At the outset of the story, Tris is a young Neanderthal man navigating an environment as inhospitable as the Ice Age itself. To counter a sense of “otherness” that readers may attribute to a Neanderthal character, I have purposely chosen the first-person viewpoint so readers might more easily connect with Tris’s personality and share his experiences.
The journey began for me in early 2015 when I started drafting the first installment of what would grow into an eight-book saga. Since then, the fields of paleoanthropology and genetics have transformed our understanding of Neanderthals. Back then, popular science painted them as red-haired, freckled, green-eyed folk—a concept that struck me as curious but plausible. I thought, “Well, orangutans are gingers; why not a population of humans too?” So, Tris and his family were envisioned as fiery-haired individuals. Only later did genetic studies reveal that Neanderthals likely had a range of coloring similar to modern Europeans. As a result, the new characters introduced outside of Tris’s clan reflect this update.
And then, there are the dreams. Each book in the Dreamer series opens with a dream that lays the foundation for the story’s events and closes with another that hints at what’s yet to come. According to the plot lore, Dreamers are part of their culture, with a new Dreamer born every few generations. Yet, Tris himself is a skeptic. Are these visions meaningful? Or simply the byproduct of an overactive mind? His doubts mirror the mysteries dreams likely held for our distant ancestors, an enigma as perplexing to them as it is to us today.
Over the years, I’ve been humbled by messages from readers sharing their thoughts on Tris and his journey. Men often tell me they see themselves in Tris—his struggles to protect and provide for his family strike a familiar chord. Some have expressed gratitude for a male character who feels real: not “toxic,” but flawed and thoughtful. (I didn’t set out to write a statement on masculinity, but hearing how much this resonated is deeply gratifying.) Women, on the other hand, frequently say they love Tris—a sentiment that never fails to make me smile.
Tris, at his core, is an “everyman”—resourceful, reflective, and imperfect, trying his best in a challenging world. Spending nearly a decade immersed in his life and times has been an adventure I’ll never forget, and knowing that at least some of my readers have been entertained by his story is the greatest reward of all.
Based around the archaeological discoveries found in a Belgium cave, The Dreamer IV – The Cave of Bones continues the eight-book prehistoric fiction series entitled Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga. It is a chronicle from the distant past, when the European continent was yet untamed, and humans fought to endure within a savage environment.
In this setting, a Neanderthal man named Tris narrates his story – often told in a manner that is thoughtful, and sometimes rather droll. His life’s journey is one filled with harrowing adventure and a relentless struggle to survive, but it is also a timeless, very human tale that tells of tested bonds of family and fellowship.
At the outset, Tris is a wide-eyed innocent who has lived a very sheltered existence. His most pressing concerns are presented by confrontations with wildlife and supporting the sustenance of the group. As time goes on and new tribes settle on lands once exclusively inhabited by the Neanderthal, he and his clan must adapt to a number of social changes and challenges. (After viewing the video, scroll down to see what happens next!)
Although I write about life as it was during the last Ice Age—a time when people had to procure all of life’s necessities from Nature, my childhood in small town New England was far easier. We didn’t have fancy stores, or even a “real” grocery store, but we did have Donald Doane’s.
Donald Doane’s was located in the heart of town. This store (shown in photos) is now called The Brewster Store, but back then it was Donald Doane’s, named for its proprietor. The shop carried all life’s essentials, along with a few delightful nonessentials, such as rubber-band-powered balsa wood airplane kits for just ten cents, jars filled with penny candy, and a selection of comic books.
While we occasionally stopped in for grocery items, every Sunday, Dad would fire up his truck—a 1954 International—and take one or more of us kids to Donald Doane’s to pick up the Sunday paper and a dozen donuts. This was one of my favorite weekly rituals.
The store had a warm and inviting atmosphere; a central wood stove served as a gathering spot for locals to enjoy a hot beverage and share stories. The wonderful aroma of freshly ground coffee and roasting peanuts often filled the air.
