Cracked Crabs

It's summer of 1983, and I'm seven-years-old. I sit adjacent to my mother in the front seat of our orange Gremlin. I crank the window down, and my hand becomes an airplane that flies through the already warm and sticky air. It's going to be another "scorcha", as my grandpa likes to say. It's only eight-thirty in the morning, but I'm already bouncing enthusiastically in my seat.

My mother stops the car suddenly and abruptly, muttering to herself about idiot drivers and throwing her arm our protectively in front of me; my lap-belt keeps me secured to the gray vinyl seat, but it's my mother's arm that prevents me from lurching forward. I slide her a small, sideways smile, and inquire impatiently,

"Are we almost, there, Mommy?"

"Yes, Stace—look, see? There's the fire station, almost there," she smiles indulgently at me, observant of my effervescing excitement.

A couple minutes later, we're turning left onto Little John Drive, already having passed Sherwood Forrest Street and Robin Hood Lane. The third house on the right, a summer-sky blue split-entry ranch, belongs to my grandparents, and before my mother has had the chance to put the car in park, I'm already throwing open the passenger side door and bounding up the driveway towards the porch steps.

"Stace Marie! Wait for me!" my mother calls out, and I halt in place, knowing what will happen if I don't.

She gives me the "stern" look as she approaches, and I reach for her hand to hold so I can more easily hurry her along. The side door on the porch opens as I thunder up the stairway, and I see my grandma's perfectly coifed head pop out the door in greeting. Her grin is wide and her arms even wider as I fling myself into them.

She chuckles a bit, gives my cheeks a quick squeeze and deposits a bright pink kiss upon my left one. She smells of powder and Blue Waltz perfume, and I am instantly completely and utterly happy. And excited; for I know that Grandma will have a wonderful and fabulous day planned for us, as she always does.

My mother is putting my bag on a kitchen chair and confirms with my grandma that she will pick me up tonight, by seven, and thanks her for watching me so that she can go to work and attend an office party afterwards. My grandmother smiles, looks over at me and responds,

"Thanks is never needed for spending the day with my granddaughter," and she gives me a little wink, her soft brown eyes twinkling.

I beam back in response, and my mother leans in for a quick kiss and says,

"Be good; I'll see you tonight."

The door closes softly as my mother departs, and I grin at my grandma.

"Gramma, what are we gonna do today? Are we gonna go out? Can we get ice cream? What are we do-"

She cuts me off with a laugh and responds, "Aspetta, Lovey! Yes, we're going out. She pulls her loose-fitting top aside to reveal a floral printed bathing suit strap.

I bounce excitedly, bursting out and proclaiming, "The Beach! Are we goin' to the beach? Are we—" I break of suddenly, and my balloon of happiness begins to deflate.

"What's the matter, Dolly?" Grandma asks.

"I don’t have my suit," I reply sulkily, my eyes beginning to mist over in disappointment.

"Oh, hmm, well, why don't you go into the Little Room?" she encourages.

Not understanding how going to the Little Room is going to make me feel in any way better, I pad down the thickly carpeted hallway, walls adorned in red and silver velvet wallpaper. I turn into the Little Room, so named because it is, in fact, little, with the wallpaper in here boasting sunny yellow daisies and giant lilies; my grandmother's decorating taste was profoundly influenced by her Italian American upbringing. The twin-sized bed is covered by a white-eyelet duvet, and on top of this rests a bright pink girl's bathing suit, covered in rainbows and unicorns. Beside it is a lacy pale-pink flowered sundress, with a stretchy halter top. There is even a matching pair of perfectly pink plastic flip-flops to complete the costume.

I jump up and down on the wooden floor while squealing simultaneously.

"Gramma, GRAMMA! Oh, I LOVE it! I really do! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!"

She is chuckling again and says, "Well, hurry up then and put them on unless you want all the parking to be gone when we get there," she says with a seriousness I know is fabricated.

In answer I rip my Strawberry Shortcake T-Shirt over my head and begin to wiggle my feet out of my faded red Keds.

Grandma turns out of the room to allow me to get dressed and hollers down the hall, "I'll just get the watermelon and sandwiches ready for the cooler!"

I shimmy into my new bathing suit, trying to take care not to disturb my tightly wound pigtails, smooth the skirt of my new dress and slip into my flipflops.

"Don't worry, Lovey," Grams called, "Just leave your other clothes on the bed."

The switching of outfits was an ongoing battle between my grandmother and my mother; my mother thought it practical to dress me in jeans and Buster Browns, while my grandmother admonished that this was not what "little girls" wear. I would be dropped off in Keds and returned in patent-leather slides in a dress adorned with frills. I was okay with the frills; I actually really liked the frills, and I loved when I spun in circles in a new dress, and it fluttered all around me. I was twirling before the mirror when my grandma called out,

"Lovey! Are you ready?"

