How Growing Up at a Fishing Camp Shaped My Life

It was 1962, the world was expanding, everything from retail to outer space was growing,

people were going places, more connected to each other than ever before. John Glenn became the first American to orbit the earth, Pope John Paul XXlll was Time Man of the Year and the first Walmart opened in Rogers, Arkansas, just months after the first Target store opened in Roseville, Minnesota.

My world was changing too, expanding from being an orphan at The Galveston Orphan’s

Home, to being adopted and becoming what I became today, a nurse, an educator and an author.

The day I was adopted, my mother brought me and my brother Donnie home one Friday

afternoon to meet an older brother and sister. I noticed that there was no daddy in the house, mama said he had gone fishing. I sat on the front porch, waiting. She said he would be arriving any minute; I wanted to greet him.

The porch I waited on was small, I plopped down on the concrete steps, worried if he

would like my younger brother Donnie and me, and would he let us stay. I found I desperately wanted to be there, wanted to be accepted into their family. I practiced what I would say, how to act. After a while, an old green truck pulled up. I sat up straighter than I normally would and tried to tame my wisps of blonde flyaway hair. My mouth went dry; I could barely speak. Everything I planned flew out my mind like dust in the wind. As he slowly got out of the Ford, I saw a stringer of fish in his hand. Advancing from the driveway, he had on work khakis, boat shoes and a big smile, walking slowly towards me. This was it, I popped up and stood.

“Hi Daddy.”

Karen's beloved daddy.

Something seemed to burst in his being, in his eyes, in his spirit, transforming his

withered face as he dropped the fish suddenly, falling to his knees beside me as he grabbed me up in one go. He shook with great sobs-giant tears down his whiskers. I cried too, but I didn’t know why. I looked at him closely, not knowing him at all, but I knew I would be alright and so would Donnie; a sense of tranquility overtook. I would find out many years later that while Daddy went fishing, Mama came home with two more kids. I can’t imagine a shock like that, two additional kids to raise, extraordinary considering mama was in her fifties, and daddy was in his sixties. A feeling I had never known enveloped me in that instant, in that second, in that moment. I was changed but I didn’t know it then, probably the most pivotal day in my life. I later learned that Daddy was so stunned, telling Mama that he would not alter a thing, that if he had children of his own, he could not love them more.

To this day, I’m amazed and in awe of them.

My parents loved fishing, so when it was still warm enough, Daddy took us to the bank

of Halls Bayou where we fished for reds, trout, and flounder. We would often bring a big slew of them home, where Mama cleaned the flounder, scaling them, then adding salt and pepper. Finally, she stuffed them with a whole stick of butter. For real!

Karen's daddy with his fish.

“They were darn good eating.” Least wise that’s what Daddy said. The red fish were

huge; Mamma fried them along with potatoes and hush puppies. Cole slaw was the salad, it

remains one of my favorite meals of all time.

Daddy decided that we need a permanent camp to go to, so he set out and built one. The

camp was thirty minutes from the bayou, over water. From the landing, everything he took to

build the camp had to be hauled in his custom-made flat bottom boat or our big cabin cruiser. It was quite an undertaking. He spent months building her just for us. He put it on stilts; it had rainwater tanks and a generator, all quite futuristic and forward thinking for that time. It had a sunroom with the most wonderful windows with tiny panes that swiveled open and closed with a twisting lever. It sat on the water proper. She sure was a beaut.

The boat camp Karen's daddy built.

When the camp was built and done, it was time to haul all of us down there and show it

off. It was the talk of the town, modern conveniences, flushing commodes and all. I closed my eyes as we arrived; I couldn’t believe it. It was alluring and majestic, with white and black

shutters. Instantly, I knew it would change all our lives forever. Years later, I realized that it was

not nearly as grand as I imagined, but it was that place I always think that saved me, that healed me, that soothed me, that protected me; that and my devoted parents and family.

Going to the Bait Camp became a weekend, then summer escape as Mama and Daddy

scurried around with us to make ready. It was always the same for the first meal of the trip, a

huge pile of sandwiches-ham and cheese, turkey, pastrami, rare roast beef on rye and chips, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, and onions. I can still smell the fresh bread. Daddy ate a whole loaf himself, that meant we needed at least three loaves. Mama called it his breadbasket. We were like a traveling circus and quite rowdy to boot.