Mr. Doane, though somewhat taciturn and stern in appearance, had a softer side. If business was slow, he would invite us upstairs to marvel at his collection of antique toys, offering a fascinating glimpse into playthings from a century ago. It was nice to see this gentler aspect of a man who once replied to a tourist asking why he didn’t carry the New York Times with, “Because I don’t give a damn about what happens in New York!”
Mr. Doane is long gone now, but his store remains at the center of town. It likely carries the New York Times these days, but it still exudes a charm and sense of nostalgia that are hard to find elsewhere.
(Photo credits: E. A. Meigs. Brewster Store images posted with permission from the Brewster Store.)
Title character Tris, with his father, Puh, and longtime friend, Black Wolf have arrived at the People from the East’s annual Gathering. Here, many traders have taken advantage of the event to hawk their wares. Black Wolf, as one of the People from the East, has brought his Neanderthal neighbors to this Gathering; it is a novel experience for the newcomers, who have lived in relative isolation. However, even Black Wolf is startled to see the offerings of one particular trader.
Black Wolf lifted one and held it out for our inspection.
"She has no feet," he pointed out. "She must have lost them in a sad misadventure like Fast Otter when he was attacked by a lion while sleeping in his lean-to. The lion managed to mangle Fast Otter's feet before his companions could save him."
The sculpted piece of sandstone was obviously meant to portrait a woman - a naked woman - but she was like no female I had ever seen. She was well endowed, both front and back, and decorated with many carved lines and zig-zags. And she was enormously fat, like a bear that had been feasting on salmon in preparation for winter's hibernation. The only woman I had ever known to carry any extra weight was Black Wolf's Little Fawn, but even she was positively svelte in comparison to this figure.
Puh responded incredulously to Black Wolf's remarks.
"You look at that physique and all you notice is that she has no feet?"
The moon had risen again, still round and bright, providing just the right ambiance for the wolves to sing by. Their distant howls rent the air and made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up. The wind had come around to blow out of the south, bringing with it a warm moist air, but it was from the wrong direction to provide any telltale odors that would give any indication that we were drawing nearer to our quarry. The gusting breezes shook the tree branches making it more difficult to distinguish sounds from one another. Still, there was nothing to do except to put one foot in front of the other and hope that we would not go from being the hunters to the hunted. We were grateful for the night’s deep shadows. Since we suspected we were quite close to Snow Leopard and his group, we evaded the moonlight, slipping from one puddle of darkness to the next. As we came to an open spot in the path, we paused for a drink of water and to rest for a moment. We had not spoken or eaten in some time. Puh broke out his nearly empty food bag and gave Black Wolf and me a little dried meat and a few shelled nuts that he found rolling around at the bottom of the sack. As I ate, I rubbed at my burning eyes; they ached from staring so hard at the darkness and from being awake for so long, but the salt from the sweat on my hands made my eyes burn even more.
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…I could clearly view the huge animal from my vantage point by a large tree. It was snuffling and snorting as it noisily grazed, its tail in constant motion, swishing back and forth in a fruitless attempt to keep the ever-present flies from alighting on its rump. Given that the audible signs of the rhino’s digestion process were clearly heard by all, I did not envy the flies their proximity to the creature’s hind end. Black Wolf seemed to be thinking along the same lines.
“Listen to that!” he quietly exclaimed at yet another burst of flatulence. “I will not be standing at the rear of our intended victim during this hunt! That rhino sounds as though he will be ready to let loose his bowels at any moment!”
We could not restrain small grins at the memory of last winter’s woolly mammoth kill, when poor Black Wolf had been knocked off his feet by a heavy blast of mammoth excrement. Just then, the rhino turned its head and faced in our direction, its enormous forehorn much in evidence.
“By all means, Black Wolf,” Bror whispered, “you are most welcome to the front if you so choose.”
I see myself more as a writer than an artist, so I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the interest in the illustrations in my books.
My journey began in childhood. I was eager to share the stories swirling in my head, but I didn’t know how to spell many words. This made things tricky for a budding author. To solve this, I told my stories through pictures and short captions.
