"The Woods" was my perfect place. A secluded cabin on the waters of the Chesapeake where my uncle and my father would take me out on a john-boat christened "Jay-Bob" to catch crabs. We would prowl silently through the shallows as they stood precariously at the helm, balanced by the long wooden handle of the crab net. They advised quiet in low voices and squinted their eyes to survey muddy waters for crab activity. A sudden loss of equilibrium as they lunged to the side in a battle of speed and dexterity. Our crustacean foes claimed victory more often than not. Most of the time I preferred roasting hot-dogs to smashing crabs anyway.
The cabin has been shut for five years. The Jay-Bob was crushed by an errant tree, and the well has run dry. The screens have fallen from the porch, and a vagrant smashed a window. Our tree house is straight up and down. One side of the tree experienced a growth spurt while the other remained the same. This is my place. The home my grandfather built.
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