Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 3 Food and Eating

Abandoned seafood processing house in Apalachicola

Eating along the Forgotten Coast can be an adventure; in a good way. Eastpoint, the small hamlet on the eastern shore of the Apalachicola River and the bay, is widely regarded for its oysters. A local Apalachicola resident told us when he was a young man, Eastpoint and Saint George Island were poor and underdeveloped. Oyster boats dotted the bay between the two towns, so thick he said, that “you could walk from boat to boat from the island to the mainland.” Perhaps a bit of hyperbole, but an indication of the thriving industry. Several restaurants cater to locals and tourist alike, touting the best oysters in the United States. We met a group of German university students who were thrilled to have a chance to try the local oysters, even if it was not their favorite new food. Seafood processors and canneries once lined the riverfront in Apalachicola. Declining oyster production in the Apalachicola Bay, because of both natural and human activities, has had a devastating effect on the local seafood economy. Today, the processing plants are closed; the buildings derelict or converted to other commercial enterprises focusing on entertainment and retail. Nevertheless, seafood remains a significant part of the local economy and heritage. 

In addition to oysters, several restaurants offer traditional foods not found in many restaurants in the United States: gumbo, alligator, conch, frog legs, among others. Richard and I had lunch at the Red Pirate in Eastpoint, an establishment that is frequented by the local population and includes miniature golf as a diversion. Having looked at the menu I noted, out loud, that Richard could enjoy a gator or frog leg basket for lunch. He chuckled and said that he had not had frog legs in about twenty years.

After our orders had been placed and we were settled, I told Richard about a famous family story. Growing up in Louisville, one of the most popular places to eat after church on Sundays was KingFish, a small local chain that began in the late 1940s. I still fondly long for a fish sandwich from KingFish from time to time. A number of fellow Louisvillians would disagree with my assessment of KingFish, claiming that the best fish sandwich in town is Moby Dick’s (“A Whale of a Sandwich,” the advertisements suggest), but I digress. On a particular Sunday, when my brother would eat only chicken, he wanted to order a second helping of chicken from the kid’s menu. My cost-conscious parents tried to provide him with food from their meals, but he adamantly refused seafood of any sort. My dad eventually offered my brother the “chicken” from his sampler platter, which he happily devoured in a matter of a few minutes. Dad asked how he liked the chicken, to which my brother expressed satisfaction. Dad then confessed that my brother had just ate the frog legs; my brother was sullen and horrified. Richard laughed, thinking that it was a good story.

Richard then told me about a restaurant in Montezuma, Ohio, the next town east of Coldwater. That restaurant, which was little more than a house converted into a small dining room, in the 1940s served frog legs and turtle soup. He remembered that the restaurant paid high school boys to take flashlights at night and hunt frogs. Some of the legs, he claimed, were as big as chicken legs. Richard mentioned that no one eats turtle soup anymore and pondered why. I mentioned that several turtle species were protected, and it was illegal to harvest. He smiled and remembered that his father, who wintered in the Tampa area after retirement, could never pass up a bargain. One winter he went to a grocery supply store and bought two cases of canned turtle soup because it was a good bargain. He brought them back to Coldwater, and everyone in the family ate turtle soup for a long time. When they cleaned out the house, years later, after his mother died, they still found cans of turtle soup in the basement.

In a society where there is an astounding homogeneity of food choices, simultaneously with a desire for diverse food tastes and experiences, the decline in turtle consumption might have portended the decline in oyster production. The reason why turtles are not widely consumed in the United States today is largely because of overconsumption in the past, not because of changing culinary habits. Green sea turtles were hunted to the brink of extinction; governments banned the production of turtle soups. Today, even some of those in the oyster industry have called for radical solutions to save a heritage industry. One wonders what people fifty to a hundred years from now will think about oysters as a part of our diet.  

Dying pastime of baseball

Baseball as a pastime is dying; however, the business of baseball is, of course, thriving. When I was a kid growing up in Louisville, there were many and afternoon that several of us would gather the field of Jacob Elementary School. Situated between two giant sycamore trees, which served as a makeshift dugout, home plate faced the back of the school. A monumental blast would hit the school; however, we did not consider this a home run. On rare occasions, when somebody pulled the ball slightly to the left, one could hit a window on the second or third floor and still be a fair ball.  That would be considered a home run. The problem would be that we would lose a valuable ball with which to play the game. In the aftermath of such an event there would always be recriminations; usually, a warning filtered through the neighborhood that the school longer wanted us to play baseball in the schoolyard. Yet, within a week or two, we always wandered back and the games continued. It was on this field, more than any other, that what skills I did have as a baseball player, were developed (this and the backyard games of catch with my father). Sure I played little league baseball; however, the once a week practice and once a week game only provided instruction. It took these pick-up games to further my skills.

It is my observation the kids today don't often play pickup games of baseball. All games (and practices) are organized events. Spontaneous pick-up games are a thing of the past. The places were kids could have a game, consequently, are beginning to disappear as well. I have watched over the past few years as Schan Field in Shippensburg has been gradually dismantled. Slowly, but surely, different components of the field have disappeared: the scoreboard and the benches have vanished; the base paths have grown weeds. I had a warm spot in my heart for this field because, although it was mediocre ball diamond, it reminded me of one of the places I played little league baseball as a kid. That field was on Wathen Lane, which is what we called the ball field. Like the field in Louisville, Schan field has brick warehouses as its backdrop; however, Wathen did not have an outfield fence. In Shippensburg, the warehouses appear to be underutilized, in Louisville they are filled with aging whiskey, which produced a strong, sweet aroma on hot summer evenings. The infield was more cinder than grass. Playing third base one game, a hard routine grounder was hit directly at me. The ball took an odd hop on the uneven field and caught me right in the throat. It is the most memorable injury that I received on the baseball field as I recall. (Unless you count the time I broke my thumb catching a softball barehanded at an end-of-the-year picnic in seventh grade.)

