My father, James E. Brewer, was killed in action during World War II, eight days before I was born at Rex Hospital in Raleigh, NC. His B 29 was shot down over Burma. My young mother then brought me home to live with her extended family – my Grandmother, Mama Ida; Aunt Pearl, my grandmother’s older sister; Joanne, my mom’s younger sister; and Uncle Sidney, Mama Ida’s younger brother. It would take a village to raise me, or so it seemed.
So my earliest memories of life on this earth originated in that two story home on Sewell Avenue.
I remember playing in the coal pile outside the back porch. I remember a 78 record recorded by Gene Autry called Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. I remember my Uncle Jeffrey giving me an autographed football. He was a fullback for Wake Forest and I remember Uncle Sidney shucking oysters.
Uncle Sidney make frequent trips to the Carolina coast and – when in season – he brought home a bushel of oysters. Uncle Sidney limped a lot. He had lost his lower right leg while trying to hop on a freight train as a young man. So, on a typical Saturday night, he would slowly set his bushel of oysters down beside the coal furnace in the kitchen and began shucking. He was pretty good, as I recall, and could finish a bushel within an hour. Some of the adults ate the oysters raw, but not me. I waited for Mama Ida to make oyster stew – rich, buttery, creamy oyster stew. I didn’t care much for the shriveled oysters in the stew, but I loved the broth sprinkled with saltines. Thus, my life with oysters began.
Once my mother remarried and my family settled in the hills of West Virginia, I had little opportunity to eat fresh oysters, but one summer, on vacation, Daddy took us all out to eat at The Sanitary Fish Market Restaurant in Morehead City, NC.
We each ordered a dish. I think I had a piece of flounder, but Daddy ordered a big plate of fried oysters.
“Try one of these,” he offered. Reluctantly, I put the strange looking thing in my mouth and I was overwhelmed with this delicious morsel, not at all like the stewed or raw oysters. This was the real deal.
Later, when I was in Carolina and spent weekends with Mama Ida, Joanne and her husband, Uncle Jim, we would often go to the Fish Camp outside of Charlotte where they served all-you-could-eat platters. I’d order the Fried Oysters, Uncle Jim would get Fried Shrimp and others might order Fried Flounder or Fried Catfish. It didn’t matter who ordered what because we passed the plates around and ate till we were stuffed. My favorite of all – of course – were the Fried Oysters.
The oyster industry in Virginia nearly collapsed due to disease and overfishing of the fragile oyster colonies, but in recent years, the oysters have made a comeback as many waterfront landowners have developed small oyster farms at the ends of their docks.
The state is continuing to experiment with reestablishing wild oyster colonies and so far, so good.
Here’s hoping that some young man in the future will enjoy his life with oysters as much as I have.