if this was what religion was about, then . . . I not only was going to like it, I was going to make the most of it. And sure, his sermon was well-presented, there on the floor amongst the dust bunnies of the Trinity Methodist Church. T.H. made sure I wouldn’t forget the lesson, even after 70 years.

So, as I was saying before T.H. interrupted, I saw Uncle Ernest on the swing, and when I flopped next to him he began telling me his promised tale. We swung gently in the quiet beauty of the afternoon as he told his story, interrupted only by his trips to the inside of the house to freshen his ice cubes. And here for your enjoyment is the true story he related to me:

“Yeah, Moose the Goose, that magic submarine carried me halfway around the world to a place called Troytown. When I got there I tied off the sub and started walking toward mid-town. Soon I came upon a horse-drawn chariot beside the road, and inside was the prettiest blonde I’d ever seen, even prettier than these beauties in Chesapeake City. But, Geez, Moose, she was crying her eyes out. So I stepped in to console her and she told me that the guy in front watering the horse was Paris, and that he had kidnapped her, had abducted her from her home and boyfriend across the bay. Her home was Spartaberg and she was homesick.

“And of course you know what I had to do: when the scoundrel stepped into the chariot I clobbered him. Then I took Helen to the sub and asked her if she wanted to be my girlfriend and come back with me to one of the greatest towns in the world, Chesapeake City. But, plastering me with a big kiss right on the lips, she cooed a while before saying with intermittent sobs of sorrow that she’d love to stay with me, her hero, but that she had to return to her boyfriend, Mendy, who was the president of her country and that she was to become his First Lady. And so, Moose, I took her back, and on the way I gazed into those light blue eyes and told her that she had the face that could launch a thousand ships. And, wow! I was glad I made up that line because I got quite a hug in return.

“When we arrived, Mendy thanked me with bows and handshakes. He said that I saved him a lot of trouble because he with his army and navy were all ready to invade Troytown to get Helen back. He said that all the ships in the entire country were stocked and ready to set sail. So then, Moose, my deed was done, and after a few more kisses and hugs I came on back to Schaefer’s Wharf.”

          And that was all for that day, because he had to get ready for another night on the town. I’ll tell you, I really admired Uncle Ernest. Here I was, a 9-year-old boy from a small town, with a true hero kin like Unk. I was mighty proud of his bravery and his irresistible ways with the ladies. The next afternoon he left, saying that the ponies at Delaware Park were calling him, whatever that meant. So, sadly, I would have to cool my heels until his next visit, just as you’ll have to cool yours, patient reader, until my next posting.

Bill’s Babe and the Return of Uncle Ernest

Bill’s Babe and the Return of Uncle Ernest

Nichol’s Restaurant, looking north towards City Dock, circa 1950

Schaefer’s Bar, One of Uncle Ernest’s favorites. L to R: Freddy Mivis, Monica Breeza, Bill Reynolds, and Beanie Beaston, circa 1940. Inset: Schaefer’s original Coaster.

  

When Uncle Ernest visited us for the second time, I wasn’t home at the farm. Oh sure, observant reader, you remember my Uncle Ernest. He’s the one who told me how he was swallowed by that catfish and taken to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. I know that Unk would never try to trick his young cousin by exaggerating his adventures. And so, I always listened carefully so I could remember them and hash them over in my mind when I couldn’t sleep at night.

          But that day when he arrived I had gone into town to dive off City Dock into the canal. That’s where Pell Gardens is now, but in the mid-forties instead of a garden it was occupied by apartment buildings and Nichols’ Restaurant. The most popular form of recreation for us Chesapeake City kids was diving off the north side of the dock and even off the east side where the ferry surged past every half hour. Grason Stubbs, who lived there in one of the apartments, used to race it in as far as the first piling. He swam so close to it that we all thought he’d be sucked under its hull.

He never beat it in, but churning water with thrashing arms and legs, he gave it a good run. Our Cecil Sisyphus, he always labored to reach his goal. In Grason’s case it was to reach the finish line first, that first ferry slip piling. So, never giving up, his triumph was in the attempt. For me he’ll always be striving alongside that ferry, his red head bobbing along with the furious water.

          But, as I started to tell you before Grason interrupted, I wasn’t home when Uncle Ernest arrived via outstretched thumb. Not knowing he was there, I had stopped off across the road from our farm to see old man Bill Herman. What made me stop to see him was a cracking, thudding sound coming from the road right next to his garden. Old Bill was in his tomato patch searching for trespassing box turtles. And when he found one he’d heave it up over the fence onto the macadam road where its shell would land with a sickening crunch.