As I grew, my writing improved until I could finally make a living from it. Unfortunately, that left me with little time for artwork. Now, as I try to rekindle my artistic side, I realize I’ve lost some of my practice! I hope to add more children’s books to my collection, which will give me plenty of chances to hone my skills again!
Here is a sampling, including a few of the frontispieces, pictures from the Ice Age Animal Index that appears at the back of each volume in the 8-book series, and several illustrations from thechildren’s book, KAW. (The Header image is also from KAW.)
PS: If you like Dreamer Book’s original artwork, you can find some of it on our Merch! See a selection of tees, hoodies, tote bags, mugs, and more HERE!
Illustration from KAW
Frontispiece from The Cave of Bones (colorized).
European cave lion (colorized, from Ice Age Animal Index)
Detail from The People of the Wolves frontispiece (colorized)
Reindeer (colorized, from Ice Age Animal Index)
Lynx (colorized, from Ice Age Animal Index)
Illustration from KAW
Roe deer (colorized, from Ice Age Animal Index)
Illustration from KAW
Eurasian wolf (colorized, from Ice Age Animal Index)
Woolly mammoth (colorized, from Ice Age Animal Index)
Interview with Seth Chagi (World of Paleoanthropology): Additional Commentary
My early childhood home was a traditional New England-style house, said to have been floated across Cape Cod Bay on barrels in 1750. It’s mind-boggling to imagine how challenging it must have been to keep a large, non-aerodynamic, and non-hydrodynamic two-story house on course as it made its way from Boston to Brewster. I’m sure the house was towed by a ship, but that’s still a lot of open water! If the wind picked up, they might have ended up in an entirely different town than where they had planned to reside.
Once they reached the shore, they likely used teams of horses and large wooden rollers to move the house to its final location, where it still stands today. Over the centuries, the house was expanded, and the property turned into a working farm. If only buildings could talk—the stories that house could tell! By the time my family lived there, it was no longer a farm, just an old, rambling home on a narrow country road. At various times, my grandparents, aunts, and uncles lived with us, making it a bright and lively place where we created many happy memories.
Back then, television reception on Cape Cod was practically non-existent, so we entertained ourselves the old-fashioned way—reading, doing crafts, playing music, and the like. I imagine my parents were relieved that none of us had access to bagpipes! Endless piano renditions of “I Love Coffee, I Love Tea” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the violin were bad enough. (My sister eventually became a skilled violinist, even earning the position of second violinist with the Cape Cod Symphony.)
Some of my earliest memories are of walking through the woods with my father. He was an avid outdoorsman, and people often said that if they ever found themselves stranded on a deserted island, they’d choose him to be there with them. Walking through nature with Dad was never rushed. We’d stop and look at things, and he would explain what they were and what they could be used for. He taught me to observe, to listen, and to watch the sky and the animals around me. I also learned to see the outdoors as nature’s grocery store—if you knew where to look, you wouldn’t go hungry. These days, I find myself passing on these same lessons to my grandchildren.
Photo credit E. A. Meigs
I was an unusual child. Though I had friends, I often spent time alone, wandering the woodlands, marshes, and nearby beaches. I knew where several springs were hidden, offering a refreshing drink when I was thirsty. I built small huts from saplings and thick brush, weaving deadwood to form the walls. I also spent time gazing at nature, mentally taking notes that later inspired my writing. Even as a child, I wrote stories and illustrated them with my own drawings. My explorations often led me to collect treasures—rocks, pinecones, acorns, feathers, bugs, and other fun finds—that surprised my mother during laundry day.
When I was about nine or ten, I decided to build a makeshift tent using a tarp, bits of rope, clothespins, and sharpened sticks as stakes. I set it up across the stream from our house in a small clearing amid the trees. Over time, I gathered a decent camping kit, and eventually, I was given an old but sturdy canvas tent. It served me well until a family of mice took up residence during the winter, leaving my tent with much more “ventilation” than intended. By that point, I had saved enough from my afterschool job to buy a modern nylon tent. Little did I know, that small blue-and-yellow pup tent, along with my camping gear, would come in handy when I first set out on my own. When rentals were hard to find and/or too expensive, I occasionally lived in the woods.
