Never Eat a Relative or an Old Groundhog

Never Eat a Relative or an Old Groundhog

 Wiggsey, a dog for all seasons, with friend

An old Groundhog, quite a fighter - but don't add him to the menu

No matter how old a guy gets, he never forgets his boyhood dog. Mine was Wiggsey, a big, gentle Chesapeake Bay retriever. That was back in the mid forties when, at suppertime, Wiggsey would always be under our table, thumping the chair legs and ours with the wag of his anticipating tail. He was on the alert for scraps that I’d toss under to him as I bent over to see him catch them with a snap of his jaws before they hit the floor. Near supper’s end he’d lick my offered plate so clean that (as my ten-year-old mind imagined) it made less work for Granny since she could place it right back on the shelf, clean as a whistle. Wiggsey had other fine under-table advantages; he was a handy, thick-coated portable napkin that I could reach down to wipe my hands on whenever we had ribs or fried chicken.

Besides being a domestic marvel, he was a terrific fighter. Let me take you back to a day just after Hitler and Tojo’s war, when Wiggsey executed a battle that dog owners dream about even today. I had mounted my bike from behind with a leap that would have made Tom Mix envious, and sped so fast through the garden path that the chicken house and corn crib were peripheral blurs. I entered the woods near our ancestral dump and burned weeds and grass as I slid to a stop. But even at full speed I trailed Wiggsey, who had beaten me to the deep woods. So, winded, I sat there for a while looking up at our hickory tree, just soaking up the sounds and smells of the woods. Then I saw him, a large squirrel, scampering from one branch to another. And there I was without my shotgun. Squirrel stew—Granny’s specialty—was a treat in those glory days of youth.

Surprisingly, he hadn’t seen me yet, so he flicked his tail and darted his head back and forth with quick, twitching movements. Then he descended head first and jumped effortlessly ahead thirty feet into the brush. He leaped up onto a sapling and started spinning around sideways, a gray blur of fur. He stopped and scratched his side ritualistically with his hind foot, and crouched absolutely motionless for a while, with his tail curled up like a question mark and his mid-section bent double.

When I moved my handlebars, snapping a twig, he jumped to another tree and skittered up into the leaves like a bullet. He leapt from high branch to high branch in his retreat and every time the branch would sag with his weight and spring back as he bounded off. The result was a frenzy of tremulous leaves, as he withdrew deeper and deeper into the woods until he disappeared from view. Even if Wiggsey could climb trees he’d never catch that beauty.

            Then I entered the deep woods and came upon a Wiggsey I hadn’t seen before. He was weaving back and forth with his tail in the air and emitting a ferocious growl that told me he meant business. Then I saw why. He had a huge, menacing groundhog up against the trunk of a dead chestnut tree. Then the battle began, with Wiggsey lunging in and the hog standing his ground with bared, snapping teeth and raking claws. The savage sounds of battle startled my senses—the hissing, snapping and grunting of the hog combined with Wiggsey’s snarling, growling and battering. I had no idea how violently my gentle, under-table napkin could fight. It was a long, furious encounter and I was amazed that a groundhog, considerably outweighed, could fight so valiantly, not giving in until Wiggsey pounced to deliver a crunching shake of death.

            A bloody yet jubilant Wiggsey, delighted with his conquest, circled and snapped at the dead warrior as, with effort, I lugged the carcass up to the house. And do you know that after skinning, gutting, and cutting him up, and after pleading my heart out with Granny, she finally agreed to bake him for dinner. And yet, regretfully, I must tell you gastronomically astute readers that I do not recommend the flesh of a large groundhog; if it’s ever offered to you, pass it by because, if my pallet is any judge, It’s the strongest taste of any wild game by far. We fed the remains of the meal to Wiggsey who, employing the practice of certain primitive tribes of ingesting the flesh of their defeated yet formidable enemies in order to take on their combative traits, ate gleefully the portions that we doled out to him over the next few days.

            Besides the woods themselves, I loved to play in the streams that crisscrossed through them. There were frogs aplenty living in the water and I had great fun trying to catch them. I’d sneak up to the stream and hear a sudden plop, and I’d know that I’d scared one of them from the bank or shore line. I’d watch the circle widen where he had entered and knew that he’d come up somewhere on the other side. And, sure enough, after a while when he ran out of air, if I looked closely I’d see those frog eyes and that frog nose emerge just where the water met the shore. Then, if I was quiet and quick enough, I could catch him, play with him for a while, and then let him leap off my palm back into the stream.