Don’t get me wrong, baseball is still a thriving enterprise – it makes more money today, than at any point in its history. Yet, the game seems to be more about money than as a hobby or pastime. Of course, I do not begrudge people from making money, but if something is a national treasure, an indicator of what it means to be American, then baseball has to be more. It must be protected from the impulses that rob it of its soul. 

Bird Watching 2015

Anhinga (Wakulla, FL, Feb 2015)

I do not like to admit it; and, I usually qualify the description of my habits. I do not consider myself a birder, but I increasingly find myself drawn to these interesting creatures. The opportunity to photograph birds provides an excuse and motivation to go out, observe and explore. There is something about birds, in a world dominated by humans, who are able to survive and adapt. They are small and hardly noticeable at times, blending into the background for those who are unwilling to pay attention.

Martha (Smithsonian,
Nov 2015)

I have been particularly interested in the declining number of bird species. A display at the Rathlin Island Museum illustrated the history of the Great Auk; however, the bird that continues to fascinate me is the extinct passenger pigeon. James Audubon’s description of a flock of passenger pigeon blocking the sun while traveling to Louisville is an evocative piece of writing. To think that the number of passenger pigeons, the most numerous bird in North America, went from approximately three billion birds in the 1830s to the last known specimen dying in 1914 is stunning. That last specimen, a female known as Martha, died at the Cincinnati Zoo and her body was placed on ice and has been in possession of the Smithsonian Museum since then. During 2014 and 2015, her taxidermy body has been on display at the Natural History Museum as part of the commemoration of the 100th anniversary of her death.

Bald Eagle (Manteo, NC, July 2015)

It makes me feel old to say that I regularly scan trees and vistas for interesting birds. As I do, inevitably, I think of Dick Davenport’s death in the comic strip “Doonesbury” whilst photography a rare Bachman warbler. There is a certain aspect of sport to the birdwatching: It is, in fact, going out to see something you have not seen before. It is yet another thing to ponder, to study and see while traveling.

My Life with Trains (Part 2) Nostalgia

I grew up in a railroad family; both my father and my grandfather worked for the same small railroad, the Kentucky & Indiana Railroad, better known as the K&I. Before the final sale of the K&I in late 1981, my dad transferred to the L&N (Louisville and Nashville Railroad). Both of these railroads are no more. The L&N as a separate entity disappeared into the larger corporate name of CSX. The fortunes of the K&I, its workers and my grandfather were key topics of discussion in my early childhood.

Although the yards of the K&I are still in the Portland section of Louisville, the only substantial reminder of the old company is a railroad bridge, the K&I Terminal Bridge, from Portland to New Albany, Indiana. When I was growing up, we would often cross into southern Indiana over the bridge. I often remember it as a nerve-racking adventure. The bridge was high and the paths for automobiles were narrow. It seemed that there were only inches on either side for the car to pass through the blackened steel fences.

Lady watching the model train around our
Christmas tree (still from family 8mm film)

From my young perspective, the best thing to come from that old railroad was a dirty old dog. I do not actually remember it, but the family legend was that my dad called my mother and asked if it was alright to bring her home. When she arrived, the dog, which had been hanging around the yards for a few days looking for food was filthy. It took several baths to clean the oil and soot out of her fur. That dog, despite her humble beginning, would go on to become one of the legends of family. Given the name Lady, she became very protective of me. She climbed on top of my toy box each night and waited for me to go to sleep before creeping out of the room, signaling my parents that I was, indeed, asleep. She was a trusted, and loved, member of the family.

On another occasion the K&I yards offered an abortive miracle. My father, the religious man he was, was transfixed and perplexed by a question my brother once asked. We have driven down to the K&I yards so that my father could speak with my grandfather about something. (Perhaps it was a ruse to get out of the house) It had been a longstanding practice to see my grandfather at work. He was kind and always glad to see us; however, on this day, my brother and I were told to sit in the truck (a 1950 Ford Pickup) and wait because it was too dangerous to go in to the shop where my grandfather worked. While sitting there I asked my younger brother if he had noticed the little plastic crucifix that was propped up on the side of the building.

When my dad returned my brother asked, “Can we go around to the side of the building and see Jesus?” The look on my dad’s face was enough to tell me what he was thinking. Either that his young son was having visions of the Christ appearing at, of all places, the rail yards of the Kentucky & Indiana Railway, or he was having hallucinations with religious overtones. Either way, this was something monumental. I relished the moment for a split second. I enjoyed the confusion; the irony of something mundane being mistaken for something extraordinary. But in an instant, my dad gave me a look. All of the sudden I was being considered with suspicion. What had I done or said to lead my brother to assume that Jesus was inhabiting the side of a building at the K&I? My father’s stare became more focused on me, “What the hell is he talking about?”

I explained that there was a plastic crucifix on the side of the building where my grandfather worked. My dad drove around to look at it, one of the arms, the right one if I am not mistaken, was missing – probably broken off after a fall. My brother asked if we could have it and dad replied that he would rather buy us one. This one had been exposed to the elements and coal soot, and was broken.

Abandoned rail line behind the library in Lewes, Delaware

The disappearance and history of railroads continues to interest me. Although one of the great nineteenth century inventions, its utility and allure continues well into the twenty-first century. Railroad archaeology, abandoned stations, former right-of-ways converted into paths for walkers and cyclists, and historic excursion rides are all evidence of the profound effect the railroad industry has had on the modern world. For me, it is a reminder of a bygone, yet personal, past that evokes a great deal of nostalgia.