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June 07, 2007 - Summer's classroomI OA • The Suffolk Times • June 7, 2007 Summer's classroom You could feel it in the classroom, a sort of uneasiness that rippled through every kid. Most of us didn't have too much love for schooling any- way, and seeing the end of the school year was just a few days away, the air was alive with excitement. Lessons would go on, but FOCUS few paid much attention. The O N passing of notes and the whispers NATURE were much more important. by Paul It was decided Stoutenburgh that "the gang" would all meet down at the Point for a cookout. There were al- ways hot dogs in some parents' icebox and potatoes always found their way into the fire's edge. They'd come out of the fire looking like a modern -day charcoal briquette, but they tasted good. This whole affair was to introduce some new kids into the world of "know- how." Someone would always be out searching for firewood and, of course, the bigger the better. The one bad feature about our fires was that sparks would shoot out and eventually some- one would step on one and the sounds of an Indian war dance would come bellowing out from the shadows but that was just part of the goings on. To most, we were just a bunch of young kids whose latest idea had been to shoot their first seagull and attempt to cook it as the pioneers did. What we learned from that experience was that the early settlers never would have survived if they had to live on seagull, for the one we tried was just plain awful. Nothing should smell or taste that badl Probably the best thing that came out of school's end was that we could discard our shoes and go barefoot. A thin shirt and a pair of shorts was our entire dress for the summer, and when it got real hot we'd get rid of the shirt. Of course, there was nothing different in our swimming outfit; just the same old shorts that served every occasion that came along. There always had to be the high school boy who just happened to slip in and check us out. One or two would be smoking. That was a sign of a real dude. We never liked them too much. There was this one guy who always carried a beer can with him. He was supposed to be a real live wire. I never saw him take a drink out of it. I be- lieve it was empty. It was all for show. Girls were always the main stream of conversation. Their physical qualities ranked high in popularity, and all sorts of wild tales were told. Then someone hollered "I'm going swimming," and half the gang headed for the chan. nel and in we went, most as bare as a newborn baby. I have vivid memories of tiny luminous jellies running down our bodies when we stood up out of the water. And then there were the big ones. The kind that fight up when disturbed. Here was true magic; the filaments glowed in greens and yellows and combinations of all sorts Of course we ran into all sorts of •t QE Suffolk lime. photo. by P.W Sloul..bwgh Can you remember when blowfish were everywhere In our creeks and bays? Once ranked as trash fish, they later became known as "chicken of the sea," one of the most sought -after fish In the market. Too bad they are no longer plentiful In our local waters. What a delight for all ages to pick up a baby blowfish from a seine net and scratch Its belly: Immediately It starts to pump Itself up with air until It be- comes the size of a ping -pong ball. This blowing up Is the defense these fish use when caught by a predator. things with our late -night swimming, and the one that will last forever with me is the scar I carry on my head from when I dove into an old wagon wheel at the bottom of the creek on one of my dives. You might not be reading this today if I had not been lucky enough to have only grazed my head instead of having a real head -on collision with that wheel, but that was part of growing up. Our hollering and laughing and singing ran into the night and, look- ing back, I can now feel sorry for the man who came down the beach and objected in a wide range of vocal out- bursts about our noise. He scared the living bejesus out of us and scattered us to the wind. There were a few mandatory things during the summer that had to be done at home like taking out the gar- bage and making your bed, but they could always be skipped if something really important came along, like fishing or crabbing. After all, what could be more important in a young boy's early life than knowing how and where to find fish! Blowfish and snappers were our learning tools. As for bait, blowfish would bite on almost anything; a piece of clam, a piece of fish or bread, or even a piece of bubble gum, which was always available. Sometimes for the fun of it you could snag a blowfish with a bare hook. There were so many all around you all you had to do was maneuver your hook under the chin and pull it up fast. You could also herd blowfish towards shore and then all you had to do was grab them. Once caught, they could be tickled under the belly, and you could watch them blow up as hard as a baseball, a mechanism they used to keep their predators from being able to swallow them. No matter what method you used, blowfish furnished many of us young fishermen with our first What could be course in fish- more important ing. My dad's g Y in a young boy's rule was "If you catch it, early life than you clean it knowing how and you eat itl"Which acs and where to tually wasn't find fish? as bad as it sounds, for once you got the knack of skinning them, they were cleaned and ready to eat in no time. You cooked them crispy brown and held them like corn on the cob to eat them. The one thing you quickly learned was that the rough skin of the blowfish did a real job on your fingers when you cleaned them; they looked and felt like sandpaper. To most of us kids, those rough - looking fingers were our badge of success. When it comes right down to it, there wasn't much for kids to do, so we often got in trouble with renters in the area who were looking for a quiet vacation spot without noisy kids around. I know our singing at night didn't help. We'd walk around the roads and beaches singing our hearts out. We thought everyone enjoyed our serenade of "This old man, he played one, He played knack -knack on my thumb. With a knick- knack, paddy whack, Give your dog a bone, This old man came rolling home." So much for our youthful singing. When it came to clamming, we did most of it on the huge sandbar that lay in the mouth of the creek. It was easy to run your hand through the loose sand until you hit a clam. At low tide when the bar was out of wa- ter, you could find the clams by the water that squirted out of the holes where the clams had buried them- selves. Then you'd be sure to find one. Of course, we kids had other names for those clams, as some of you will remember. And so with our clamming and fish- ing and cookouts, the summer