I twirl and flutter my way out into the living room, where my grandma stands, waiting and she holds out her arms to me while exclaiming,

"So pretty!"

I launch myself into her embrace while responding, "I'm ready!"

She holds me at arms-length to be able to fully appreciate the fruits of her efforts, and then beams at me, and plants another bright-pink kiss upon my cheek.

I beam back, and we head into the kitchen to grab our treats and towels before heading to the beach.

The air has grown even heavier as we pull up in my grandma's Volkswagen Rabbit alongside the curb at Revere Beach. She is perched upon a macrame cushion that allows her a couple extra inches; her four-foot-eleven stature needs boosting to drive. I gaze out excitedly at the sight before me. Already families are grouped on towels and blankets, with brightly colored beach umbrellas dotting the skyline. The Atlantic calmly laps at the shore, and children run about squealing delightedly, chasing an abundantly annoyed seagull. I unbuckle my seatbelt and reach for the door handle as Grandma yells out,

"Aspetta! Let me get out first!"

Grandma takes no chances in securing my safety. She watches over me as if I am her greatest treasure; knowing this makes me feel like I am cherished, and I am blanketed in the security of her love.

"Okay," I smile, and sit back attempting to be as patient as I can muster.

We are both stumbling through the thick sand, weighed down with beach bags and a small cooler, as Grandma scans for the perfect spot; it must be close enough to the ocean for an easy walk to the water, sand sufficiently squishy for the building of a castle, but not so close so that we'll have to move as the tide continues to roll in, and far enough away from those already settled to be respectful of other people's space. She locates what she's searching for, and we set up camp. A queen-sized brown sheet, adorned in bright orange and yellow flowers is shaken out, and I am instructed to find small rocks to pin down the corners. She pulls out fluffy towels for each of us, and I am told to take of my sundress to begin the sticky and tedious affair of being layered up with sunblock. Before I am free to begin work on constructing a castle with the array of small plastic buckets and shovels that Grams has packed, I must help to spread sunblock on her back and shoulders. Her skin is already warm from the sun and from the exertion of setting up, and she has small dark freckles on her shoulders and below her neck; her olive-toned skin is soft, and she gives a small sigh of relaxation as I gently massage the sunblock into her shoulders.

She says, "Thank you, Lovey," as I send a smile back at her.

"A quick dip before you begin work on your castle?" she asks, eyes twinkling with excitement that mirrors my own.

I extend my hand to help her up, and she hefts her ample bottom from the sheet. We approach the shoreline, hands locked together, and she dips her big toe into the water with trepidation. It's July, so the water has had a bit of time to warm up, but it's still chilly, and I can feel pins and needles in my feet and ankles as my body attempts to adjust to the much cooler temperature. We wade out amongst the waves, and we bob along gently in the soft surf; her arms wrap around me in a tight embrace as I float, and I bury my face in the now salty cool softness of her skin. We stay in for a while, allowing the water to cool and soothe away the effects of the heat.

When we return to the sheet Grandma envelops me in a towel, rubbing my upper arms vigorously to restore my circulation.

"A little snack?" she inquires, and I nod my head vigorously in response.

We feast on salami and provolone sandwiches with spicy yellow mustard on fresh Scali bread. There's chilled ripe watermelon, and I wipe away the juice that spills down my chin with the back of my forearm.

"Do you want to build a castle with me, Grams?" I spout almost incoherently, my mouth still full of my last bite of fruit.

"Sure, Dolly," she responds with a smile. "In a couple minutes, okay? Let's give our lunch a bit to settle."

We just sit for a spell. She asks if I've seen my father, and I tell her that I saw him over the weekend and that he's well. She says that my mother has asked her and my grandfather to come for my birthday party in a few weeks, and then asks if my father will be invited too.

"My mom said that it would be better if my dad didn't come to my party and if he just celebrated with me on our own," I answer, a bit resignedly.

"What would you like?" she inquires cautiously.

"I really would like it if my daddy and you and Grandpa were at my party. I'll miss him if he's not there," I have my head down as I reply, a bit afraid to meet her eyes as I confess my hopes.

She lifts my chin gently and stares down at my worried expression, smiles softly and says,

"A little girl should not have to worry about the troubles of adults. Your birthday party should be about you—not about any difficulties between your mother and father. I will talk to her."

"Grandma, you don’t have to, it's okay, I don’t want my mother to be mad—"

She interrupts me, "If your mother is mad at anyone, it will be at me and not you. I will talk to her," the determination is evident in her eyes, and I can tell from the look on her face that the subject is closed. My grandma is small but fierce. I still worry though because I don’t want my mother to be mad at my grandma, and I'm not sure if she'll still be angry with me for talking about it. She doesn't like it when I share our problems with Grandma.

