In Britain, Aug. 12, “the Glorious Twelfth,” marks the start of the red-grouse-shooting season. In Eastham, Nov. 1 marks the start of the recreational oyster-gathering season. “Shooting-box”: a small country house, usually in Scotland and often rented for the season by visiting sportsmen. “Scratcher”: a long-handled rake, with attached basket, for gathering quahogs or oysters.
Up to the braes they climb, despite the August weather
clad all in tweeds and fully shooting-jacketed,
and when the beaters flush the game birds from the heather
the huntsmen point their shotguns at the sky
and fire until the red grouse fold their wings and die —
the birds which, drawn and plucked,
and roasted with some sort of sauce,
will grace a dinner in the shooting-box,
expensively.
Across the low-tide flats of Nauset Marsh I roam
in my dirt-cheap and dirt-brown waders,
my scratcher raking through the muck
amid cracked empty shells and rocks
and raking up as well, when I have luck,
wild oysters.
These I inspect for size, then toss
the keepers in the bucket to be taken home,
where, iced and shucked,
and on my rough-and-ready table placed,
they spread themselves for me
at last to taste.
The oysters offer food for thought, I think.
While being eaten, one by one,
they recollect the nature of my oystering:
the hazy morning light,
the low November sun,
the marsh’s salt and rotting smell,
the salicornes just turning pink,
the sudden clunk of rake tines on a shell…
each oyster bite
a briny sea.
Jefferson Hunter live in Northampton but spends part of every year in Eastham.
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