CRABFEST

     Saturday when I was a kid was my favorite day of the week. That was true for a lot of reasons, but certainly the fact of not having to go to school was at the top of the list. I didn’t hate school, but I wasn’t a great student. I mean, I wasn’t exactly a poor student; I just was on the mediocre side, filled with a vivid imagination that sometimes overrode my interest in real life.

     But with reference to the Mickey Mouse Club, Saturdays were “Anything Can Happen Day,” for those of you who may remember the 50’s and 60’s MMC. I never knew exactly what was going to happen. Sometimes nothing exciting in particular other than having a day to go on adventures with my friends, through the woods, walking the railroad tracks, Saturday afternoon matinees, bike rides, games of hide-and-seek. 

     However, summer Saturdays could bring all sorts of good things in addition to no school. For instance, once in a while my parents would decide to go to Tuckerton to visit relatives, but more importantly, to go crabbing. I loved it! I was never a good fisherman, but crabbing was much simpler.

     My aunt, my 2 cousins, and my grandmother would go with us, and we all packed into our two-tone green ‘46 Plymouth sedan, and make our way through the Pine Barrens on route 539 until we finally reached our destination. The anticipation of going crabbing off one of the docks was as good as going to the circus as far as I was concerned.

     We’d drop my grandmother off to visit with Aunt Annie (her sister) and then go to the dock of one of the clam houses along the inlet. My dad would bate the crab lines with the meat from the winkle shells along the side of the clam house and the fun would begin. 

     We’d drop the lines into the water and within a few minutes we would be pulling them up one after another, and my dad would scoop the crab net under them and dump the crabs into the bushel basket that we brought with us. When the basket was full, it was time to head home, but on the way my dad would stop and buy a dozen clams to eat. 

     The crab fest would take place in our kitchen. My mother would boil a large kettle of water with some seasonings, and while that was happening, my dad would be opening and eating raw clams at the sink. 

It took me until adulthood to appreciate that delicacy. 

    When all was ready, newspapers were spread all over the kitchen table and we would all share the crackers and nut picks and feast away.

     

Timing Is Everything Once In Awhile

     One of my favorite Billy Collins poems is called The Sandhills Cranes of Nebraska. Here’s a portion of it for your enjoyment:

Too bad you weren’t here six months ago. 

was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska.

You could have seen the astonishing spectacle 

of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them 

feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River.

  

There was no point in pointing out 

the impossibility of my being there then 

because I happened to be somewhere else,

so I nodded and put on a look of mild disappointment 

if only to be part of the commiseration.

    [Aimless Love, Billy Collins, p. 173]

     The excerpt does not do justice to the whole poem, so I encourage you to read it if you can. It only gives a hint of his wonderfully unique, dry wit, in this case, on being in the right place at the right at the time.

     “Being in the right place at the right time” is a phrase I’ve heard many times during my life. Another one I’ve heard frequently that is somewhat related to it is: “Timing is everything.” (I may have 7even preached a sermon on that—I don’t remember.)

     Some theoretical physicists and some philosophers will insist that there is no such thing as time.And, of course, in a sense they’re right.

Perhaps it’s something we’ve totally made up for our convenience or as a source for guilt or anxiety.

     One time I was late on my way to a meeting and exceeded the speed limit of 25 miles an hour while going through a familiar little town through which I had traveled many times. This time I got pulled over, and the officer wanted to know why I was speeding (which was probably by 5 or so mph). 

     I told him I was on way to a church meeting in Trenton and he said, “I’m sure God wait for you.” And, trying to be humorous, I said, “Yes, but the bishop won’t.” He didn’t give me a ticket, but gave me a firm warning in a friendly sort of way, to be more aware of my speed going through town.

     That’s an interesting study of time for me. As I said, I’d gone through that town many times and maybe I’d exceeded the speed limit before—not sure. But this time for the first time, I got pulled over—“timing is everything” I guess applies here—not sure. 

     One thing, with all due respect to our great thinkers aforementioned, in our existence on this tiny blue marble in space, time does exist and has relevance. It matters in many ways that we don’t always think about, good and bad, depending on the outcome. 

     When I was on staff at the Milltown United Methodist Church, someone of the congregation asked me if I had ever visited Cranbury and checked out their great used book store. I hadn’t so I made it a point to do just that. As a result I fell in love with Cranbury and wished that I could be appointed there. 

     Instead I got appointed to two churches in the Pinelands, which were both fine. Nice people. But I never forgot Cranbury.y66 Then a few years later I was at a preacher’s luncheon in Ocean City, and someone at my table happen to say in conversation, “Did you hear that [the minister] in Cranbury is moving to a [new church]?”

     When I heard that, I immediately got up and sought out my District Superintendent. I said to him that I had heard that the church in Cranbury was going to be reappointed. Could I please be considered for that? He informed me that my name was on the top of the list. And so it happened, and I was there for 25 years—the town that captured my heart and soul.

     Would I have gotten that appointment if I had not gone to the luncheon and spoken to my D.S.? Maybe or maybe not. I can’t say.

But as far as I am concerned, I was in the right place at the right time to make my desires known and to let someone influential know of my interest.

     I think that all of us have those key moments in our lives that come along just when we need them—whether we know it or not. It’s part of the “flow” of life. It might involve encountering just the right person, just the right opportunity, just the right circumstance, etc. Is it Divine intervention or just the way things work? Why doesn’t that happen all the time for everything in our lives, especially when we feel desperate and confused?  