            One time, in one of the dammed-up areas of the stream, I caught an enormous bullfrog, one whose legs I knew would make good eating. But I must tell you to brace yourself for what happened when Granny placed the dressed legs into the sizzling lard of the frying pan. Well, those legs started quivering and twitching to beat the band, and within just a few seconds they hopped out onto the kitchen floor, one after the other. And as they hopped around Granny and I hopped after them. I had never seen Granny hop like that before, so, distracted by the spectacle, my heart really wasn’t into the chase. Pretty soon those legs found an open window and vaulted out through it, side by side. Granny and I looked at each other and then dashed out through the door after them. But do you know that we never did find those clever legs. Till this day I don’t know where they went, and if any of you concerned readers who might understand frogs could help me solve the mystery, I’d be extremely grateful.

            But you should know that I’ve learned to live with the distress of being outsmarted by that pair of disembodied legs, and recently I was telling my sister-in-law about eating squirrels, groundhogs, frog legs, and other exotic dishes. She listened with interest as I finished by making a remark about monkeys. And then, sensitive reader, she replied with a quip that I know you’d never make to a family member. In fact, my ears still smart from the audacity of her retort, one that reduced me to a sad and humble guy. What I said was: “I’d eat almost any animal but never a monkey because it would be like eating a relative.” Her reply was as quick as the twitch of a squirrel’s tail: “That’s right,” she said. “Yours!” 

Sledding on the Canal—Summer of 1950

Sledding on the Canal—Summer of 1950

 The Chesapeake Boat Company at left center, west view – circa 1950

What’s left of the sea sled, with writer’s grandson, Will “Moose the Goose” Kropp enjoying an imaginary ride

            If somebody had told me that you could sled on our canal in the summertime, I’d have called them names for stretching the truth. And yet, one July afternoon in 1950 I saw it happen with my own eyes. I had just started working for Fronzie at the Chesapeake Boat Company. My pal, Joe Hotra, was working there and when I went to see him I pitched in and, by golly, old Fronzie took me on. At fourteen I was more interested in goofing off than working, so that whole summer the former won out over the latter and my meager pay was the result.

          I was given some ugly jobs, and I must tell you, discerning reader, that if your boss ever tells you to move creosote logs through the water by pushing them as you swim, well . . . don’t do it. Tell him to do it, because that creosote will burn something awful. And, another thing, if you’re forced to do it, be sure not to do it in the nude; that stuff will burn especially sensitive parts of your body.

Fronzie sure was a slave driver, and I was only able to get even with him once. According to Joe, I was moving a large battery from a boat to the pier when it slipped out of my hands and landed on Fronzie’s big toe. Joe told me that he thought he had heard all the bad words, but that Fronzie schooled him with a few new ones that day. But, most of the time, Fronzie got the upper hand. One example is when I dropped the heavy, unwieldy bilge pump overboard into ten feet of water. When that bugger slipped between the yacht and the pier and plunged in, I didn’t know what to do. It was expensive and I knew I’d be fired or worse, so I clenched the end of a rope in my teeth and dove in after it. I had to go down twice before I found it so I could tie the rope fast and haul it back up. And do you know that after a few pulls the engine actually started and ran perfectly. And, unless he reads this, Fronzie will never know how I almost ruined his pump.

I’ll bet, patient reader, that you think I’ve forgotten about sledding on the canal. Well, I haven’t, and when I get a chance I’ll tell you about it. But first let me relate, sadly, what pal Joey did to me one infamous day that summer. We were up by the boat hanger scraping barnacles off a boat’s bottom, and I must have cussed him with exceptional intensity because, all of a sudden he grabbed me, picked me up like a sack of potatoes, carried me to the canal, and tossed me in.

You know how it is when you have something awkward and offensive in your arms and you just can't wait to get rid of it? Well, that must have been how Joe felt, because he drew back and hurled me like a bag full of stinking garbage into the canal—good riddance. "There!" he said, and stalked on back towards the hanger. But, oh yeah, I outsmarted him. I only got wet up to my butt—didn't go in over my head. And yet, feeling pretty miserable, I waded on in to shore and went back to another job, as far away from Joe as possible.

