Not long ago a young woman asked me where I was from and I replied that I was a 9th-generation-or-so Florida Cracker and that I was raised in a fish camp. I wasn't surprised that she was a little astonished as few families in this neck of the woods have been around as long as ours (1786), but I turned out to be the one astonished when she asked, "What's a fish camp?" It had never occurred to me that there might be people in this world who had never heard of a fish camp. A little nonplussed I yammered, "Why, it's a place where you rent boats to go fishing." So, these several days later while lost in a muse another brilliant insight struck me, "If there's one person in this world who had no clue about fish camps, maybe there are others!"
|Sometimes, the river was dead still. On a hot, sultry day, you couldn't see the separation of water and air on the horizon. They just sort of blended together.|
|Grandfather keeping an eye on me.|
So there you have it fellow travelers, Mr. Charleston bared to his roots. Is this OK Susan?