Page 36 - January 2024 Issue.indd

“I Can Run A meantime, O.B.’s brother, A.T.Blades point he struck up a conversation with

(founder and head of the mighty Preston Bill next door. Their backgrounds may
Trot Line” Trucking Company) needed some space. have been a bit different but in compar-

See, even the most careful shipper occa- ing notes they found both loved to hunt
by Bryan Gadow sionally damages some freight. When it and fish. A friendship grew.

One thing, they say, leads to another. happens, well, the company pays for the Once, in the seventies, Dad spotted
And so it is that a piece at a time a puzzle item and takes ownership. A.T. rented a small fiberglass boat at the Preston
came together. To the 1940’s, when two his brother’s place to store the goods. Salvage, except it wasn’t a boat: it was
sons of Preston, “Biggest Small Town As it piled up they started opening up the top for a high-top conversion van.
in the USA” went into partnership to to the public to sell the merchandise. The price was right so Dad went to work

sell farm supplies, hardware and Case At some point they hired a young man creating something seaworthy (or, at
tractors. O.B. Blades & Clarence Phillips with experience in the grocery business, least, creek-worthy.) It took quite a bit of
built a modern concrete block building one Bill Jones. bracing with lumber to make that fl imsy
halfway down what was then Maryland Eldon bought a boat, and decided he thing safe but, more or less, it worked.
Avenue adjacent to an older building liked it better than running a body

Mr. Blades owned. By the end of the shop. Duck found himself in business We used to catch crabs off of the rickety
fi fties the partnership was dissolved; a for himself; it was later that Mr. Blades wooden Hunting Creek Bridge. A length

body repairman named Eldon Messick passed away and Dad purchased both of clothesline with a chicken neck tied
rented the block building and hired a buildings. Imagine that: a landlord to the to the end, and a net, and you were in
young assistant, Ducky Gadow. In the largest business in the county! At some business. As kids, we learned the basics.
Slowly, ever so gently, we’d lift that rope.

“Feels heavy, Dad! I think I got one!”
You had to be gentle not to lose them,
and quick with the net. Once landed you
better measure to make sure the crus-

tacean is legal. My first spoken phrase,
so legend says, was in answer to the
question: “Bryan, how do you measure
a crab?” “Point-to-point!” Hmm…might
be a good title to a book someday. Th ese
days you can get free plastic measuring
sticks but back then Dad made his own,
from an old piece of redwood fence. I
still have it. If it never again touches a
crab, it will touch me. Later Dad bought
some traps, ingenious wire cages that
you drop in the water. When they hit
bottom the sides fall open, the crab
wanders in to dine on the chicken neck,
and when you lift the rope the sides
close shut. A lot less drama for 7 year
old boys; now I can’t mess up! And so it
was that at some point before the seven-
ties were in the history book Gadow &
Son were motoring up Hunting Creek,
a string of crab traps spread out just
north of the bridge with old bleach jugs
for floats. As Dad worked a fussy 7.5
horse Chrysler outboard, young Bryan
reached his little hand down into the
warm waters and grabbed for the rope

hanging from the float. Sometimes he’d
miss, but Dad never complained; we just
made another pass.
Professional crabbers looked down their
noses at “chicken-neckers”. Bill Jones was
not a chicken-necker. It was the eighties.
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