I wonder if any of you ever got thrown in the river with all your clothes on. I hope not, because although it happened 65 years ago, I still feel pretty humiliated. It was embarrassing—no, not embarrassing so much . . . undignified is more like it. Joe was the only one who saw it, and I think it was definitely impolite of him to do such a thing to an innocent pal. Don't you?

Several years ago, two months before he died, we met for lunch and talked for a couple of hours about the exciting times we had growing up in the Chesapeake City area. I asked him if he remembered tossing me in the drink. He said he didn’t, although I think he lied to keep me from feeling bad, because how could a guy forget carrying his simple sidekick to the canal shore and heaving him in? I'd never forget a thing like that. Would you?

Well now, with those irritating interruptions out of the way, I can now return to the sledding adventure. Yes indeed, I can remember clearly the first time I saw that sea sled skimming jauntily across the water—beautiful! It was a Saturday afternoon and I was painting myself along with the bottom of Dave Braunstein’s cabin cruiser. As I sloshed the paint, I kept hearing the buzz of an outboard motor, so I took a breather and walked down to the water’s edge to check it out.

          It turned out to be the sea sled, with a guy having the time of his life as he sped faster than a speed boat. As I watched he pulled into shore and hauled the boat high up into the sand. He was Joe’s brother, John, and he asked me to keep an eye on it while he kept it there for a while. I noticed that the engine was only a 12 horse-power Sea King and John said that it pushed the sled about 30 miles per hour and that he made the boat himself. It was five feet wide, nine feet long, and could hold two people.

          Well, I’ll tell you, I was envious, and thought to myself, “If he could make a neat boat like that then so could I.” So, using his as a model, I wrote down all of the measurements. The next day I got my money together and swam across the canal to the E. J. Walls Lumber Yard. In 1950 it was just west of Schaefer’s Restaurant, where the condos are now. Later that day the lumber was delivered and during the next month I built, caulked, and painted my sea sled. I worked late into the night and sometimes my pop would come and make me quit.

          But the finished product was beautiful and I couldn’t wait to launch it to try it out. When I dragged it to the water I had a scare—it leaked! Geez, was I worried after all that work. But, just as Pop predicted, in two days the boards swelled together and it was fine, requiring only an occasional bailing. Then, the next Saturday, Pop took me to Montgomery Ward’s in Baltimore, where we bought a 12-horse Sea King outboard motor, just like John Hotra’s. Soon after that I was speeding through the canal in my new sea sled, the happiest teenager on the planet.

          Making that boat was the only thing I did right that summer. And Joe took notice. He also took notice of how nice my sea sled was and how cheap it was to build. He decided to build one, and to do me one better he would build it cheaper. Whereas I spent a month on mine, Joe spent only one week. And, believe it or not, he built it out of knotty pine lumber. And he didn’t even bother to paint it before the launching. And sure . . . you know what happened; Joe and I watched as it sank slowly to the bottom, never to rise again. As far as I can tell, it was the only time during that summer of 1950 that Joe did anything wrong.

Uncle Ernest’s Ride —a Catfish Tale

Uncle Ernest’s Ride —a Catfish Tale

The Harriott Hotel (Bayard House), site of Chesapeake City’s famous Hole in the Wall Bar

View from atop the Chesapeake City Lift Bridge, looking south. Note: George Street and Rio Theater building at bottom left, circa 1941

         I had the surprise of my 8-year-old life when I heard that my Uncle Ernest was swallowed by a catfish. The bugger gulped him down just below our lift bridge, right in our own canal. He told me about it one July afternoon that would have been so boring had he not been there swinging with me on our front porch. He was from Wilmington, Delaware, a true city boy, and studied the Delaware Park racing forms with the intensity of a PhD candidate.       He was “between jobs” and stayed with us till fall, occupying the couch next to the south window. The couch, however, got little use because Uncle Ernest almost always got back at dawn and chose to recline upon the wooden lawn chair beneath our huge shade tree, languishing there until noon, when the cattle flies chased him inside.  He was supposed to have been helping with the farming that summer in 1941. He talked about it but somehow was too busy scouting out the Chesapeake City area beer gardens and becoming buddies with the regular customers and proprietors of those numerous establishments.

