Mr. Charleston Exposed

I don't normally indulge in these things, but... (you can see where this is going) Susan, over at I Think, Therefore I Yam , challenged me to one of those Truth or Dare thingy's where you receive an award and therefore, you are obligated to tell seven secrets about yourself that inquiring minds want to know.  To begin with, it's pretty much impossible for me to dredge up seven secrets out of the seven-thousand or so hiding in the closet and I wouldn't put you through that anyway, but I will share something you might find interesting, or at least, amusing.

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!"

This folks... is a fish camp.  Photo of the homestead 1946.  My parents purchased the camp soon after I came along and just after WWII.  At the time, we lived so far in the woods that there was no electricity.  I clearly remember wind-up phones and the iceman bringing a block of ice for the fridge.   But we were in high cotton because, thanks to a naturally pressurized artesian well, we had indoor plumbing.  Our neighbors had an out-house.  A two-holer.  They also had the only two-story tar paper shack I have seen to this day.

This was the office-kitchen-store-bait shop-dining room-dance hall main building.  It was a log cabin with a coquina chimney.  Note cane poles leaning against the house and picnic tables under the trees.  I still live on this property today although now, it's inside of the beltway.

My dad in a little boat he had turned into a trawler.  The net would yield washtubs of shrimp, a soft-shell crab or two, and a cornucopia of other creatures.  While my older brother helped my dad sort out the shrimp, I would poke through the teeming load of adventure laid out before me.  Tiny fish all all kinds, crabs, starfish, jellyfish and worms.  I especially liked the small puffer fish.  We, of course, released everything back into the water.  A lifetime of respect and love for Mother Nature.

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.

Mr. C catching a ride with Uncle Dennis.  One of the two buildings in the background housed a generator which dad would crank-up on Saturday nights for the weekly fish fry and dance.  The generator would drive the lights and the jukebox.  Hank Williams as he was meant to be heard.  But I must say, my folks were fond of Swing and that's what was played mostly.  Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller and company.

Grandfather keeping an eye on me.

This photo has nothing to do with the fish camp.  It's my great-aunt and great-great uncle posing amongst their charges at the Jacksonville Alligator Farm, which they managed.  It's just a cool photo.  There were plenty of gators in the river where we swam.  We reached a truce with each other early on.  If they didn't get too close, we wouldn't clobber them with a stick.

So there you have it fellow travelers, Mr. Charleston bared to his roots.  Is this OK Susan?