Memory #12: Crayfish
The once rocky part of the Baugo Creek, the part down by the bridge over C.R. 1, at my parents house in Wakarusa, was home to oodles of crayfish. I used to catch them.
The trick was to turn over a rock and have a big cup ready for when the thing tried to swim away. I liked to put two similarly sized crawdads into a tin bucket, shake the bucket up, and then watch them fight.
I liked it. But then I didn't like it.
I don't know what pain freshwater crustaceans feel when they are clawed to pieces by a brother. I just came to feel something like remorse for my cruelty.
2 comments:
I've been enjoying your series of thirty-nine memories (since I started them today). I think my two favorites are the ones about your friend Dave, and the selection from your disertation about Morgan.
What is the book you keep referencing about a "Modern Mystic?"
"Letters by a Modern Mystic" by Frank Laubach. Out of print, but check a good library.
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