Laura Young
ECB Publishing, Inc.
When my grandpa retired from being a walking mailman, he took up being a fisherman and sold his catch to help make ends meet. Though my grandparents lived in a small, asbestos-shingle house, it sat in its simplicity on concrete blocks right on the bank of the grand Halifax River in South Daytona. Most summers growing up, my siblings and I would take turns riding the Greyhound bus to this house to spend a few weeks.
Our visits included the typical summertime mixture of boredom and adventure. We'd swing and slide in the city park on the north side of their lot (just shimmy up the leaning palm and jump down over the fence to get there), poke around the ditch crawling with fiddler crabs on the south side and create palmetto-thatch hideouts in the shady wildness of the "back forty" to the west. To the east stretched the wide, wide Halifax.
By far, the strongest memories are of times when we'd flip over the old wooden skiff, screw on the outboard, load up the gear and head out with grandpa to find some fish. As the bow hit each wave, the brackish spray would tingle our faces, mingling the scents of salt and grandpa's coffee. Finally, we'd arrive at a fishing spot. Grandpa would cut the motor and plop out the anchor. Then quiet would descend. Just us — with the gentle laps and taps of river, boat and tackle — getting ready to pull some excitement out of the mysterious hidden world beneath us.
Sometimes we'd head out just before dawn and get back in time for lunch or supper. Other times we'd night fish with a lantern and get back in time for breakfast. We learned the river's fish: tasty keepers like sheephead, drum and sailor's choice, as well as interesting throw-backs like pufferfish or ladyfish. Grandpa taught us how to tickle the puffer just so, to make it swell up into a prickly balloon, and how to appreciate the beautiful strength of a lady. We baited our own hooks, and whenever we got back, we'd go out behind the house to clean our catch.
Next to the water spigot, Grandpa had set a small table up on concrete blocks. He'd sharpen his knife with a few expert swipes across the block and then begin to prepare the fish. We all learned how to do it: Scrape off the scales. Slice carefully into the belly so as not to break open any roe sac that might be there. Squeeze out the stomach contents to see what the fish had been eating. Pull out all the guts and chop off the head. We'd carry the scraps over to the ditch and toss them into the water in hopes of attracting a big crab later. After hosing off the table and ourselves, we'd take the cleaned fish up the back steps, through the screen door and into the kitchen.
Now grandma took over. In short order, there'd be a bubbling pot of grits on the stove next to a frying pan sizzling with fish. Onto the plates it went with a tossed salad, and our simple feast would begin. Nothing could ever taste better (for breakfast, lunch or supper) than fresh fish with buttery grits.
Though that house and my grandparents are long gone, this is still one of our favorite meals. Whether we've caught fresh fish or brought home a pack of frozen fillets from the store, a world of memory rises up with the steam from a plate of fish and grits.
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