Anyway, I stopped in and he came up to me cussing the turtles and the occasional car that sped over them. He’d look at me with his one good eye and say about the drivers, “Goldurn fools; they’ve got more money than brains—not worth the gun power it would take to blow them to Hades.” No, wait. He didn’t say Hades . . .  something close to it. So there he was looking down at me with that one-eyed, arrogant stare—tall, erect, peering down his hooked beak at me, with his one eye, for that’s all he had, his sightless eye sunken under ravaged, brown-wrinkled skin. “Well booooyeeee!” he wheezed, extending the vowels with a high-rising pitch and turning his head to spit out a lavish brown stream of tobacco juice. “You entertain Babe for a minute; I’ll be right back.”

          And so, waving his hand backwards in disgust, he limped over towards his orchard. So I ran over to watch Babe, Bill’s work horse, as she grazed. When I talked to her she trotted over to me and I saw that she was tormented by a swarm of buzzing, frenetic flies and gnats. Then, suddenly, the father of all horse flies appeared with supreme political authority. About two inches long and about the size of a man’s thumb, he established residence on Babe’s shank. Babe snorted and shivered, rippling her skin just where that ugly fly was on her body. The shiver did no good so she swished her tail with a quick slash that knocked the bugger off. If you think that swat discouraged the monster you’d be mistaken, because he landed on her again, forward, just out of the tail’s reach. Babe shivered several more times, with each shiver stronger that the one before until the last one which was almost an audible shutter. Then she stomped her hooves hard a few times . . . no good. That repulsive fly had dug in, had clung tight and snug, had buried its life-sucking head into Babes hide.

Mad and disgusted, I slid under the fence rail, ran over and smacked the sucker as hard as I could. Babe barged ahead a few feet and I saw the mangled fly embedded into her coat. Then I looked at my hand. My palm was laved with rich, bright blood—sticky and glistening radiantly in the sun—an oozing mess slowly congealing even in between my fingers. Momentarily astonished yet soon smirking with success, I just went over and wiped the mess off into the grass of Bill’s lawn, which was already alive and resplendent with expectorated tobacco juice.

          Then Babe gave a shrill whinny of gratitude and came over to the fence. Pushing her shoulder up against the top rail, she thrust her head as far as it would reach. Then she swiveled and twitched her ears and whinnied louder, sputtering her distended lips in a razz that kids do for scorn but horses do for fun. I scratched the white patch on her forehead, patted her broad, flat cheeks, and ran my hand up and down her ears, which trembled, rolled, and collapsed in response to my touch.

Bill soon returned with a large over-ripe apple. He handed it to me and gestured towards Babe. So, holding it in the palm of my hand, I offered it to her. She sniffed with her huge, quivering nostrils and enveloped it with groping, rubbery lips, which tickled the daylights out of my hand until finally she lifted it, exposing large, yellow teeth that scraped my fingers in the process. All of a sudden I heard Granny calling me for supper with that high-pitched screech of hers. So I took off for home and just about half-way up the lane I stopped and said, “Yes!” I was one lucky kid, because swaying softly on the swing of our front porch was old Uncle Ernest. He was back.

          After supper, and just before Unk left for a full night of partying at the numerous taverns in and around Chesapeake City, he told me that tomorrow he had a story to tell me about a girlfriend he once dated . . .  said her name was Helen, and that he’d met her in Troytown, a city even older than ours. He added that if she wasn’t the prettiest blonde he’d ever seen she was right in there amongst them. When he saw my eyes widen and my open mouth, he explained that back in the thirties a friendly witch led him to a magic submarine that was docked at Schaefer’s Wharf. Well, when he got aboard, it submerged and took him all the way across the seas to Troytown. And that’s when his romance with Helen began. Now, you know, I was too old to cry although I wanted to, because tomorrow was a long time to wait to hear about that adventure—a blonde beauty and a magic sub? So, I got no sleep that night with those images swirling through my head. And, patient reader, I sure hope that you’ll be able to sleep until you hear about it in a future posting.

Merryland Magic—A Love Story

Merryland Magic—A Love Story

The Merryland Roller Rink as viewed from Route 40, near Glascow, DE - circa 1960

Merryland main skating floor, with skaters preparing for the “Couples Dance.” - 1952

  

Roller skating at the Merryland Roller Rink was a joy for me as a teenager in the early fifties. The Merryland was extremely popular at that time, and my pal, Junior Digirolamo, and I would get access to a car somehow and motor up just past the Delaware line to the big, glass-fronted building. When we started we went there sometimes on Saturday afternoons, when the program was mostly “All Skate,” which meant everybody—adults alone and in pairs, senior citizens, and kids of all sizes and shapes. For the first few months Junior and I were rough, really rough. We would tear around at full speed, fall down, hit the sides of the rink, and sometimes bump into people. Soon, after many bruises and stares of derision, we started going into the two small side rooms to practice, where the noise of clashing skates and kids yelling with excitement was deafening. But there, in what we called the bull pens, we could practice turning corners and maneuvering backwards without taking out the accomplished skaters on the main floor.