          On that afternoon he was in high spirits and rattled and swirled the ice cubes in his glass as he told me what happened when that fish took him prisoner. His favorite hangout was Bill Harriott’s Hole-in-the-Wall bar (now the Bayard House), where he told Birdie the Bartender that he decided to jump off yon lift bridge just for the fun of it. And, sure enough, five minutes after he left Birdie saw him at the top of the span, ready to leap. Busy with customers, Birdie didn’t see him jump, and when he looked back Uncle Ernest was not in sight. What happened next only Uncle Ernest knew and, as we glided softly back and forth on that humid July afternoon so many years ago, he let me in on it.

          “That’s right, Moose-the-Goose,” he began, “I’d always had an urge to jump off that bridge, so I did. I’ll admit that I was scared up there, but I took off all my clothes except my fatigue shorts, tip-toed to the edge, held my nose, and jumped. I hit the water straight and went down deep. Then an amazing thing happened. I saw a hideous creature about two feet from my head. I had never seen anything that ugly, not even in Cecil County. It was the wide-open mouth of a Chesapeake Bay catfish. My guess is that it was about 12 feet long. I just picked up the sight of its whiskers and the large dorsal fin before it gulped me down. That was all I saw because I blacked out and when I woke up I was inside his belly, where it was slimy and black as a coal bin. What a feeling! I listened in horror to the deep gurgling of his digestive system. Then his tail started undulating forcefully so I knew he was swimming somewhere fast.

          “Enjoying the ride, I cooled my heels for a while and then started puffing several cigars that I had stored in a plastic bag in my pocket. When I flicked on my lighter I saw some sardines sloshing around at my feet. I hesitate to tell you this but I ate a couple; I was so hungry. After that I smoked the cigars down to a 1-inch butt and ground each red-hot tip into the monster’s tonsils. Well, with the last one he began coughing and then sneezed me out to the surface. My boy, I was treading water in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, next to the USS Constellation. Do you believe that that catty took me about 50 miles under water? In no time I climbed out of that polluted water and swaggered down Pratt Street, where I befriended Ed, a little guy who bragged that he was a poet and planned to write a great poem entitled ‘The Crow.’ He said it would be about a big black bird that flew into his house at midnight. Sure, I knew he was goofy but I liked him anyway. We took a walk through the city and eventually came upon a baseball field next to a beer garden.

          “As we strolled past a kid yelled, ‘Hey, youse guys! Come the hail over here, will ya?’ When we looked over we saw a guy standing by a wire backstop with a baseball in his right hand and a bat in his left. When we walked onto the diamond we saw a husky boy wearing a funny-looking cap and knickers. He was young, about 14 or 15, with a broad, flat nose and thick lips. As we walked up to him I could see that he had a determined look in his eyes. Playfully bouncing the ball off his bicep, he said, ‘Do you wanna have some fun?’ When Ed and I nodded he grinned and said, ‘All right then, you pitch to me Bud, and you Shorty,’ patting Ed on the shoulder, ‘run out into right field and shag the flies.’ Well, goofy Ed scampered out about 300 feet and I climbed the mound with a bucket of balls. Luckily, I had a good arm then, sometimes firing that apple over 90 miles an hour.

          “But do you know, that kid busted those balls way beyond right field into the bushes, causing Ed all kinds of trouble trying to find them. I’ve never seen anybody hit a ball that far! When we finished I shook the kid’s hand and told him to get on an organized team somewhere. He grinned and bragged that some scout from Boston was supposed to talk to his dad, who owned the bar next door, about signing him to a contract. He said his name was George and I told him that with a bat like that he should be able to make a little money with a pro team. But, I suspect,” Uncle Ernest said, finishing his story, “that he just stayed and took over his father’s liquor business.”

          “After that though,” he continued, “the big city lost its charm, especially since my cash flow had stagnated, so I went on down to the Light Street dock and slipped into the cargo hold of the Lord Baltimore steamer. I knew from the posted schedule that she was headed for points east, which meant good old Chesapeake City. And when she sailed under the bridge and pulled in at Rees’ Wharf, I snuck off, got astride shank’s mare and lumbered on back here to my kinfolks.” With that, Uncle Ernest slid off the swing and went inside to prepare for a night of partying. And I remember thinking at the time that maybe he was stretching the truth a bit with that fish story, but I thought, “nahh, he’d never want to trick his little nephew about a thing like that.”

