thirty-nine memories (12)

Memory #12: Crayfish

The once rocky part of the Baugo Creek, the part down by the bridge over C.R. 1, at my parents house in Wakarusa, was home to oodles of crayfish. I used to catch them.

The trick was to turn over a rock and have a big cup ready for when the thing tried to swim away. I liked to put two similarly sized crawdads into a tin bucket, shake the bucket up, and then watch them fight.

I liked it. But then I didn’t like it.

I don’t know what pain freshwater crustaceans feel when they are clawed to pieces by a brother. I just came to feel something like remorse for my cruelty.