Musings of a Nostalgic Heart

Many people can say that they lived a bizarre or interesting childhood, but here, I make my personal testament to such a truth.

I was raised on a tiny island in the Chesapeake bay called Frenchtown. With a population of about 50 people, I still consider it odd that this small island was where my family decided to settle down. Technically a crabbing community, it would be an understatement if I said my family did not fit it. My father, before his untimely passing, had been an accomplished author, and my mother, a classical pianist.

Together, they purchased a large plot of land with a dilapidated manor, renovated it, and made their home within. The finished product became a pale yellow three story monstrosity of a house, surrounded by marsh and water on all sides. Instead of a swing house, my father dragged an old sailboat into the yard, complete with cabin and tattered sail. And we survived off of the land most nights, eating crabs caught in traps that my brother and I would set before school. Some nights we got lucky and caught a flounder, or a rockfish. Rogue turtles would wriggle into our traps sometimes too, but fear not, we never ate them, but instead let them go, watching as they swam away.

We didn't have the internet until I was 16, which was in 2007. During that time, I never had a facebook, or a myspace, or even used the ancient macintosh my father had. Instead, me and my brother entertained ourselves, free from the television, or a computer, or even a video game console.

 Yes, I know.. we are a rare breed.

And the ways we used to entertain ourselves...let's say that many of our choices were not the safest ones. For instance, we both had four wheelers, and paintball guns, and we would combine these things, along with the game of tag, and play 4-wheeler tag. It's about as safe as it sounds.

We also used to run away... a lot. Surrounding out tiny island were more, even smaller parcels of land. Whenever we got into trouble, we would run to the shore and jump into our kayaks and row to these parcels, and stay there, sometimes overnight, just to make our parents worried.

My father since shared that he always knew when we had run away, because he could see our bright colored kayaks from his seat at his desk. We would try to row as swiftly as possible to the opposite shore, but now we know this was all for naught. At the time, we thought we were really showing our parents how rough their lives could be without us. Both of them have since shared that these nights without us were little gifts from Heaven. What a huge disappointment this was to hear.

When winter would come, four wheeling would become even more fun/dangerous. To this day I cannot come up with a better combination! Snow and high powered vehicles. We would slip and slide all over the place, and my father would run out into the yard, and shout at us that we were ruining his yard. He could never catch us though, and we would ride off into the sand dunes to cause more mayhem.

Tim and I were not the only children on the island. Tim had a friend named Brad, affectionately called Bradley Boy, for his robust frame and thick country accent. His father bought him a four wheeler shortly after Tim and I got ours, and he usually helped us annoy our parents after school.

Down the street there also lived a pair of siblings the same age as us. Ruby and Eli didn't have four wheelers, but were both great gunners for our paintball fights. Ruby and I almost always won, because we are women, and are genius strategists.

Tim and I learned how to sail, and crab, and fight, and read, and listen in that house. We both grew into the people we are today, and that place is still our home. Our parents eventually divorced, as most do these days, but we chose to stay with Dad, and our home on our tiny island. But when Dad died, everything changed.

The house was sold to a nice family from Pennsylvania. Tim and I moved to Florida with our mother, and made new friends, and had different lives, with internet and cable, and malls and shopping. And I think, where would I be if I had stayed on the Eastern Shore, if Dad hadn't have died. The musings of a nostalgic heart I'm sure.

But late at night, I still hear the lapping of the water on the shore, and the salty smell of the air. I miss the red and pink sunsets that we all watched together every night. I miss the home cooked and caught meals, and I miss my father, sitting in front of the fire, a book in his lap and rum in his stainless steal cup.

And I look forward to the day I can move to some obscure place, and raise my family to be as independent and separate from the media world and social networks that are so prevalent today.

My identity stems from my experiences, and few share similar encounters that my brother and I do.

And for that I am eternally grateful to my parents for.