E6: Dear Mrs. White Lady, Let’s Go Crabbing, Even if it is Sunday

If what you’re supposed to be doing this morning is not important enough to be done by somebody else—set it aside and come along with me.

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Dear Mrs. White Lady,

I need to be by the water.

You may think it not smart to go out crabbing during a hurricane. I thought it a worthwhile endeavor this August.

My freckles, dark spots and wrinkles in full HD. My hair in disarray. Marsh debris anointing my forehead. Feeling perhaps a bit too pleased with myself. Check. Check. Check. And Check.

I had spent the summer, summering. Immunotherapy had taken away the color from my olive skin. I ate Snyders hard-pretzel bites. I drank a bitter oatmeal stout. My skin was like paper. I was weak-ish. But I could still redeem the day by setting my pots.

If you had the lucky coincidence to find me there, you would see me with my usual crabbing companions. Miss Emma and Mr. Eamon. Miss Emma finds mischief to be the spice of life, and sports a fluorescent pink flotation device. She believes she can and should swim with the dolphins. Mr. Eamon, ever the gentleman, attends to my every facial expression waiting patiently for a sign that I may require some form of canine intervention.

I had a rare luxury that day—to choose the day I wanted. I’m not talking about some mind-ninja-contemplative-Buddhist-monk-sort of mindfulness. It was not surreal nor transformative. But my goodness me. Dolphins.

I consider it a good sign. It means they’re probably following the krill in with the tide, and that means the blue crabs will be coming in too to get out of the dirty weather.

Dolphins. A word about those specious, sentient creatures. I’m telling you, these porpoise-shaped orcas are a real bunch of Karens.

Usually, I’m not one for name calling, but they’re the sort that’s always up in your business, pushing up on you. (Much like that White Lady whose sole joy in any given week is to bump her shopping cart into the backs of your heels at checkout.)

They’re noisy. They squabble. Their lithe-ful (which should actually be a word), movements are a red herring, so to speak.

Most ladies I know do not have the luxury to go out to catch blue crabs. My Eileen is out most days catching her lot to serve up in her soul food kitchen. It’s a good bit of work. I admire her stoic manner. She makes no show of it. She just gets to it.

For Eileen, and for many of us, her days start early and end late. Most days we just soldier on. Getting the laundry folded. Sweeping up dust bunnies with our socks. Remembering to sauté those greens before they spoil.

Sometimes it’s enough to just be seen.

Oh, did I mention I made a new friend? It’s hard for me to reckon with. I haven’t made a close friend in decades. But she has demonstrated a keen interest in being seen. I like that. Lulu. An immigrant. South African. Married. Lives in a caravan. She has a voice that is both pointed and elegant. She talks about spirituality. Religion. Marriage. Home. Intuition. All the hot topics. And, I am down for it.

Maybe Lulu and her David will come out to the pier and visit with me. Sit in the sun. Take in the brackish water-air. Eat tomato sandwiches. Guzzle a cold one.

It’s good to have somebody crabbing alongside you. The sort who doesn’t feel the need to speak but would if making the point was necessary. I think that she would be that sort.

It’s likely our friendship will meet its demise when she sees me ripping the faces off the blue crabs from the dock. It’s messy work. And it’s not a pretty sight.

Now—as is my custom—I’ve obfuscated the point, confused the lede, and mistaken the subject of the story with the object of the subject’s attention. I do this. It’s exhausting. It also makes it hard to edit.

So, I’m reminded that I’ve not yet announced my point in writing today. Which is to say, I am new here and I feel a stranger no longer.

If you stop by here often, you’ll see that my own semblance bears no resemblance to the image of the 1920s starlet on my Smart Stack page. (An image, I will add, I’ve dutifully licensed and paid for, thank you very much.)

I tell you this so you will not feel in the least bit misled.

Now set yourself down—Because, gurl, we’ve got some crab to pull and some tea to spill.

-m.

P.S. There’s always something else I want to say after that thing I forgot to say when I wanted to say the thing that I was trying to say earlier.

so—in case I miss you, I’ll be down at the pier.

P.S.S. If you feel a little lost with postscripts, google the tv series, Colombo. It explains a lot.

(This is what is commonly known as the slow goodbye in the South.)

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