     We really can’t say for sure, but for me, I go with the more spiritual explanation—that there is a Divine influence that puts us in the right place at the right time to fulfill our “purpose” in being here. Now I can’t push that idea too far for you because arguments can be made against it, I suppose. I only know that that resonates with my own view of how things work. 

     Occasionally I stop and think of those kind of moments that have made a difference in my life—that if they had not happened I wouldn’t have the life I have. I think that that’s a good exercise in appreciating our lives, if not a spiritually great way of experiencing a deep sense of joy that leads to assurance of Divine love.

The Old Wooden Wagon

     I couldn’t stand up. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t.  I was four years old and scared and confused to the point of frantic crying. My leg felt like it was made of sponges or springs or something. That’s the best I can do to describe it. By the way, that was almost 77 years ago now, and yet, one night recently the memory came powerfully surging back into my psyche. I don’t know why, but it was very detailed and very vivid. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it through the years, but this time was different for some reason—more real, I guess.

     Why that night? I have no idea other than the fact that I had just injured my leg in the snow as I was going up on the porch—same leg (left), same place (femur). I suppose that could explain it.

     What happened back then was that I was on the playground at the Milton H. Allen Elementary School in Medford where I grew up. I was being cared for along with a little girl my age as our parents were watching the drum and bugle corp practicing on the adjacent field. My sister was the head majorette and the little girl’s brother was a drummer.

     We were on the seesaw—a big heavy wooden seesaw made with thick planks for seats—the kind they don’t make anymore, for good reason. The little girl got tired of doing that so she got off while I was up in the air. The seesaw went slamming down and crushed the upper part of my leg, which, of course, was the reason that I couldn’t stand up. But in my 4 year old mind, I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

     I was taken to the hospital where my leg was set, and I spent six weeks with my leg in a traction that was suspended from the ceiling in my hospital room.  Certain memories have stayed with me through all those years since—memories of hospital smells and sounds, the doctor who repaired my leg (Dr. Lee, a Chinese doctor), the layout of the room with a large window facing out to the hallway, my sister and her friend who would bring me ice cream (they went to high school in the same town where the hospital was), that when I was upset the nurses telling me that my mother was working downstairs in the kitchen, which, of course, she wasn’t. I don’t remember how the food was other than sometimes I would get Junket, for those of you who may know what that is. 

     All that time my parents were under pressure to bring me home because friends said that it was a shame to keep a little boy in the hospital for that long. But thanks to my parents for listening to Dr. Lee—who told them that if they took me home sooner I would have one leg shorter than the other—I was kept in until the proper healing had taken place.

     When I did get home they put me on the daybed in the parlor, and when they opened the back screen door, in came running a puppy. I named him Butch. I had him until I was 17 years old.

     Sometimes my sister would put me in an old wooden wagon with squeaky wooden wheels and take me around town. All in all, I not only survived it, but in some ways I suppose I benefited from it, besides the puppy. My father used to say to me frequently, “Son, you’ll never regret the experience.” 

A Day At Gimbels, Long Ago

     One day when I was about 12 or 13, my mother and I went to Gimbels in Philadelphia. I don’t remember the occasion, but I think it was around the Easter season, probably to buy me some clothes. There are several things about that day that boggle my mind when I think back to it.  

     The first is that we had lunch at Horn and Hardarts, which was a fascinating experience for a small town kid. Horn and Hardarts, for those of you who are not familiar with it, was a self-serve type of restaurant, where you chose what you wanted to eat from behind a series of glass compartments. Could be a sandwich or pie or any number of other lunch-type food. I certainly don’t remember what I had, but it was a kind of a forerunner to choosing your food at a WAWA, except that it was already made and there were no such things as a computer from which to make your selection.

     The second thing was that my mother somehow got us there. Thinking of her in her later days with her anxiety and confusion states of mind, it is an amazing reality to think that she was once young and quite able to make such a thing happen. I believe we must have gone into Camden and taken the train across the Ben Franklin Bridge into center city. As best as I can recall, she was not the slightest bit intimidated by how to make it happen.

      The third thing were the wooden escalators with their clickety-clack sounds taking you up to the second or third floors and beyond. Talk about stepping back in time, they still stand out in my mind as something that smacks of earlier days before I was born—like the days I would have witnessed in old-time movies of Charlie Chaplin or Laurel and Hardy at the Saturday matinees in Medford movies.

     Then, the fourth and final thing of that day, was futuristic. We waited in line to enter a room that had one of the first colored televisions on display. I can still recall the excitement I felt, since at the time, such a thing seemed like a fantasy world. As little by little, step by step, we got closer, my anticipation grew, imagining the color being as vivid as on the screen of a movie theater. But then, once we were inside, great disappointment set in—not much reward for waiting in line for such a long time. At best, the picture on the TV could only be described as faintly tinted in pale reds and greens. We exited the room shaking our heads and saying, “Well, that certainly wasn’t worth it. We don’t need to get one of those.”

     Now all of this probably sounds pretty incidental to you. And, it is of course. It makes me wonder, though. My mother lived to her mid-eighties and, by then, she had her bouts with anxiety and confusion, so it’s interesting to remember that, at one time, she was young and able to do things that, while not necessarily big and adventuresome, were nonetheless of a very competent and independent nature. 

     It’s good to consider the fact that a lot of elderly people we see everyday who seem to be struggling to make sense of life and seem helpless to function within the ordinary day-to-day world, were once young and alert and very able to keep pace with life.

     Or maybe I’m just thinking about that since in February I turn 81.