Free Low Tide by Dawn Lee McKenna

Apalach to the east. She watched her father walk up and down the sideboards, maneuvering the tongs that were almost triple his height, with two long, rectangular baskets at the bottom. He would sift and touch along the bottom until he found a good clump, then move the tongs like giant chopsticks, closing the baskets together.
    He’d dump the booty on the wooden platform in the center of the boat, then go back to searching the bottom while Maggie tossed out small crabs, rocks, and seaweed. Once the pile on the platform was of a decent size, Gray sat down across from Maggie, handed her a culling iron, and the two of them went to work separating oyster from rock and oyster from oyster, throwing back the ones that were smaller than three inches.
    It was still early yet for some of the oystermen, but they could see a handful of skiffs scattered among the beds in the distance. Here, though, they were alone, and the only sounds were the flat pinging of the culling irons against rock and shell. Every now and then, Daddy made a remark about a particularly nice oyster, which went in the home bucket, while the rest went in the canvas bag.
    Finally, they’d swept the silt and other debris from the platform, and Daddy pulled a quart of freshly-squeezed orange juice and two lemons out of his cooler. He laid them out on an old plastic tablecloth while Maggie rinsed her hands in the bay.
    Within five minutes, Gray had two dozen oysters shucked, their top shells tossed back into the water. The first oysters were always the best that they’d collected thus far, and were always eaten with a little bit of reverence. Gray cut the lemons into quarters, opened the orange juice and set it down between them, then handed Maggie her first. When he’d taken his, they both squeezed just a little lemon over them, closed their eyes, then slowly took the oysters into their mouths.
    The oyster was briny at first taste, then once she bit into it, it had a sweetness that reminded her of creamed corn. She chewed slowly, savoring it before she swallowed. When she opened her eyes, Gray nodded at her.
    “Yep,” he said, as he always did.
    “Yes,” she answered, as she always had.
    They made a little small talk as they ate the rest of their oysters and washed them down with the juice, then they headed back to the marina so that Maggie could go to work.
    As she watched the water sparkle alongside the skiff, Maggie wondered if this was what it was like for farmers. She wondered if they walked out onto land that their fathers and grandfathers had farmed, scooped up a handful of black, loamy dirt and put their noses in it to remind them of what was real, of what was always. To remind themselves of who they were.

    Bennett Boudreaux sat at the round table in the kitchen, reading the paper, eating a slice of wheat toast, and drinking his third cup of chicory coffee.
    Amelia was frying bacon on the cooktop that was built into the island, one hand on her hip and the other holding a spatula. The sun was just coming up good, and it shone through the twelve-pane windows and burst into star showers over her head, reflecting off of the bright copper pots that hung from a huge piece of driftwood Bennett had made into a pot rack.
    Bennett liked eating breakfast in the kitchen, though his wife, and, when they were still home, the boys, had always taken their breakfast at the cherry table in the dining room. Bennett preferred to eat in here, with Amelia and her mother, Miss Evangeline. It scandalized his wife within an inch of her life, which made him enjoy it all the more.
    “You gon’ eat some bacon?” Amelia asked him without looking up from her skillet.
    “Nope,” Bennett told his paper.
    “You gon’ eat some eggs?”
    “Nope.”
    “She gon’ be upset, you don’t eat.”
    “She’ll manage to live another ninety years anyway.”
    Just then, the back door opened and Miss Evangeline’s walker preceded her into the kitchen.
    “Mornin’, Mama,” Amelia