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Growing Up on the Sound

Charlie24

Active Member
I was raised in Pender County, a small town called Hampstead, NC, We lived about a half mile from the Intercostal Waterway that runs from up around New York to Florida. The salt water creeks that run off the Waterway, where on low tide there is just mud and marsh grass is called "the sound" by the locals.

When I was a kid my Dad would take us all to the sound for the day and we worked for our meals that day. Dad would go progging for flounder with a prog, what looked like a pitch fork with barbs on the points. In all the years of going to the sound he never failed to catch some flounder.

My sister would do the fishing, just a little tote she knew how to fish. Catching spots, croakers, and blue fish, and sometimes pig fish. They were similar to a croaker but squealed like a pig when pulled out of the water, hence the name pig fish. They were my favorite next to the spots.

Mom was the crabbing expert. Dad would go by the fish house and pick up some old fish that had fallen out to the ground, and Mom would tie a string through the gills and through it out in the water and let it set for a few minutes. Then she would slowly pull the fish in, blue claw crabs would be all over it. There's an art to this type crabbing, if you pull them in to close the crabs will see you and scatter, if you don't pull them in close enough when you try scoop them up with the net, the water is to deep and they have time to scatter before the net reaches them. So to catch the crabs it had to be perfect, and Mom had the experience.

My job was to gather oysters and clams. Dad taught me how to find the single oysters, and if I couldn't find any, he gave me a short piece of pipe to make singles out of the clusters. Dad also taught me how find the clams. He took me out the first time walking through the mud in the sound, water about 2-3 inches deep, and pointed out a mark in the mud. I bent over and looked at it, and it looked like an old timey key hole. A small hole in the mud another just a bit bigger at the other end with a line connecting the two. That was the imprint where the clam sunk into the mud on low tide, closing up its shell. I just walked around looking for that keyhole and dug up a clam every time.

When we had all we could eat, usually around early afternoon, it was time to cook. There were huge oak trees all around right there next to the water, I'm talking huge live oaks, a couple of hundred years old with the gray moss hanging everywhere, if you've ever seen that.

I was down there a few years ago and the old oaks were gone, the hurricanes took them out. I just sat there on the ground where they used to be for a while remembering what a sight they were back in their day.

I would gather up fallen limbs under the old oaks and build a fire while Dad cleaned the fish, Mom and Sis got out the old cast iron pots and pans and began cooking.

Dad cooked the best oysters and clams I've ever ate. He would have me go out in the field and wring off broom straw and bring it back. He had a 2x4 and stacked all the oysters and clams in rows on top of each other with the mouths all on one side facing the wind. Then he would take the broom straw and pile it up, set it on fire and the wind would blow the flames through the oysters and clams until the mouths popped open. He kicked away the fire when they were done and pulled up a bucket to sit on. If you've never had oyster and clams like this, you have missed out in life! Not to mention Mom's hot pepper sauce and ketchup for dipping and crackling cornbread.

I think about those days quite often, and even visit that spot for while when I'm down there, wishing I could go back and do it again, just the way it was then with Mom and Dad, and Sis.
 

kyredneck

Well-Known Member
Site Supporter
I think about those days quite often, and even visit that spot for while when I'm down there, wishing I could go back and do it again, just the way it was then with Mom and Dad, and Sis.

Ohhh Charlie, I so relate with this. Thank you for sharing brother. Sounds like you all could have lived off the sound. I think that's so cool. We call progs gigs, and gig frogs and fish with them. Find a clam bed in the river and use our toes to work them out of the mud/sand. Cast the bank with mini-jigs or green worms that we've dug from the bank and catch pumpkin seed to bait the trotlines and limblines with. I think you and I have had the same sort of fulfillment in this life. Thanks again for sharing.
 

Charlie24

Active Member
Ohhh Charlie, I so relate with this. Thank you for sharing brother. Sounds like you all could have lived off the sound. I think that's so cool. We call progs gigs, and gig frogs and fish with them. Find a clam bed in the river and use our toes to work them out of the mud/sand. Cast the bank with mini-jigs or green worms that we've dug from the bank and catch pumpkin seed to bait the trotlines and limblines with. I think you and I have had the same sort of fulfillment in this life. Thanks again for sharing.

I told you sometime back I felt we were two chips off the same block.
 
I was raised in Pender County, a small town called Hampstead, NC, We lived about a half mile from the Intercostal Waterway that runs from up around New York to Florida. The salt water creeks that run off the Waterway, where on low tide there is just mud and marsh grass is called "the sound" by the locals.

