Going Crawdad Hunting

As I remember the late sunny afternoons on the hill where we lived when we were children, a chuckle pushed its way from deep within my soul and spilled over into my conscious mind. I had to laugh, almost uncontrollably, as I remembered one of many tales of discovery that my brothers and I lived through during that time of our lives. There were 6 houses spread spaciously apart along the dirt road cut into the mountainside. None of the houses would meet the standards of today's affluent more architecturally correct structures. The dirt road that led to the houses was only wide enough for one vehicle. And, when riding in our truck, the times that my dad could afford one, I and my brothers bobbed up and down like popcorn in a popcorn popper as we rode in the seat that didn't have seat belts. Seat belts weren't required, perhaps not even thought of at that time in the late 1950s.

My brothers and I spent all of our time at home with Mom who would do her best to inspire us with her storytelling or attempt to stir our imaginations as best she could as she issued challenges for us to undertake. Even with her best efforts, there wasn't much to do. With a little more encouragement, we exited the house that was built directly beside the dirt road filled with potholes. We began our adventure down to the rocky, pitted serpentine lane. Unlike some children, we didn't have any bikes at that time, only canvas-topped sneakers. We called them tennis shoes at the time. The canvas-topped tennis shoes weren't stylish at the time, but more of a necessity for growing boys.

We started off down the sloping pothole-filled road to a familiar turn that would put us out of mom's sight and allow us to visit a place that always delivered some excitement. I can still feel the afternoon's sun against my neck and see the billowing clouds in the distance as we three sojourners turned and cautiously approached the small, inhabited mountain stream that pooled beside the road. It ran down to one side of the road, then disappeared under the roadway only to reappear further down the mountainside. In this mountain water runoff that we called a stream, we plundered the "Crawdad's" domain.

Reaching our hands into the small pool of water and turning one rock over after another, eventually, we discovered the prizes, small, but vicious defenders lurking in the shadows or under small rocks. Each crawdad turned and backed away with pincers upturned ready to deliver a fatal pinch if we dared to come closer. Thankfully, my older brother, David, was aware of these deadly creatures and offered his instruction as to how we should handle them. "Pick them up from behind the head." he'd told us. His warning was noted, but the creature immediately latched onto one of my fingers even after exercising the greatest caution. It was nothing short of terrifying. With the claw's death grip firmly attached to my finger, I slung my hand back and forth until I was rid of the dreadful demon.

In my mind, I still see the small, helpless "defender of its home" swaying back and forth latched onto the end of my finger. Luckily, it loosened its claw's grip and fell back into the shallow stream's puddle never to be seen again! Having endured the pain of the claw, an attack of one of the vilest creatures I'd encountered up until that point, the heat of the sun, and escaped with our very lives, we three brothers trudged back up the dirt road to our house on the hill to regale our mother with the encounter with the claws of death. With another adventure etched upon our minds, we were sure there would be others that would match the thrill of crawdad hunting in the latter days of July, guaranteed.