I loved boondocking—that is, camping in the woods rather than in a campground. I’ve never liked campgrounds much, but I’d sometimes stay in them during the off-season. I was fortunate that we didn’t have dangerous wildlife like poisonous snakes or large predators, so I could enjoy nature without much worry. The worst I might encounter was a skunk. Now that I’ve worked for an employer like Fish and Wildlife and seen gruesomely graphic photographs and read the reports of the aftermath of grizzly bear attacks, etc., I am much more aware of the potential hazards. Some folks don’t seem to mind tent camping in bear country, but having seen half-eaten remains, I would only do it in a hard-sided RV. Motivated bears can get into almost anything, but at least an RV gives you a chance to start up the engine and drive away and thus oblige them to run for their dinner.
And that’s it for this entry. I’ll be adding more blogs to go with the Story of Us! podcast.
Be sure to check out World of Paleoanthropology for interviews, articles, book reviews, and much more! It is a veritable goldmine of paleoanthropological information!
To learn more about Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga check out these pages!
Image used with permission from Seth Chagi / World of Paleoanthropology
Seth Chagi, the Founder and Project Director of World of Paleoanthropology, recently interviewed me for an episode of The Story of Us! podcast. Seth and I first “met” several years ago when I was deep in the process of writing my Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga series. At that time, I was doing extensive research for my books. Reliable, up-to-date paleoanthropological information can be hard to come by, but World of Paleoanthropology is a fantastic resource. It taps directly into the work of leading scientists in the field, sharing the latest discoveries and their accompanying hypothesis. This information was invaluable to me, so I reached out to thank Seth for his work and let him know how helpful the site had been.
What started as a thank-you note turned into a years-long correspondence. Eventually, I offered to help with some of the website tasks, and later, I was invited to contribute articles. It’s all voluntary, but I like to think that my efforts are a small way of showing my gratitude.
Fast forward to last week, when Seth and I finally spoke face-to-face via Zoom for the podcast. It was an honor to talk about my books, though in hindsight, I realize I may have skimmed over certain topics or could have explained them better. To address this, I’ll be writing a few blog posts to expand on some of the subjects we touched on. I’ll start by sharing how I gained insight into the various animals that appear in the Dreamer Books series.
To begin, I will touch on how I gained insight into the various animals that appear in the Dreamer Books.
Woolly mammoths are a topic of fascination for me because I have loved pachyderms from the time I actually met an elephant. This gentle giant was a beautiful creature with lovely brown eyes and long eyelashes. I longed to pet him as though he were an enormous dog, but I felt that would be rather too forward on my part —after all— he didn’t know me. How would I feel if some stranger came up to me and behaved in such a way? I could, however, offer him a handful of elephant kibble (which was made available to visitors to feed the elephants) so I held out the nuggets, hoping I could interest him in a snack. He did indeed perk up at the sight of the proffered treats. I expected that the elephant would use his trunk like a hand and that he might daintily grasp the yummy bits, and then place them in his mouth. What he did was step toward me, open his mouth and he took my entire forearm into his mouth —up to my elbow— and sort of sucked the kibble off the palm of my hand. He was so placid and docile that it wasn’t at all alarming, but I do recall being quite surprised. This was in the back of my mind as I read-up on elephants and woolly mammoths. What I learned only added to my admiration and affection for these magnificent beasts.
Cave lions are another well known animal from the last Ice Age. I had a little experience with wild cats (bobcats) and tame big cats (tigers and lions), but I wanted to know more about the felines that populated the last Ice Age. As with the mammoths, I did research to expand upon my limited knowledge (which is detailed below).
