Crabbin’
Years ago dad and uncle Ken had an automotive repair business at our place on the outskirts of town. They’d built a huge garage that could fit four cars in at a time. Well, before I was born they closed the business and dad went back to fishing. Mom always said they closed the business because she quit doing the books. Life lesson here, if yer getting your books done for free, keep yer mouth shut and let her know she’s a goddess.
Dad had a little trunk cabin boat which he gill netted in the summer and crab fished in the winter. Although it was dads job, we all had a hand in getting it done. Gill netting, I started out filling needles while dad hung net or mended it. Later on I was taught how to hang a net and that was added to my jobs.
I think dad would have liked me to know how to mend net, but truthfully, I never sorted it out. When dad or Ron would do it it amazed me. They would have their pocket knife in one hand while the other pulled the net out so they could figure the pattern, then the knife would flash, cutting away the bits that needed to go before the mending would work out properly. To this day I consider myself a failure in the commercial fishing world because I failed this exam.
The first part of hanging a gill net was making the lead line. This involved weaving a small line back and forth through a pattern. Next you would melt the lead with a blow torch. Finally you would pour the liquid lead in the mold and presto, another length of lead line.
Dad’s family wasn’t Icelandic. My grandfather, John James Walsh was off the boat from the midlands of England. It was an area called the “Potteries,” seven small villages known together as Stoke On Trent. It was called the “Potteries because its where all the famous English china was made. During the industrial revolution, the dippers, men and women who would dip the pottery in the glaze would die like flies because of the lead in the glaze. Plumbism as it’s more formally known.
Perhaps we wanted a tradition from the old country, death by lead poisoning. Its the same reason painters all used to get goofy after a dozen years, lead in the paint. We’re slow to learn, we kept the lead in gasoline for years after it removed it from paint.
Dad would sit on a special little bench that had a space hollowed out that was the exact space you needed to hang the cork line. Eventually both lead and cork lines would be hung and the net would be ready to fish.
Crab pots were a bit more complicated. There were a couple of jigs upon which you put the cut and rounded metal tubes. Then all of the parts had to be welded together. Following this the metal was wrapped tight with lengths of rubber inner tube. It was one of my jobs to take my wagon from station to station to see if they had any inner tubes I could have. Then we used stainless steel wire to weave the net top, bottom, sides, and the two cone shaped entrances.
Remember the auto repair garage? Well, all this took place in that garage. It was not a coat of many colors, but rather a space with many temperatures. Heat was provided by a 55 gallon drum heater. I’m sure there must be an algorithm for how quickly the heat fell as you stepped away from the stove, but you generally only felt it on the side of your face when knitting pots.
It was a multipurpose heater. Sister Sue and I would bring brown sugar and butter out from the house and dad would core a couple of apples and pour in the brown sugar and butter mix, then push it down in the coals of the heater. After what seemed like a terribly long time dad would reach in and pull out the apples. We’d fish out the spoons from our pocket and dig in. Ummmhummmm, match that you five star restaurant.
In the summer, the gill net would provided salmon. We’d celebrate the fishing season with a huge salmon bar b que over at the Packers. Dad and Uncle Dick would be in charge of the salmon pit. It would have pipes driven into the ground with open oar locks pushed into their tops. Then a huge metal mesh was placed over the oar locks and the salmon were arranged on top. A second iron mesh was then wired over the top of the salmon so they could be flipped over when the time came. By this time the hot coals that had become ordained to be the perfect temperature. In addition to the salmon, steamer clams were wrapped in seaweed and placed in a trench around the edge of the fire. When they would pop open we’d drag them out with a rake, dipped in drawn butter, and eaten as an hors d’oeuvre.
The women would bring out the huge bowls of potato salad, cole slaw, baked beans and garlic toast. The glasses were filled with either Olympia or Rainier beer. We considered ourselves above Rhinelander beer.
The kids would be restricted to soft drinks with enough sugar to guarantee many a dentist’s retirement fund.
During crab season, dad would bring home a couple of dozen of the largest crabs he’s caught that day. He had a huge cauldron sized pot that he’d fill with water and heat over a fire he made in the driveway. The crab would meet a rather dreadful end, but that was before my new gained sensitivity and godliness.
In the house, news paper would have been spread over a couple of card tables. Bowls of melted butter would grace the table. That long french bread slathered with butter and garlic was kept warm in its foil. Cole slaw filled out the menu and we’d dig in.
Now eating crab at the Walsh house would never have been sanctioned by the elements of the carriage trade. A dozen crab halves would be dumped in the center of the table. Hands would flash out seeking the ones with the biggest, juiciest, most succulent legs. Each diner was equipped with crab crackers, two long rods, joined at the top that you used to crack crab legs.
Everyone had their own technique to eat crab. Mine was to gather a small pile of crab meat, stabbing anyone in the back of the hand if they reached over to snatch some of my hard earned pile of crab meat. Once I had a goodly amount, it would be into the drawn butter and then into my mouth, random drops of butter making my chin glisten. But, as sublime as this might be, the best was yet to come.
The best was the next morning when mom made cream crab on toast. Huge chunks of crab meat in a white sauce poured over toast made from fresh home made bread. Gonna be a name dropper here, but I’ve tried a Waldorf salad, at the Waldorf Astoria in New York the city. Gotta say, they’re in the minors when you’re talkin’ food here. The best food ever to cover a plate was mom’s cream crab on toast.