 After a while we got good enough to zip around that main floor with confidence. We began attending every Saturday, bought our own skates, and worked on backward skating with only occasional spills. I even skated some in the middle of the floor where the good skaters practiced their dance routines of graceful spins and gestures. It was soon after this that roller skating at Merryland would never be the same. We were to be transformed from awkward, unkempt ruffians to civilized, well-dressed, debonair gliders whom, we hoped, girls would find irresistible. That’s right, observant reader, we prepared well for our skating event, because we now went on Saturday nights when skating became much more than skating. The event became a night of magic.

I even took a shower before the big night, brushed my teeth with vigor, and massaged gobs of a terrific substance called “wave set” into my hair. The stuff would render my wave rigid, with a petrified crust that lasted until the next day. I’d examine the mirror—lamenting the proliferating pimples staring back at me—comb my hair straight back, and use my forefinger to sculpt a classy wave into what was then an abundance of full-bodied hair. I’d dress with popular sport shirts and trousers of that era, borrow the car and a couple of dollars from Pop, and I’d be ready for a great Saturday night at the rink.

One reason why those Saturday nights were magical was that the organ music was live. Gary Tatman played the organ, and he played those ballads, waltzes, polkas, and tangos brilliantly. The most enchanting part was when Gary announced the last dance of the evening: “Couples.” That was when you would hustle to find a girl to ask to skate with you. And then, if successful, you would roll smoothly onto the floor with her on your arm. Gradually, almost subliminally, the lights were lowered and changed to a soft, romantic blue, an almost religious experience. You were immersed in glorious organ music combined with the mesmerism of soft, blue colors. Then you would glide around the oval rink with a beautiful girl at your side and think that you’d found Heaven. Readers who may have skated at Merryland will remember the richness of that evening’s delightful last dance. Then, of course, the night’s reverie would end—back to earth again with the drudgery of school and work.

I recall one particular Saturday evening before the couples finale. I was in the middle of the rink trying my backward spin when I bumped into a sweet-looking gal in a skating skirt. She was an elegant skater, who, I found out later, had taken lessons at an early age, one who could skate rings around me, literally. She wore custom, calf-high, white skates and a frivolous outfit that, try as it might, failed to disguise the natural beauty of its contents. I had collided with her fairly hard but she barely took notice as she continued to practice her dance routine. I stopped dead still and watched her determined, intent face. And I thought, of all the girls who come here, this would be the one beauty who would never consent to skate with me.

And yet, I couldn’t forget her, especially in those moments before sleep when I’d be thinking good thoughts to help me doze off. Finally, with feelings of certain failure, I convinced myself to be brave enough to ask her to skate couples with me. And, sure enough, that next Saturday when I asked her, she shook her head and said, “No, I don’t think so. I need to practice tonight.” Well, that answer gave me confidence, because she didn’t say “No way, beat it” as I expected. Yet why, I thought, would she even consider skating the most important dance of the evening with me, whose skating was sometimes an awkward misadventure? But, playing tricks with me, my mind interpreted her equivocal “I don’t think so” as an encouraging sign.

But the next Saturday night she refused again and, depressed, I cooled my heels and went home early to lick my wounds. The following Saturday night I found out that she was from my hometown, Chesapeake City. Yes! I had an in. So, keeping my eye on her, and summoning up my courage once more, I asked her yet again. “Well, sure . . . OK,” she said. Ahh, so there I was, floating around the floor with her, with my right arm around her waist and my left hand actually holding the left hand of this beauty as we skated the magnificent last dance of the evening. The lights were lowered to a subdued bluish hue as the organ played a velvety waltz. For me the aura enhanced our sense of intimacy, causing within me such a feeling of delight that shouldn’t have been permissible for a goofy teenaged boy recently evolved from Chesapeake City’s canal.

For many subsequent Saturday nights the Merryland magic belonged to us, and after a while I finally asked her to go out with me on a date. She agreed, so we set it up for the following Friday night. For sure, the date wasn’t to the Merryland but to another fine establishment, the Elkton Drive-in Theater; our entertainment would be in the seclusion of our own car. We certainly enjoyed those movies but, as time went on, we gradually became more interested in other, more pleasant, diversions, until eventually the features playing on those nights held our interest about as much as if we were watching the wind blow. There our skating disparity didn’t matter; what mattered was that we most certainly enjoyed that drive-in theater  . . . because we attended the Merryland less and less and, although together for many years now, we still prefer the more pleasing entertainment that movies can never provide.

          Just the other day I talked to her about it. “How come you agreed to skate with me that first time? And why did you go on that first date, anyway? I’ll bet it was because I was so handsome with that big, stylish wave in my hair.” “No way,” she said.” I was just tired of you pestering me.” “Well,” I asked, “what was it you liked about me then that made you keep dating me, and then, by golly, continue to stay with me for all these 60 years?” At that she looked at me, smiled, and said, “I liked the way you watched those movies at the drive-in.”