Servo 24:2
Servo 24:2
“Got one!” Rory hollered as he snapped up our makeshift net. “I can’t believe it!”We were ankle-deep in cool limpid water, the hot sun shining on our backs. I approached and gestured for him to open the net. “Let’s see.”He turned the handle on the old tennis racket, allowing the pillowcase to flop open. Inside was a large red crayfish. It had huge claws, long antennae, and spindly legs. “And people eat these things?” he said, peeing inside.“I guess so. Remember seeing them in the seafood case at the store?”“Yeah. So what do you eat?”“Their butts!” Dagwood said loudly. We spun around to find him standing on the opposite bank.“Oh, hi,” I replied, feeling sheepish that he’d caught us being juvenile.“Ya catchin’ crawdads?”“Something to do.”“Can I help?”“Sure!” I waved him down. “I bet you know how to catch ’em better than us.”He kicked off his boots, rolled up his pant legs, and joined us. “How many have you caught?”Rory held out the net. “Just this one.”“Whoa! That’s a monster!” He reached and pulled it out. We shied away from him. “That’ll make some good eatin’!”“And just how do you eat them?”“Boil ’em whole, break off the tails, remove the meat, dip in sauce, and eat!” “Do they taste good?” Rory asked.“When the creek’s not runnin’ hard, they taste better. Otherwise, they can taste mighty muddy.”“Ew!”I inched a bit closer. “So what do they really taste like?”“Ever have lobster?”“Um, no. Seafood was deemed bad for us to eat, so it was never served in the Inner States.”“What?! Not even bluegill and catfish?”“Are those saltwater fish?”“No, freshwater.”“Oh. Well, they have large unpolluted pools where they farmed the fish we used to eat.”“They just don’t go out into a lake and catch ’em?”“No.” I wandered over to the bank and found a fallen tree truck to sit on. “They have a system to harvest the fish in a sanitary manner.”Dagwood played with the crayfish. “Is it all like that?”“What?”“So clean and tidy.”“The Inner States deemed that an antiseptic and hygienic lifestyle was paramount to maximum efficiency in the population.”“That’s no fun.”“Dirt harbors bacteria; bacteria has been shown to make you ill, so dirty is bad.”“If that’s the case, all us farmers should be dead!”I reached down and found a smooth stone at the edge of the creek. “When we first moved out here, I didn’t even want to go outside. Now, I don’t like being inside. I think the Inner States have it all wrong.”“Dirt don’t hurt!” He stood, switched hands with the angry crayfish, scooped his right hand into the creek and sent a shower of shimmering diamond-droplets at me. “The earth is life!”The cool water splashed me in the face. I could taste the mineral-infused liquid on my lips. Finally, I no longer feared the outside, I embracedit. Rory dropped the net and quickly got into the game. We had metamorphosed into what we’d been brought up to hate. In the back of my mind, I began to question governance in the land from where we’d come. What was so wrong with this way of living? Five minutes later and we were soaking wet. It felt good; the mid-summer sun was baking the plains and growing a fabulous corn crop for grandpa. The spring rains had satiated the parched earth, giving it nourishment to support life. I was glad the drought seemed to be over and farmers in the area were once again thriving. Dagwood plopped down on the old log. Somewhere in our exuberant frolicking, he’d lost the monster crayfish. “I’m sorry, I dropped it,” he said, holding his hands up.“Don’t worry,” Rory replied, “we’ll catch more.”We caught our breaths and watched the creek meander by. A dozen or so little minnows darted in and out of shoals while dragonfly larvae skittered for cover under rocks. Watching all these miracles of life, I felt deprived in my early days. These wonders had been shrouded from our existence—deemed too dirty or dangerous. Dagwood was right, the earth was life. And in the Inner States, there felt like there was no life, merely going from one day to the next without giving much thought to it. Everything was clean, tidy, organized, and overseen by the government. They knew what was best for the people, or did they? The cracks in their logic were now gaping canyons. “I got an idea,” Dagwood said.“What?” I replied.“How about we catch a mess of crawdads and I’ll take ’em home. I got a stock tank I can fill with water and let ’em sit a couple days—get any mud out of ’em. Then, we can have Ma boil ’em up and have a feast!”“That sounds really nice. I look forward to trying them.” He stood. “Well, come on, the crawdads don’t just hop in the net by themselves!”