          And so, as time passed, Uncle Ernest continued to have pressing matters to attend to besides helping on the farm, and it hurts me to tell you that later that summer an incredibly sad thing happened: Uncle Ernest fantasized that he was a hyena. That’s right, and we were all worried about him because he would run around the farm on all fours, barking and howling. He would come to the window at night when we were all listening to the radio, and look in with his tongue hanging out with a big, idiotic grin on his face, and jump up and down over and over again. In the daytime he'd chase the settin' hens all around the farm, and sometimes he'd climb into the pig pen and howl at the startled hogs. And, sympathetic reader, you must know that those were extremely difficult times—depression times, in fact. Nobody had any money so we couldn't afford to send him to a doctor. And besides . . . we needed the laughs.

Port Herman Beach and Uncle Ernest’s Famous Redhead

Port Herman Beach and Uncle Ernest’s Famous Redhead

Freighter similar to the one Uncle Ernest said he leaped from. Schaefer’s Wharf is hidden by the ship. Photo circa 1936

Port Herman Beach (circa 1950), viewed from the diving float. Note wharf at far left and cabins on the shore

Port Herman Beach and Uncle Ernest’s Famous Redhead

I have to admit that I was hard-pressed recently because I couldn’t think of a story to post. So, seated outside in the shade of our giant maple tree, I scribbled down a bunch of words, and just as I poked my pen to my lips, thinking, “Humm, what next,” a tiny bug landed on my sheet, a nearly imperceptible speck with apparently no feet. But I knew he had a set because he glided to the top, paused to taste the ink I suppose, and then coasted slowly down and carefully scanned the two or three hundred words I had just forced on the paper. Then he hurried back up the page, (I hadn’t the heart to brush him off) and when he reached the top he hesitated a bit before fluttering his wings and lifting off into oblivion. So, I thought, I hope he liked what he read. Even the most diminutive kind of feedback seemed good to me.

But no! Wait! When I looked closer I saw that he’d left a dark deposit, a comment, a sort of grade that made me go over those sentences again with a clearer head. And, sure, it was a sorry mess, so I crossed it out and thought of something better, because even a small-minded critic knows bad scribbling that would surely disappoint the large-minded readers. And so, here’s what I rewrote for this post. I think the bug would approve and I hope you will too.

The one time every summer when I made sure I went to Sunday school was the Sunday before the First Presbyterian Church’s annual picnic at Port Herman Beach, that great swimming spot on the Elk River. The church was (and still is) on Biddle Street of Chesapeake City’s North Side. We kids would all pile into the back of a car or, better yet, climb into the back of a pickup truck for the breezy three-mile ride to swim, eat, and have a terrific time. We usually had to stop at Archie Crawford’s Texaco station for gas before crossing on the ferry and eventually turning onto Town Point Road on the way to Port Herman Beach.

Bob Fears owned the beach and as I recall charged a fifty-cent daily fee. He had a long, screened-in pavilion for the picnics, a bath house, and a concession stand. And floating out about sixty feet on the water was a square raft anchored in about four or five feet of water. That’s where we kids would jump, dive, and have the time of our lives. Diving in could be a problem, because if you went down too far you’d ooze into a mass of black, smelly mud. One time by best buddy, Junior Digirolamo, dove down in and got stuck. His feet were thrashing just above the water and when we tugged him out of there he looked like some monster from the marshlands with all that mud covering his head. And do you know that it was well after he was out of his teenage years and married with kids of his own that Junior ever had to make do with even a little dab of Bryll Cream for his hair.

When I got back to the farm Uncle Ernest had just arrived and, before he took off to catch the ferry to Hattie’s Inn for a night of liquid entertainment with his Ticktown pals, he told me about his special redhead. “Oh, she was a beauty all right, Moose-the-Goose. Her name was Mealia and she was a lady flyer back in the thirties when they flew those flimsy biplanes. She was the first girl to pilot one across the Atlantic and she was trying to fly above the equator around the world. When she landed at New Orleans I walked up to talk to her. She was so pretty, even in that flying jacket and leather helmet, that I kissed her hand, flashed her my irresistible smile, and told her that she was a banquet for the eyes and the best thing since sliced bread.