As part of being a resident employee at a state park where bobcats were numerous, I saw them almost every day —sometimes several times a day. I used to hike the trails at sunup with my Bernese Mountain Dog, Sam, and we often ran into these long-legged and graceful cats. Mostly (and disappointingly), they promptly ran away from us. But occasionally, they would simply look at us and amble off, allowing me a moment to admire their sleek speckled forms. One day as Sam and I walked along, a half-grown bobcat ran diagonally across the trail in front of us. A little further on, the bobcat repeated the action. And again, and again, and again —each time, Sam became more excited. Whatever this game was, he seemed to want to be part of it! Had this been a mature female bobcat, I might have thought she was trying to lead us away from her kittens, but this was just a youngster acting like a housecat with a 3 A.M. case of the zoomies. I lost count of how many times the bobcat ran in front of us, but I found it intriguing that it chose to interact with us in this way.
Years prior, a friend who worked at a facility that housed an assortment of tame wild animals occasionally invited me to come on a private tour. The tigers were impressive and unexpectedly, quite amiable. It was amazing to see them up-close and marvel at how huge they were. They loved to play a version of hide and seek with their human keepers, bounding with heavy footfalls all around the buildings within their enclosure, while making what I was told were “happy tiger sounds”, including snorts (almost like a horse would make) and little moans. This was enthralling to witness. Less enthralling, was an introduction to a lioness. I didn’t go into any of the enclosures, but my friend did and while visiting the lioness she chomped-down on his hand and wouldn’t let go. He stayed calm, but it took sometime to free his hand from her maw. He finally escaped the enclosure, his hand bleeding from several deep puncture wounds. He said she had never done that before. Actually, he was lucky; she could have easily done far worse had she been so inclined, but evidently she just had a hankering to gnaw on him for a bit. That was the end of my tour that day. (My friend was fine after his hand was treated and bandaged.)
Hiking with Sam Photo by E. A. Meigs
I also write about boars. I have not had contact with the kind of Eurasian wild boars that appear in my books, but I have seen plenty of what we in North America call wild hogs. Most of those times, I was fortunate to have the protection of being in a vehicle, but one early morning my dog Sam and I were walking the trails when I saw a black furry animal’s hind-end sticking out of the brush up ahead. I usually made a point to keep up a constant chatter to Sam as we walked, hoping that my voice and the sounds of our footsteps and his clinking dog tags would give most animals a chance to hear our approach and thus leave the vicinity. But this one had not yet sensed our presence. I said to Sam, “Well, that’s either a bear or a hog.” Hearing me, the beast backed out of the brush and picked up his head. It was then that I could see his ears and see that he was a hog. I hoped he would run away. He didn’t. Hogs can be kind of temperamental; you never know if they will just skedaddle or if they will charge. Their constantly honed tusks are formidable weapons and I had seen the damage they can do. I decided we should change direction immediately. No need to tempt Fate.
Deer are another animal I have frequently met. If I had a dog with me, the perpetually vigilant deer would bound away before I had time to do more than simply identify their species. Even when we awakened them from their peaceful slumbers at the crack of dawn, there was no early-morning grogginess and staggering upright; they came to their feet in an instant state of alertness. Once I watched as they ran toward the six foot fence that bordered the state park, which they leapt— hardly breaking their stride. I was impressed. I’d be hard-pressed to jump over anything upon awakening.
Roe deer (Illustration credit: Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga, by E. A. Meigs)
Other times, however, if I was alone the deer’s’ curious nature got the better of them and they would stare at me with fascination as though I was the most amazing thing they’d ever seen. And maybe I was! Especially during the time when I kept goats, I am sure I must have worn some of the goats’ aroma. That’s not a bad thing —they were does. While the bucks can be rather rank in season, the does just smelled of sweet hay. The deer must’ve wondered what in tarnation was this strange two-legged critter that looked completely alien but smelled oddly familiar. I would stand still and we would stare at one another until the deer finally tired of the staring match and began to saunter away, sometimes pausing to look over their shoulders at me as though they were still trying to figure out what they had seen.
