The Eve of Thanksgiving is coming

The anticipated time has arrived. Thanksgiving is nine days away. Kate is driving home on Friday morning and, if all things continue in the manner in which they now find themselves, we will be driving down to St. George Island on Saturday for a week of walking in the sand, strolling through the town of Apalachicola, and sitting down at table eating seafood and drinking beer.

And being thankful for it all.

Around fifteen years ago, dad was driving down to Apalachicola with his buddies from IBM and coming back with stories of fishing in the Gulf, sleeping in little motels near the waterfront, and eating oysters and ribs in little restaurants like "The Frog Level". The more I heard about it, the more I wanted to go.

However, whenever the question of Apalachicola came up, my dad would talk around the subject but never volunteer anything. But finally, back in 2000, my parents decided that it would be fun to rent a condo on St. George Island and celebrate Thanksgiving at the beach.

That year, Mom and Dad and Susan and Kate and Cindy and I drove down to St. George and celebrated Thanksgiving in a new location. The evening before Thanksgiving, we drove into Apalachicola and enjoyed the first of many meals at Boss Oyster, a seafood restaurant on the waterfront.

I perhaps will never forget that meal. As we perused the menu, I noticed a special "oyster roast" of three dozen roasted oysters. The number and the concept sounded really good. So, as everyone else ordered a plate from the bounty of the sea, I ordered the oyster roast and waited for our meal's delivery.

Unfortunately, when our order finally arrived, my roasted oysters were nowhere to be found. The waitress realized this immediately, and ran back into the kitchen to place the forgotten order. As everyone sat down to eat their seafood meal, I sat and watched and nursed my beer.

But quickly the oysters arrived before me, in the form of a cafeteria tray, piled with oysters in shell, covered with a towel. The waitress delivered them before me, handed me the tools of my meal, and then pulled up a stool next to me and began to shuck my oysters.

I had never had such service. I was trying to shuck oysters myself, but the waitress was too fast for me. Drawn butter was oozing down my forearms. Tobasco was dashed on their heads. Lemons were squeezed on their carcasses. Before long the mountain of oyster shells was deposited in a bucket on the floor and I will full of the little grey bodies.

That was tremendous. And still is. For eight years now, almost without interruption, I have been able to sit down at a table with my extended family and fill my belly with the bounty of Apalachicola. Last year, brother Frank, Maggie and Lily were able to join us as well.

Even now, as I think about the upcoming trip, I think of the drive over the bridge from East Point to St. George Island. As the morning sun comes up, I will watch the oystermen in their little boats out in the bay. The front of their boats will hopefully be covered with the rock-like shells of their prey. And I will remark to Cindy and Kate, "That man has my oysters."

And he will, too.