Alright, alright. I'm sure to have multiple disclaimers throughout this blog's lifespan (Lord knows how long that'll even be…). Disclaimer #1- I have a potty-mouth. I will try my best not to drop bombs all over the place because, well, it's just tacky and damnit, unnecessary.
Okay, now. What the heck is a Rivah Cricket you ask? I shall do my very best to explain. Disclaimer #2 (and I'm sure this will be the last one I number because I will most likely forget I have even numbered the dang things): if you are not from the Northeastern part of North Carolina around a small little river called the Meherrin (most commonly pronounced mah-her-ron… just kidding. It's really pronounce mah-hair-in.) somewhere near Como or Murfreesboro, then this explanation may be a bit confusing. For that, I will not apologize.
I grew up in the itty-bitty hole in the wall called Como and spent most of my life on the Meherrin River, named after the smallest NC American Indian tribe. Ironically, I am of the Cherokee descent. Could have probably gone to college for free, too, if it won't for ol' Mr. Let's Burn These Towns Down Sherman. Said man decided to burn down Winton, NC where our family records were kept. The only other "proof" of this blond haired, blue-eyed one-sixteenth Cherokee Indian girl was kept in a family bible that, unfortunately, made it's way via Aunt Kate's Will into the hands of non-family. It's been said that they don't "have it" and have no idea what this family bible is. Whatevs. What's done is done and I'm (or Dad) is a mere two grand away from paying off that ol' tuition anyway.
Wow! Way off topic. Again, I won't apologize for that. This is MY blog and I am entitled to be just as ADD (or PC'd, ADHD) in my writing as I can be in my life. Thank. You. Very. Much.
Back to what a Rivah Cricket is. Well, we're the hicks from the sticks, the boonies, the country, whatever you want to call it. We sometimes forget to pronounce our "Rs"… well, at least the Virginians do. I won't give you a geography lesson, google Como, NC. On the Meherrin, we fish with cane poles off the pier with black crickets that stink and eat potatoes. I hate crickets. I hate taking fish off the hook. But I do enjoy sitting on the dock of the bay-- just kidding, the end of the pier with a cane pole already baited by one of my wonderful cousins or uncles in one hand and a beer inside of a hugger (NOT a koozie) in the other. Whoever created the name "koozie"? It's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And I use it all the time. Damnit.
Some of my family actually think that I made up this little title "Rivah Cricket" but really, I stole it. Eeeek! The cat's outta the bag! I heard it in a basketball movie about a man who got kicked out of the NBA but snuck his way into the WNBA based in North Carolina… Juwanna Mann? Anyways, she/he calls Smoke Puffy Puff a Carolina River Cricket. I thought it was perfect for me and my brown water loving cousins. There are 6 original crickets, 4 married-in, 5 born-in, and 1 soon-to-be married-in Cricket making that a whopping 16 crickets. We're kinda like roaches-- we don't die, we multiply!
Apparently I am a little thief of sorts because I also stole a cute little saying and rearranged quite a bit of it. Basically I just used the template of words. This should explain us Crickets best:
Growing up a Carolina River Cricket is a privilege, really. It’s more than where you were born, it is an idea and a state of mind imparted at birth. It’s more than loving fishing, cornhole, Miller Lite, and listening to beach music (because we all wish we were there). It’s being hospitable; devoted to piers, pontoon boats, family gatherings, and river-watching with Nana on the front porch. We didn’t become River Crickets from Como, North Carolina—we were born that way.