Perhaps ironically, some of my favorite deer-related memories are from when I viewed them from a window, when the deer were unaware of my proximity and they were just going about their day. I’ve seen a herd going through the woods outside my house, walking in single-file. The herd was so large that it took maybe as long as five minutes to pass by. Also unforgettable, was the enormous buck I observed as it leisurely grazed in a thick fog. Another time, I saw a doe romping in a field of flowers. She was having a wonderful time, jumping and cavorting amongst the blossoms. I later took a photo of the meadow. (Below) I regretted not taking a photos while she was still there, but I was so spellbound by the sight I forgot to retrieve my camera.
In contrast to that delightful scene, was the time my dog Sam and I were hiking one fall morning when we heard something coming at us through the thick brush, sounding as though a heavy animal was crashing headlong through the woods. We were soon startled to see a doe bolt across the path, not bothering to so much as glance our way. A moment later, a buck followed. He was so focused on his quarry that he also had not deigned to look our in direction. The crashing sounds followed them as they continued their mad dash through the forest. It just goes to show that even in Nature, love can be intense.
Lastly, I will talk about wolves and foxes. Foxes are fairly common animals and I always enjoy the sight of them. I live in a small town where foxes can be seen even downtown, sometimes cozily curled-up on the shops’ rooftops, indulging in an afternoon nap.
We don’t have actual wolves, but we have a lot of coy-wolves. These animals are a wolf/coyote hybrid, they are about halfway in size between the two species and share many of their traits. They are extremely adaptable and very successful in our area. Although primarily nocturnal, they are often seen during the day as well, even in well-populated neighborhoods. Their singing can be heard nightly and if they hear an emergency vehicle’s siren, they may accompany the blare with their own cries.
Sometimes Sam and I would meet up with a coywolf while on one of our treks. Sam was a friendly dog and anytime we crossed paths with another creature, he would pick up his head and wag his tail. But the coywolves did not care to make his acquaintance. Sam was a large dog —he wore a 32-inch collar around his massive neck— so I could appreciate their shyness. One coywolf was sleeping in tall grass by the side of the trail and we didn’t see each other until it suddenly poked its head up. Like the sleeping deer, the coywolf quickly roused himself and took off like a shot. Poor Sam. Another potential playmate gone. And that’s it for this entry. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about some of my experiences with animals. I’ll be adding more blogs to go with the Story of Us! podcast.
Be sure to check out World of Paleoanthropology for interviews, articles, book reviews, and much more! It is a veritable goldmine of paleoanthropological information!
To learn more about Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga check out these pages!
Cape Cod Author E. A. Meigs Releases the Long-Awaited Conclusion to the Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga Series
Dreamer Literary Productions, LLC publishes The Talking Stones, the final installment in their feature series: Dreamer Books: An Ice Age Saga.
CHATHAM, Mass. (June 13th, 2023) — Cape Cod publisher Dreamer Literary Productions, LLC and author E. A. Meigs officially launch a new novel in The Dreamer Book Series, entitled The Dreamer VIII - The Talking Stones. This is the last volume of the epic eight-book series that takes readers to a distant time and place — to a perilous and yet magnificent juncture in time as they follow the life of a Neanderthal man. The narrative unfolds against a stunning Ice Age backdrop, capturing the imagination with an ongoing adventure that revolves around survival, family, friendship, and endurance against the odds.
Dreamer Literary Productions is pleased to announce that The Dreamer VII ~ The Challenge Circle is now officially released, in Ebook, paperback, and hardcover formats!
The epic Ice Age adventure continues with this latest installment. Did you ever wonder what life was like for those who walked the Earth before us? Dreamer Books opens a literary portal to life during the last Glacial Maximum, what with all its challenges and drama, while simultaneously instilling an enduring sense of wonder at the resiliency and resourcefulness of our ancestors. The ongoing story celebrates the human spirit, and illustrates however much the settings may differ, people have little changed over the eons.
Seven years ago, my imagination opened a portal to an ancient landscape. Layers of time peeled away, and I was thrust into the consciousness of one who had lived in a time and place now lost to memory. This Neanderthal man and the epic adventures that make up his life’s story may be fictional, but as I write his experiences it feels as though I am recording actual history, rather than composing a literary work. Bringing to life the peoples and cultures of Ice Age Eurasia has enthralled and inspired me, and I can’t help but think I will miss being immersed in their world when the series is complete.