Daddy always waited till we were all served, even Mamma. He was a gentleman that

way. He then proceeded to eat a mountain of bread, meats and cheeses. We all ate heartily till we nearly popped, sitting around in a kind of stupor, letting the waves outside lull us, that magic that only a fish camp can. Way out from civilization, with no telephones, an old transistor radio and only a television when Daddy hooked one up with the generator, years later.

The moon often shone on the water; a thousand diamonds spread before us like spun silk.

That kind of contentment I have found in my life, but only rarely. It still stands out as my best

memory of childhood. Even when I have tried, I cannot replicate it.

After our sandwich spread, we would go at the dominoes and cards, trying to beat the

butts off the other side. Donnie taught me how to toe pass when we played Old Maid and Go Fish; we were the champs for ages. As we grew older, we exchanged Old Maid and Go Fish for Gin Rummy, Canasta and Texas Hold ‘Em. We were fiercely competitive and would do anything to win. And I mean anything. I remember learning and perfecting sleight of hand for palming cards, peaking at opponents’ hands with misdirection and dirty pool galore.

Karen still loves to play games (especially Uno) with her family.

Camp days took on a life of their own, with preparation for flounder gigging a top one.

After supper and games, when it got near midnight, Daddy would carefully fill gas lamps and

change the gas mantles so that we had a bright light to gig with. It was a kind of ritual which I associated with Daddy, not knowing anything different. Getting ready was at least half of it,

many a night I sat in my PJ’s watching with great interest and huge eyes until daddy said all was ready.

We ran for the huge flat bottom boat straightaway. I would barely make it onto the boat

before it pulled out, heading for the Intercoastal waterway, taking us to Daddy’s “sweet spots” as he liked to call them. Wisps of coastal grasses swayed in the humid night air, all along the shallow banks we stayed close to. I used to think the grasses whispered secrets in Daddy’s ears, so he knew where the really big flounder lay. I still think that.

We were really a sight for the tugs and barges that worked the waterways all night. Our

boat had custom-made lamp holders on its four corners; we glowed in the dark. Daddy and the boys polled us along with great pitchfork-like gigs that he hand-made. They doubled as spears to puncture unsuspecting flounder. Daddy often hopped out the boat into knee-deep water to get us unstuck on the sandy bottom. While we hugged the banks, the tugs and boats went through the very deepest part of the canal; they seemed frighteningly close and often made me scrunch my eyes shut. They barreled down on us, turning just in the nick of time before they ripped us into.

When Daddy or one of us spied a flounder, the boat was slowed and the gigging

commenced. It was straight in at a ninety-degree angle and no missing. Whooping and hollering was pure joy when a flopping flounder was brought up. We clapped, hooted, yelling out in the dark night air, miles from nowhere. It took me a long while to really appreciate how subtle seeing the fish was, and seeing what fishing together was really all about.

The flounder lay still and flat, like oblong ghosts right along the sandy bottom. At times I

could see round eyes, but mostly it was like an outline, barely there. If you missed, the flounder flew away, darting with lightning speed, leaving a dust cloud in the water, making you think you imagined it after all. When we got our limit, we headed home. Usually by that time I was asleep in a corner of the boat. Most nights Daddy carried me and the boys to our bunks. Sometimes, I looked outside to see him cleaning and gutting the fish before he put them on ice for our big cookout the next day.

Another view of the boat camp.

I stood in the camp, could see just the impression of Daddy as he worked downstairs. He

was methodical, never missing a beat as he completed the important task of preparing food for us. He was the type of man that was quiet, soft spoken, sometimes overlooked. I realized many years later that without him and my mother, I would be in quite a fix, lost to deprivation, lack, misery even. I might be forever wandering, not just temporarily a ghost in the streets, lost to the beauty of a sunset or sunrise, a happy home, belly laughing, a wonderful meal, everything that I was. My parents possessed a quiet dignity, a sense that they would be foundational, providing more grounding in a storm than a port, more assurance than what need be, more than I could ever hope to repay. I wanted to be so like them, so kind, so funny, so restful, simplistic in their appeal, providing a haven to orphans, to those so hungry for love, for acceptance, for someone to save them that they would have done anything, given anything. As I would now. It was one of my hopes all those years ago and remains more so every day. To my parents, FJ and Irene Chance.

Note: the source for the factual information in the beginning of this blog post came from this website.