“Well, Moose, that did it; she couldn’t help herself, because she pulled me close and whispered that she wanted me as her boyfriend and that I had to be her co-pilot for the trip around the world. Yeah, it was hard on me, what with all her passionate cuddling, but we took off in that rickety plane with that loud engine giving me as much of a headache as all that frenzied kissing of hers. But the worst part was that her fascination with me caused her to collide with a flock of geese, which caused us to lose power and glide down onto a small island that she called Atlantis.

“Yeah, we had three years of bliss on that fertile island; I felt like Robinson Crusoe, but instead of Friday I had Mealia, the prettiest and most talented girlfriend in the world. But after a while we knew that we’d have to leave the island because it was gradually sinking into the ocean. And so, using a canoe I’d made, I paddled out to explore while Mealia picked grapes for dinner. Now, but—and I hate to have tell you this, Moose—while I was out there a fierce west wind blew me all the way over to Cuba, where I befriended a homely fellow with a long, unkempt beard and dressed in full army fatigues. Oh, he was goofy and bellowed continuously about starting a revolution. But, man . . . he gave me a box of the best-tasting stogies I’d ever fired a match to. Before I left I urged him to give up his plans to take over the country. He was a good drinking buddy but if he ever ran the country it would be a disaster. I’m sure I convinced him to just roll his cigars, distill his rum, and leave politics alone.

“After a lot of partying I caught a freighter back to Chesapeake City. I jumped off at Schaefer’s Wharf where I was able to wash away my sorrow in the bar with the company of my North Side buddies: Wilson Reynolds, Frank Bristow, and John Schaefer. But I’ll never forget how poor Mealia vanished by sinking into the Atlantic with only her tender memories of me to comfort her. You and I are the only people in the world who know how that famous girl pilot disappeared. I’d tell others but, you know, people don’t want to believe the truth anymore.”

I was only ten years old but I knew the truth when I heard it. I remember feeling immensely honored to have an uncle with so much intelligence and charm. I hoped at the time that I might have inherited some of it so I could be a little like him. But it never happened. And so, after a mournful sigh, Uncle Ernest tramped down our lane and made the turn towards town, leaving me feeling awfully sorry for him for losing such a gorgeous and famous girlfriend. And I can feel your sense of sorrow too, sensitive reader. But, of course, you’ll be sure to be uplifted when you read the story I’ll post next week.

A Sweet and Sour Memory—White Crystal Beach in 1952

A Sweet and Sour Memory—White Crystal Beach in 1952

Dancing on the boardwalk at White Crystal Beach, circa 1950

White Crystal Beach, circa 1945. Inset upper left: The Turkey Point Lighthouse, circa 1930. Note vestige of wooden steps and chute ascending the cliff. Supplies, unloaded from a boat, were hauled up the chute to the keeper.

For the life of me I could not rouse my Uncle Ernest that Saturday morning in 1952. Having just arrived from Nola’s Bar on Chesapeake City’s North Side, he was in no condition to talk. So I went outside for a while to cool my heels. It was late August and you know what it’s like when it’s especially hot and humid. It would be years before we had air conditioning, so we’d sit under our maple tree and bless the occasional breeze that cooled us off. Sometimes abrupt thunder storms would really cool us off. The wind, teeming rain and occasional hail would rage, bending our orchard saplings double. Anyway, I had big plans for that particular afternoon. Time was valuable because school would reopen in two weeks and I wanted to make the most of my remaining free time. I walked into town and collared Dick Sheridan (my best friend and 42^nd cousin) so we could run my boat to White Crystal Beach for a day’s swim. We walked down Bohemia Avenue, past Dr. Conrey’s mansion (now the Blue Max), and down Ferry Slip Road to Stone Bridge where I had my run-about pulled up on the shore.

