The Linden Review - Summer of ’68: Crab Feast

For my family, summer in Turner Station was synonymous with crab feasts, with newspaper on the picnic table loaded with mallets, metal crackers and picks, and beer for the adults. Our small town outside of Baltimore City sat on a river and erupted with various hues of green from the trees, bushes, and grasses. The bright golden sun was situated as a spotlight in the true-blue skies, the white cotton-ball clouds shaped like circus animals. The breeze from the river was pungent yet salty. As the oldest grandchild and child in the Scotland and Drexel Harris clan, I would learn to eat crabs—or not eat at all—during this sacred and frenzied tradition.