(Header image credits: book cover photo by Paula Kugerud Photography, Venus figurine pendant and lithics by Neanderthal Joe. Header photo and blog photo by E. A. Meigs)
Our scallop boat, referred to as a dragger, the Kathy Dick.
It’s 4AM and I’m standing on a dock. Harborside lights illuminate the crystal-clear water, where I can see small bait fish flit about, while a crab scuttles to hide in the shadows. At that moment, I am less interested in marine life than I am the depth of the water. I know we need at least a half-tide to make it over the creeping sandbars that continually infiltrate the channel. Many a morning was spent peering into the depths, awaiting the moment when we could depart.
My Dad was a commercial sea scallop fisherman. His boat was a thirty-foot long wooden dragger, built in 1931. She was a modest working vessel, with the well-worn, slightly dingy look that typified most fishing boats. A symphony of aromas accompanied her wherever she went: a pungent mixture of old fish, diesel exhaust, and paint. Her pilot house was outfitted with a compass, fathometer, VHF radio, and wind-up clock. Down below and forward, an old-fashioned cast iron stove, fold-down table/pantry, and a berth made for a cozy little cabin. A large coffee can served as the head (toilet) for anyone who did not wish to make their deposit over the gun’ale.
I accompanied Dad on these outings whenever possible. As a kid raised in a semi-famous “Sea Captain Town”, it was almost impossible to avoid at least some familiarity with the nautical world, but my childhood was well-steeped in it. And I was hooked from the start. I loved everything to do with boats and being on the water. Dad usually fished alone unless accompanied by a family member or friend, so when I was first invited to go out scalloping at age eight (after pleading to be allowed to go for some time), I was thrilled. The hours were long, but as a “day boat” that returned to harbor by nightfall, the trips were less onerous than those of bigger off-shore boats.
We left as soon as the tide permitted and I made bacon and eggs for our breakfast while we steamed to the grounds. The stove was probably intended to be fueled with wood, but as I recall, we most often used cans of ethanol gel for cooking. The stovetop had a clamp system called fiddles that kept pots and pans from suddenly levitating or taking flight across the cabin while we were underway. The fiddles also allowed the cook to use both hands when tending food, and sometimes, to brace against the carnival ride-like motion of the boat.
Painting the dragger’s bottom before the tide comes in!
Later, fortified by a hearty breakfast and still plunging along, we washed the dishes. The plates and silverware were washed in the shucking box, but most of our dinnerware had holes in it, so the skillet, ironstone coffee mugs, and spatula had a line run through the holes and after being tied-off, were thrown over the side to be scrubbed as we forged ahead to our destination. Following a period of being subjected to a saltwater-and-sand scouring, we hauled back on the rope and the sparkling-clean items were dried and stowed.
Sea scalloping involves towing a drag across the ocean floor in strategic areas. With luck, you will have found a few good scallop beds, and if you’re careful not to overfish them, you can alternate between these beds indefinitely. After the drag comes up, its contents are dumped onto the deck and the pile is culled for scallops, which are then shucked while the drag is returned to the water. This cycle of drag down/drag up goes on all day, but we must stop in time to steam back to the harbor to catch the evening tide.
Days worked on the water are unlike any day on land. It is almost as though you have been transported to another world. Time moves at its own speed, measured by the cadence of the waves, and the duration of each tow along the seafloor. On pleasant days, the breeze whispers softly in rigging and the moist salt air refreshes the skin. That said, there were many bitter cold days when the biting wind caused what we called “wind burn” and I envied my father his beard!
I was scalloping with Dad on a winter’s day when the snow began to fall fast and thick. The seas were relatively calm, but it was quite cold. As mentioned before, Dad had a full beard, and it was coated with frost, his mustache edged with icicles. The snow stuck to us as we worked, until we more closely resembled a pair of Yetis than a couple of humans. I may have been twelve or thirteen years old at the time, but I still vividly recall how thoroughly chilled I was, especially considering it was difficult to do that kind of work while wearing gloves. I knew Dad had to be cold as well.
