Mist rising over scrub oak and fern, dusk approaches softly. There are quick little birds darting among low branches. The woods are filled with a sadness, perhaps some ancient longing, left behind by Indians who once lived here. Muted colors form the landscape, for it is Winter in this coastal land.
The smell of moist earth permeates cool air that moves quietly. Somewhere nearby, a squirrel croons contentedly and cardinals sing their evening song. It is a time of reflection and magic. Dreamtime comes tenderly. Fog blankets the forest and there is a distant sound of surf, as the Gulf mourns it’s demise. A lone owl croons to the sky.
Some fragmented lyric arises in a country song, lingering from a faraway radio. Life among the trailers and broken down trucks is low-key. Boats stand idle in driveways, longing for the sea. Sun baked hands make change in cheap stores as wind-lined faces smile outwardly, while hearts lose hope.
There was a time when oysters were plentiful and money flowed easily from hand to hand. A suitcase of beer was ample reward for a hard day on the water. Love began at an early age and passions ran high. Teenage girls were ripe with swollen bellies, charmed by the swagger of their muscular counterparts. Schooling was minimal, paled by the lure of wet tongs and fruitful cull irons. Children ran barefoot in the streets, unafraid of strangers.
Boats went out in the mornings and were back in by mid-afternoon, leaving trails of brackish water down the road. Summer had it’s own smell. Some folks called it the smell of money. Fresh oyster shells in the hot sun smelled like life to me. There was a time when a person could almost walk across the bay on the bows of flat-bottomed oyster boats. Now they are as scarce as the wild-caught oysters that used to weigh them down.
It would seem as if the blood had all drained out of our once great bay, leaving it cold. The soul of it races away across each sunset and disappears into the sunrise. Fog descends in sorrowful layers, as if the earth itself laments. I have heard that the oysters have been killed off by civilization and the stupidity of man. Yet, somehow I know that the Great Spirit of Apalachicola Bay has not left us. It is only sleeping.