When I was a kid my Dad would take us all to the sound for the day and we worked for our meals that day. Dad would go progging for flounder with a prog, what looked like a pitch fork with barbs on the points. In all the years of going to the sound he never failed to catch some flounder.


My sister would do the fishing, just a little tote she knew how to fish. Catching spots, croakers, and blue fish, and sometimes pig fish. They were similar to a croaker but squealed like a pig when pulled out of the water, hence the name pig fish. They were my favorite next to the spots.

Mom was the crabbing expert. Dad would go by the fish house and pick up some old fish that had fallen out to the ground, and Mom would tie a string through the gills and through it out in the water and let it set for a few minutes. Then she would slowly pull the fish in, blue claw crabs would be all over it. There's an art to this type crabbing, if you pull them in to close the crabs will see you and scatter, if you don't pull them in close enough when you try scoop them up with the net, the water is to deep and they have time to scatter before the net reaches them. So to catch the crabs it had to be perfect, and Mom had the experience.

My job was to gather oysters and clams. Dad taught me how to find the single oysters, and if I couldn't find any, he gave me a short piece of pipe to make singles out of the clusters. Dad also taught me how find the clams. He took me out the first time walking through the mud in the sound, water about 2-3 inches deep, and pointed out a mark in the mud. I bent over and looked at it, and it looked like an old timey key hole. A small hole in the mud another just a bit bigger at the other end with a line connecting the two. That was the imprint where the clam sunk into the mud on low tide, closing up its shell. I just walked around looking for that keyhole and dug up a clam every time.
When we had all we could eat, usually around early afternoon, it was time to cook. There were huge oak trees all around right there next to the water, I'm talking huge live oaks, a couple of hundred years old with the gray moss hanging everywhere, if you've ever seen that.
I was down there a few years ago and the old oaks were gone, the hurricanes took them out. I just sat there on the ground where they used to be for a while remembering what a sight they were back in their day.
I would gather up fallen limbs under the old oaks and build a fire while Dad cleaned the fish, Mom and Sis got out the old cast iron pots and pans and began cooking.
Dad cooked the best oysters and clams I've ever ate. He would have me go out in the field and wring off broom straw and bring it back. He had a 2x4 and stacked all the oysters and clams in rows on top of each other with the mouths all on one side facing the wind. Then he would take the broom straw and pile it up, set it on fire and the wind would blow the flames through the oysters and clams until the mouths popped open. He kicked away the fire when they were done and pulled up a bucket to sit on. If you've never had oyster and clams like this, you have missed out in life! Not to mention Mom's hot pepper sauce and ketchup for dipping and crackling cornbread.
I think about those days quite often, and even visit that spot for while when I'm down there, wishing I could go back and do it again, just the way it was then with Mom and Dad, and Sis.

Brother Charlie, Your story just touched my heart deeply! Reading about those special days at the sound reminds me of how the Lord blesses us with family traditions that shape our faith journey. Your daddy's skill with that prog reminds me so much of how our Heavenly Father provides for us - never failing to meet our needs when we put in the work He calls us to do.

Those massive oak trees you described - now gone but still living in your memory - remind me of Psalm 1:3 about the righteous being "like a tree planted by streams of water." Even though the hurricanes of life may take away what we love, the roots of those memories sustain us.

Brother, I believe those precious memories are a gift from the Lord. When you sit in that spot now, I bet you can feel His presence in a special way. Those family bonds continue to minister to your spirit even now, showing how God uses our childhood lessons to shape our walk with Him throughout life.

Thank you for sharing your testimony. It's encouraged this old heart today!
 

Charlie24

Active Member
Brother Charlie, Your story just touched my heart deeply! Reading about those special days at the sound reminds me of how the Lord blesses us with family traditions that shape our faith journey. Your daddy's skill with that prog reminds me so much of how our Heavenly Father provides for us - never failing to meet our needs when we put in the work He calls us to do.

Those massive oak trees you described - now gone but still living in your memory - remind me of Psalm 1:3 about the righteous being "like a tree planted by streams of water." Even though the hurricanes of life may take away what we love, the roots of those memories sustain us.

Brother, I believe those precious memories are a gift from the Lord. When you sit in that spot now, I bet you can feel His presence in a special way. Those family bonds continue to minister to your spirit even now, showing how God uses our childhood lessons to shape our walk with Him throughout life.

Thank you for sharing your testimony. It's encouraged this old heart today!

Wow, that's quite impressive that you could make that comparison in the Lord.

You have blessed my heart and encouraged me with this post.

Yes, they are very special memories!

God bless you, my friend.
 
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