Grams notices the cloud that has shadowed my face, and my brow that is now puckered with concern. She decides the mood has suddenly grown too dark for this sunny day and suggests we begin work on our castle.

We spend the remainder of the afternoon alternating between taking cooling dips in the ocean, working on our sand sculpture (complete with moat), and sitting companionably on our sheet drinking chilled cans of Lipton Iced Tea.

Eventually, Grams announces that it's time to pack up because we have a stop to make on the way home and that Grandpa will be waiting for us. I ask where will be stopping, and receive the customary response of,

"You'll see."

I attempt patience, as I know this is what my grandma is attempting to teach me, but to be honest, it's not something I've quite gotten the hang of. Keeping my curiosity at bay is a challenge, as well as the fact that even my though time spent in the world has been limited, I've already learned to be insecure about the unexpected. I'm with Grams I tell myself, forcing myself to be excited rather than trepidatious.

After packing up the car, and settling my sticky and sandy self into my seat, Grandma reaches into the backseat, grabs a handful of Demoulas brown paper grocery bags, and then hands them to me instructing,

"Hold these. We'll need them for our stop," and sends me a wink, instantly dissolving any anxiety that I had begun to assume.

We get onto Revere Beach Parkway, and shortly thereafter pull into a small lot with a lopsided shack that has a hand-painted sign boasting fresh seafood. Grams instructs me to get out and follow her and to bring along the paper bags. As we approach the screen door, a man comes out to greet us, having heard us crunching the gravel that covers the small lot.

"Hey, Lady," he calls out in greeting, "What can I get ya?"

"Hello," my grandma replies with a warm smile, "We'd like a few pounds of your fresh crabs, please."

The man gestures to towards the side of the wooden shack, and there are several large saltwater tanks flanking the building. I follow behind my grandmother curiously, noting the different creatures crawling over each other. In one tank, there are towers of lobsters, clamoring against the sides, seemingly somehow aware of what their fate is to be if they do not make a hasty escape. I feel a pang of worry for them, but then my attention moves on to the tank that Grams stands in front of, while she gestures with her hands, pointing to her selection.

"Maybe, about twenty?" she inquires.

"Sure, did you bring bags?" he replies.

She turns around and beckons me towards her.

I approach curiously and hand the man the paper bags. With a gloved hand, he reaches into the tank and begins pulling out the red crabs. He fills four sacks, and then tightly folds the tops down, trapping the creatures firmly inside. My grandmother passes him some cash, and says,

"Thank you, keep the change,"

The man grins broadly in reply and says, "Thanks, Lady!" He then turns back towards the front of the shack.

"Come here, and grab a couple bags, Dolly," my grandmother instructs.

I am anchored to my spot. Frozen in fear. The bags were not still, but instead the sides bowed out slightly as the crabs moved against the edges of their new prison, assessing the possibility of a path to escape. I stare at those still crawling about the tanks and note their sharp pincers. I am absolutely not touching one of those bags, I think to myself.

My grandmother moves towards my rigid form. A small smile attempts to soothe me, but although I would do almost anything to please me grandma, this may be more than I can handle.

"Come here, Lovey," she beckons, her hand outstretched.

I force myself to move slowly towards her, and she takes my small hand in her own. I am comforted by the secure familiarity of my grandma's touch, but still move haltingly towards the moving paper bags.

"What if one claws its way out and attacks me?" I fearfully inquire.

"I promise that will not happen," she replies gently.

She reaches down and picks up a bag and then holds it out to me.

I look up into her eyes and see only love and encouragement. My trust in her is implicit; I take the bag from her tendered hand, holding on securely to the folded top. She then passes me another for my other hand, and as we make our way back to the car, I hold the bags out as far from my torso as my short limbs will permit.

She opens the car door and slides the seta forward to allow her to place her bags on the floor of the backseat and then chuckles when taking my pair from my extended arms. I have a hard time relaxing as we head back on 93 North towards her house. The breeze coming in through the open window, and the soft sounds of the Oldies coming from the radio make my eyes feel heavy and I feel myself start to drift, but then I hear a rustling sound coming from the backseat, and I am reminded of the crustaceous foreign passengers we have acquired. I straighten myself in the seat, determined to remain alert lest one of the spiny creatures makes sudden escape, and I am forced to fend them off to save myself.

We pull into the driveway on Little John Drive, and my grandpa rises in greeting from his plastic folding chair on the porch. He's wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, and his thick curly salt and pepper hair is fuller than usual from the humidity clinging to the air. My crab-angst is momentarily forgotten in the anticipation of receiving a crushing hug from my grandpa. I run into his arms, and receive my eagerly expected embrace, along with a kiss and gentle pat upon the top of my head.

"Hi Stacy, how was your day at the beach?" he asks smiling down at me.