“Dad,” I said, having had an epiphany, “Do you want a cup of hot chocolate?”
Dad and me (age 8), shucking scallops.
He answered with a decisive affirmative, so I was down below in a flash to boil water. These days, when I make hot chocolate, I cook it on the stovetop from individual ingredients. This was just instant cocoa, but the ironstone mugs made wonderful hand-warmers and it felt so luxurious to sip the piping-hot beverage as I thawed my fingers. There’s a great sense of camaraderie that comes from standing together on a gently heaving deck, listening to the engine labor as the boat leads the drag on yet another pass, silently enjoying a simple cup of cocoa. The drag would be hauled up shortly, but this few minutes’ respite was priceless as snow swirled around us; no one else was in sight – we were just two people on a little boat as it plowed across a vast expanse of green water.
Some part of me will always be a fisherman’s daughter: the kid who drew pictures of fishing boats in art class, while the other kids drew horses, cars, and houses; the kid who went to school with dried scallop guts and blood on my oil skins (raincoat).
I haven’t worked in the fishing industry for many years now, but it was an important part of my upbringing and it made my living for some decades. I am past the point in life where I would want to return to that occupation, but I still wax nostalgic on occasion for the smell of the ocean and freedom of riding the waves. I hope I have passed on this affinity to my children, who were exposed the ocean and boats literally from the time they were babies.
It was my fate that I should be drawn to two very different worlds: the call of the sea and the grounding effect of living a terrestrial life. And I harbor a deep and abiding love for both.
This plaque was mounted on a bulkhead in the dragger’s forward cabin.
Commercial fishing and working in boat yards has also influenced my writing, especially as it pertains to my current book series. Not only because I worked almost exclusively with men, but because of the insights gained from working with men who labored in one of the most physical and dangerous occupations known. Surely, our early ancestors would have shared at least some of their views on the pursuit of prey (whether fish, fowl, or mammal) and the risks involved with the less-than certain lifestyle, and empathized with the discomforts that come with exposure to the elements, no matter what form they may take. All such challenges are timeless.
My nephew wrote this about Dad: I can remember many times seeing him hanging upside down into the engine compartment battling with some rusty thing or other that wasn't cooperating, monkey climbing partway up the mast or rigging to untangle some unfortunate and uncooperative line that got tangled...
The Dreamer: Just before dawn on a cold spring morning, a young Neanderthal man awakens from a strange and frightening dream that will change his life forever…
Years prior, a friend who worked at a facility that housed an assortment of tame wild animals occasionally invited me to come on a private tour. The tigers were impressive and unexpectedly, quite amiable. It was amazing to see them up-close and marvel at how huge they were. They loved to play a version of hide and seek with their human keepers, bounding with heavy footfalls all around the buildings within their enclosure, while making what I was told were “happy tiger sounds”, including snorts (almost like a horse would make) and little moans. This was enthralling to witness. Less enthralling, was an introduction to a lioness. I didn’t go into any of the enclosures, but my friend did and while visiting the lioness she chomped-down on his hand and wouldn’t let go. He stayed calm, but it took sometime to free his hand from her maw. He finally escaped the enclosure, his hand bleeding from several deep puncture wounds. He said she had never done that before. Actually, he was lucky; she could have easily done far worse had she been so inclined, but evidently she just had a hankering to gnaw on him for a bit. That was the end of my tour that day. (My friend was fine after his hand was treated and bandaged.)
Lastly, I will talk about wolves and foxes. Foxes are fairly common animals and I always enjoy the sight of them. I live in a small town where foxes can be seen even downtown, sometimes cozily curled-up on the shops’ rooftops, indulging in an afternoon nap.
And that’s it for this entry. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about some of my experiences with animals. I’ll be adding more blogs to go with the Story of Us! podcast.