“Got one!” Rory hollered as he snapped up our makeshift net. “I can’t believe it!”We were ankle-deep in cool limpid water, the hot sun shining on our backs. I approached and gestured for him to open the net. “Let’s see.”He turned the handle on the old tennis racket, allowing the pillowcase to flop open. Inside was a large red crayfish. It had huge claws, long antennae, and spindly legs. “And people eat these things?” he said, peeing inside.“I guess so. Remember seeing them in the seafood case at the store?”“Yeah. So what do you eat?”“Their butts!” Dagwood said loudly. We spun around to find him standing on the opposite bank.“Oh, hi,” I replied, feeling sheepish that he’d caught us being juvenile.“Ya catchin’ crawdads?”“Something to do.”“Can I help?”“Sure!” I waved him down. “I bet you know how to catch ’em better than us.”He kicked off his boots, rolled up his pant legs, and joined us. “How many have you caught?”Rory held out the net. “Just this one.”“Whoa! That’s a monster!” He reached and pulled it out. We shied away from him. “That’ll make some good eatin’!”“And just how do you eat them?”“Boil ’em whole, break off the tails, remove the meat, dip in sauce, and eat!” “Do they taste good?” Rory asked.“When the creek’s not runnin’ hard, they taste better. Otherwise, they can taste mighty muddy.”“Ew!”I inched a bit closer. “So what do they really taste like?”“Ever have lobster?”“Um, no. Seafood was deemed bad for us to eat, so it was never served in the Inner States.”“What?! Not even bluegill and catfish?”“Are those saltwater fish?”“No, freshwater.”“Oh. Well, they have large unpolluted pools where they farmed the fish we used to eat.”“They just don’t go out into a lake and catch ’em?”“No.” I wandered over to the bank and found a fallen tree truck to sit on. “They have a system to harvest the fish in a sanitary manner.”Dagwood played with the crayfish. “Is it all like that?”“What?”“So clean and tidy.”“The Inner States deemed that an antiseptic and hygienic lifestyle was paramount to maximum efficiency in the population.”“That’s no fun.”“Dirt harbors bacteria; bacteria has been shown to make you ill, so dirty is bad.”“If that’s the case, all us farmers should be dead!”I reached down and found a smooth stone at the edge of the creek. “When we first moved out here, I didn’t even want to go outside. Now, I don’t like being inside. I think the Inner States have it all wrong.”“Dirt don’t hurt!” He stood, switched hands with the angry crayfish, scooped his right hand into the creek and sent a shower of shimmering diamond-droplets at me. “The earth is life!”The cool water splashed me in the face. I could taste the mineral-infused liquid on my lips. Finally, I no longer feared the outside, I embracedit. Rory dropped the net and quickly got into the game. We had metamorphosed into what we’d been brought up to hate. In the back of my mind, I began to question governance in the land from where we’d come. What was so wrong with this way of living? Five minutes later and we were soaking wet. It felt good; the mid-summer sun was baking the plains and growing a fabulous corn crop for grandpa. The spring rains had satiated the parched earth, giving it nourishment to support life. I was glad the drought seemed to be over and farmers in the area were once again thriving. Dagwood plopped down on the old log. Somewhere in our exuberant frolicking, he’d lost the monster crayfish. “I’m sorry, I dropped it,” he said, holding his hands up.“Don’t worry,” Rory replied, “we’ll catch more.”We caught our breaths and watched the creek meander by. A dozen or so little minnows darted in and out of shoals while dragonfly larvae skittered for cover under rocks. Watching all these miracles of life, I felt deprived in my early days. These wonders had been shrouded from our existence—deemed too dirty or dangerous. Dagwood was right, the earth was life. And in the Inner States, there felt like there was no life, merely going from one day to the next without giving much thought to it. Everything was clean, tidy, organized, and overseen by the government. They knew what was best for the people, or did they? The cracks in their logic were now gaping canyons. “I got an idea,” Dagwood said.“What?” I replied.“How about we catch a mess of crawdads and I’ll take ’em home. I got a stock tank I can fill with water and let ’em sit a couple days—get any mud out of ’em. Then, we can have Ma boil ’em up and have a feast!”“That sounds really nice. I look forward to trying them.” He stood. “Well, come on, the crawdads don’t just hop in the net by themselves!”
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