had finally started. Catch Paul Stoutenburgh every week in TIMES /REVIEW NEWSPAPERS. Suffolk Times • June 7, 2007 Summer's classroo r ou couio teei it in ine classroom, a sort of uneasiness that rippled through every kid. Most of us didn't have too much love for schooling any- way, and seeing the end of the school year was just a few days away, the air was alive with excitement. Lessons would go on, but Focus few paid much attention. The ON passing of notes and the whispers NATURE Were much more important. by Paul It was decided Stoutenburgh that "the gang" would all meet down at the - Point for a cookout. There were al- ways hot dogs in some parents' icebox and potatoes always found their way into the fire's edge. They'd come out of the fire looking like a modern -day charcoal briquette, but they tasted good. This whole affair was to introduce some new kids into the world of "know- how." Someone would always be out searching for firewood and, of course, the bigger the better. The one bad feature about our fires was that sparks would shoot out and eventually some- one would step on one and the sounds of an Indian war dance would come bellowing out from the shadows but that was just part of the goings on. To most, we were just a bunch of young kids whose latest idea had been to shoot their first seagull and attempt to cook it as the pioneers did. What we learned from that experience was that the early settlers never would have survived if they had to live on seagull, for the one we tried was just plain awful. Nothing should smell or taste that bad! Probably the best thing that came out of school's end was that we could discard our shoes and go barefoot. A thin shirt and a pair of shorts was our entire dress for the summer, and when, it got real hot we'd get rid of the shirt. Of course, there was nothing different in our swimming outfit; just the same old shorts that served every occasion 'hilt W 8 Suffolk Times photos by Paul Stoutenburgli Can you remember when blowfish were everywhere in our creeks and bays? Once ranked as trash fish, they later became known as "chicken of the sea," one of the most sought -after fish in the market. Too bad they are no longer plentiful in our local waters. There always had to be the high school boy who just happened to slip in and check us out. One or two would be smoking. That was a sign of a real dude. We never liked them too much. There was this one guy who always carried a beer can with him. He was supposed to be a real live wire. I never saw him take a drink out of it. I be- lieve it was empty. It was all for show. Girls were always the main stream of conversation. Their physical qualities ranked high in popularity, and all sorts of wild tales were told. Then someone hollered "I'm going swimming," and half the gang headed for the chan- nel and in we went, most as bare as a newborn baby. I have vivid memories of tiny luminous jellies running down our bodies when we stood up out of the water. And then there were the What a delight for all ages to pick up a baby blowfish from a seine net and scratch its belly: Immediately it starts to pump itself up with air until it be- comes the size of a ping -pong ball. This blowing up is the defense these fish use when caught by a predator. iT g ones. The kind that light up when disturbed. Here was true magic; the filaments glowed in greens and yellows and combinations of all sorts. Of course we ran into all sorts of hings with our late -night swimming, and the one that will last forever with ae is the scar I carry on my head rom when I dove into an old wagon vheel at the bottom of the creek on ne of my dives. You might not be eading this today if I had not been .icky enough to have only grazed my ead instead of having a real head -on ollision,with that wheel, but that was art of growing up. Our hollering and.laughing and aging ran into the night and, look- ing back, I can now feel sorry, for the man who came down the beach and objected in a wide range of vocal out- bursts about our noise. He scared the living bejesus out of us and scattered as to the wind. There were a few mandatory things during the summer that had to be done at home like taking out the gar- bage and making your bed, but they could always be skipped if something really important came along, like fishing or crabbing. After all, what could be more important in a young boy's early life than knowing how and where to find fish? Blowfish and snappers were our learning tools. As for bait, blowfish would bite on almost anything; a piece of clam, a piece of fish or bread, or even a piece of bubble gum, which was always available. Sometimes for the fun of it you could snag a blowfish with a bare hook. There were so many all around you all you had to do was maneuver your hook under the chin and pull it up fast. You could also herd blowfish towards shore and then all you had to do was grab them. Once caught, they could be tickled under the belly, and you could watch them blow up as hard as a baseball, a mechanism they used to keep their predators from being able to swallow them. No matter what method you used, blowfish furnished many of us young fishermen with our first What could be course in fish- more important ing. My dad's g 'S Ina young b0 rule was If y y you catch it, early life than you clean it knowing how and you eat it!" Which ac- and where to tually wasn't find fish? as bad as it sounds, for once you, got the knack of skinning them, they were cleaned and ready to eat in no time. You cooked them crispy brown and held them like corn on the cob to eat them. The one thing you quickly learned was that the rough skin of the blowfish did a real job on your fingers when you cleaned them; they looked and felt like sandpaper. To most of us kids, those rough - looking fingers were our badge of success. When it comes right down to it, there wasn't much for kids to do, so we often got in trouble with renters in the area who were looking for a quiet vacation spot without noisy kids around. I know our singing at night didn't help. We'd walk around the roads and beaches singing our hearts out. We thought everyone enjoyed our serenade of "This old man, he played one, He played knick -knack on my thumb. With a knick- knack, paddy whack, Give your dog a bone, This old man came rolling home." So much for our youthful singing. When it came to clamming, we did most of it on the huge sandbar that lay in the mouth of the creek. It was easy to run your hand through the loose sand until you hit a clam. At low tide when the bar was out of wa- ter, you could find the crams by the water that squirted out of the holes where the clams had buried them- selves. Then you'd be sure to find one. Of course, we kids had other names for those clams, as some of you will remember. And so with our clamming and fish- ing and cookouts, the summer had finallv started.