          We got to White Crystal in no time, dragged the boat up upon the white sand, took a long, cool swim, and then went up to the small boardwalk where kids were dancing to juke box music. We watched for a while and then I saw, in the midst of the dancers, a girl so pretty that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was about 5’5” with short, light brown hair and a thin, well-formed body. And her eyes . . . how can I tell you about her eyes—those eyes that were so sparkling and playful and full of life? She and another girl were jitterbugging to Bill Haley and the Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock.” She wore a pure-white terry cloth blouse that was open at the throat and trimmed in navy blue. Her shorts were terry cloth trimmed in navy blue also. She was beautiful!

          Well, I knew that if I didn’t meet her and dance with her I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Just then, as if Cupid planned it, the perfect song started playing: Jo Stafford’s “You Belong to Me.” Could it be, musical reader, that you might remember that magical tune? Surprisingly, she agreed to dance with me, so there I was actually holding that rare beauty and swaying to the beat of my favorite song. When I pulled her gently closer and she put her damp hair against my cheek I could tell she’d been swimming. And then something unusual happened that surprised me. Coming, I thought, from her terry cloth blouse was a faintly sour scent—not disagreeable but distinctive, uniquely pleasant. The graceful-moving closeness of her body was wonderful, and the image of her white and blue terry cloth attire combined with that ever-so-slight tartness embedded the encounter securely in my mind.

For those few minutes we were one body swaying in tender motion to the mesmerizing music. When the song ended we walked to the railing and looked across the bay at Turkey Point, and there, as if emerging fresh from the foliage especially for us, was the Turkey Point Light House, its pure whiteness breathtaking in contrast to the surrounding panorama of darkening sky, dark green foliage, and dark emerald water. But then, just as she squeezed my hand to enhance the scene’s splendor, the spell was broken by a startling flash of lightening and an immediate, deafening clap of thunder. Suddenly I felt Dick yank me away as he yelled, “Let’s get out of here!” Lunging backwards as he pulled, I got a glimpse of Terry Cloth’s eyes and saw that she was as distraught as I was. We hadn’t even exchanged names! I thought, “My God, I’ll never see her again.”

Dick and I dashed to the shore, pushed the boat in and, surging through the high breakers and drenched by the driving rain, we somehow made it back to Chesapeake City’s Basin. Something told me that I’d never see the girl again. And I never did, though I returned to White Crystal Beach several times until school started. She probably had been there for a few days from some Pennsylvania town . . . so we were never to meet again. But it’s funny how strong that memory of sour sweetness is, even now, years after that tender encounter in 1952 on the boardwalk of White Crystal Beach. Yet I knew then that I’d never forget her—her beauty, her grace, and her beguiling fragrance.

Back at the farmhouse Uncle Ernest was fully alert and ready for his nightly escapades. He mentioned a redheaded girlfriend he’d once had. “You won’t believe how gorgeous she was, Moose-the-Goose.” “Yeah,” I thought, “but she’d never match the beauty of the girlfriend I almost had.” Still, I know that readers will be anxious to hear about his redhead in my next posting entitled, “Port Herman Beach.”

But no, wait! Geez, I almost forgot to tell you something. That same year, in the fall of 1952 when school had been back in session for a few days, something magical occurred. I was behind the wheel of Pop’s ’48 Ford, parked next to a line of buses and waiting for Dick come out. I was watching students boarding a bus when a girl with sparkling, playful eyes and short, light brown hair made me lunge forward against the windshield. It was the terry cloth girl! She was just as stunning as ever, despite the fancy school clothes. And, sure, alert reader, you knew all along. You weren't fooled by my deception.

You knew that no love god worthy of his bow and arrow would ever let me lose her. She lived on Chesapeake City’s North Side and I had somehow missed her throughout school. So I rushed over, held her hands, looked into those playful eyes, and watched as tears seeped in to flood and distort what once was clear and bright. Then they overflowed their banks, releasing swollen pearls that migrated leisurely down her cheek. They picked up speed towards her chin, hesitated, and then plopped with abrupt invisibility to her blouse until I held her close.

          As you might expect, we started dating regularly and, after a while, one night as we embraced she murmured with soft, musical tones, “You belong to me.” And durn! I did. And I have belonged to her, but only for the last 61 years. And sometimes, after the kids have gone and on rare occasions when we have some leftover energy, we’ll dance gently to Jo Stafford’s tune and eyeball our painting of Turkey Point. And it’s only because that White Crystal memory is languishing in some remote crevice in my brain that I can just barely detect the faint scent of tainted terry cloth.