During my childhood in the 1970s through early 1980s, we spent summer weekends at the beach.
That might give you the impression I have wealthy parents who could afford extravagant trips, but that was far from the truth. Those “vacations” were actually a way to supplement our family income.
My dad served as first mate on a charter boat at Indian River inlet in Delaware. When I was 8, he bought his own boat he named Kelice, which was a combination of my name and my younger sister Denice.
He would charter two trips each Saturday and Sunday, only to return to his full-time job on Monday. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but he sacrificed so much to make sure my sister and I had a good childhood.
On Friday evenings, we would pile into the car (or van) and drive three hours to the beach. My mom, sister, cousins, friends and I would spend two glorious days building sandcastles, jumping ocean waves and sunning ourselves while Dad took wealthy weekend warriors deep-sea fishing.
As my father chartered his boat earning money to put food on the table, I also employed my own devices to feed our family.
The campground where our small but practical trailer was parked was situated along the Indian River Bay. When we weren’t beaching, my cousin and I would venture to the “Old Crab Dock” — toting chicken necks dangling on twine rope — to catch crabs for steaming.
And when the tide was low, we would walk out to a sandbar on the bay, wearing sneakers and wielding a rake, to dig for clams.
My fondest memories of those beach weekends were fishing with my Papa. As soon as I was able to hold a rod, I was fishing. For someone my age, I had an incredible amount of patience, and would sit for hours, rod in hand, waiting for a bite.
I learned how to bait minnows (hook in the eye and out the mouth), which today makes me squeamish just thinking about it. I caught countless flounder and bluefish that we grilled over the open fire pit shared with a neighboring camper.
To be honest, I may be painting a more idyllic picture of my beach diet than I usually experienced. Normally we feasted on raw hot dogs and freeze pops, since Mom was too busy to be bothered with cooking. It was glorious.
However, there were also times when we had fresh vegetables, and we could hear them coming … literally.
Each weekend a pickup truck would drive through the sandy roads of our campsite crying “Freeeesh Vegetables!” The open bed carried everything from sweet corn to cantaloupes. Every now and then — when money was less tight — Mom would spring for some of that Delaware produce.
While I can’t say those vegetables are the most memorable part of my childhood, since I’ve become an editor for Lancaster Farming they are certainly more poignant.
I think about the farmer who seeded and harvested those crops, then loaded them onto his truck and drove through our campsite hawking his wares. That was more than 40 years ago, and it still makes me smile when I think about it.
I guess what I am trying to say is thank you, farmers, for putting food on my table and inspiring me to grow and harvest food — whenever and wherever I may be.