When anyone argues that the art of oral storytelling is dead in Maryland, I hasten to direct him to any of a number of places in the State where people of different folk groups gather to pass their time. One place I am particularly familiar with is Crisfield, a small town on the lower Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake where some 5000 souls live perched together at the edge of the Bay. Most of them sustain themselves on the seafood the Bay provides, crabs in the summer, oysters in the winter. And their spiritual sustenance stems from an ironbound Methodism.

On a given day in the summer, the patterned beat of Crisfield life holds pretty much the same. By dawn the crabmen are out on the Bay and the crab houses that line the inner harbor have been humming with activity since 4 a.m. As the heavy, humid day advances, the town landing becomes the center of action. Retired watermen amble down to the wharf, plant themselves on a series of shaded benches collectively known as "the liar's bench," and watch as the day's commerce unfolds.