"Hi, Grandpa! It was so good!" I reply, "And we brought crabs home with us!"

"Crabs!" he exclaims. "Your grandma told me she was going to stop this morning, so I already got the big pot out. Already boiled some corn on the cob for us, too," he says with a smile.

"Hey, though, before you go into the house, let me get those sandy feet with a hose first, so you don’t track sand all over the house."

I trudge dutifully forward, accustomed to this post-beach routine; Grandpa could absolutely not tolerate sand or dirt of any kind in his house. Grandma was always saying the best gift to give him is a new vacuum. He was very big on the cleanliness is next to godliness mantra.

After being sufficiently removed of grit, I settle myself in at the patio table on the deck with my pencils and crayons to draw while dinner is prepared. Grandma has offered to let me help put the crabs into the pot that now steamed on the stove within, but I am adamant in my refusal to be a party to the killing of the small viciously clawed creatures.

Grandma comes outside with a tray of silverware including small, spiked plastic corn cobs to spear our corn with (I really love these), and what I think are nut crackers, but are instead crackers for the crabs. She instructs me to help set the table, and I notice that there are four settings, and not three.

"Why do we have an extra setting?" I inquire curiously.

"We are going to have a special guest for dinner," she replies, and I receive another wink.

I know better than to ask, "Who?" because I know that the response will be the usual, "You'll see."

A few minutes later, as I finished placing out paper dishes, napkins and the obligatory eating tools, I heard a car pull into the drive and instantly recognize my dad's black Chevy sedan.

"Daddy!" I yell out and am down the stairs and the driveway before he has even finished closing the door to his car.

"Hi Sweetie!" he exclaims as he grabs me up into his arms, and then takes me for a few quick twirls around the driveway. "I'm so glad to see you!" he says, his warm chocolate eyes smiling back at me.

"Me too!" I agree. "Grandma said that we were having a special guest for dinner, and I kinda thought it might be you, but I didn't want to get too excited in case it wasn't."

I clutch him around the neck and snuggle in tighter before he gently unwinds my arms and sets me down.

"I hear there's some crabs to be had!" my dad says, "And I want to hear all about your day at the beach with Grandma."

"I've never had crabs before, Daddy," I reply, and then I start to fill him in on some of the highlights of the day as we made our way hand in hand towards the porch.

Grandma is backing out of the door leading to the kitchen, a huge platter of steaming crabs in her hands.

"Let me get that for you Ma," my dad offers, and leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek while relieving her of the giant dish.

"Thanks, Louie," she replies. "Your father is inside getting the corn and the drawn butter."

"Why did you draw butter?" I ask quizzically, my expression confused.

My grandmother and father laugh out loud in response.

"It's just a way of saying melted butter," my grandmother explains.

"Oh, okay."

"For the crab," she furthers.

"Oh," I reiterate. Why not just say melted butter then?

My dad goes in to help my grandpa with the rest of the food, and my grandmother and I take a chilled can of vanilla cream soda out for me and ice-cold bottles of beer out for the adults. Once everything is set up according to my grandmother's specifications, we all settle in to feast. My grandpa places a bright-red steaming crab on plate, and I stare down at it questioningly.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" I ask, and then everyone laughs heartily in response, my grandfather choking a bit on his recent swallow of MGD.

My grandmother takes it upon herself to crack upon a claw for me and passes me the succulent meat. As I hold it in my fingers, she tells me to dip it into the little Dixie cup that sits beside my plate and is filled with the "drawn" butter. I send my crabmeat for a quick swim in the butter, and then I bring it slowly towards my lips; I'm a little worried I may not like it, but the rule in my family is try it, and if you don't like it, you don't have to eat it, but you have to at least try. I open my mouth and place the food on my tongue. I close my mouth, begin to chew, and the salty brine of the crab mixes with the velvety richness of the butter. The flavor is so decadently delicious and unlike anything I've ever tasted before. My eyes are bright, and my cheeks flushed in delight as I exclaim,

"I love it!"

I am answered with cheers and applause, and my grandma leans over to once again grab my cheek and place upon it a smacking kiss. We tuck in to reap the benefits of our sumptuous repast, and Grandma patiently teaches me how to crack claws with confidence and bourgeoning skill. The conversation is energetic and excited, in the way that conversation only can be when you're outside, sitting on a porch, on a beautiful summer evening, enjoying cracked-red crabs with the people that you love most in the world.

Later that night, long after my mother had picked me up, and I had donned my flower-printed Sears underwear and matching undershirt—my customary attire for a steamy summer night, I lay atop the covers on my twin-sized bed, and while the fan oscillates back and forth, the gentle humming sound lulling me into a heavily-lidded slumber, I reflect back on the very first time I had ever tasted Atlantic red crabs, and somehow I know, I will never again taste anything better.