The “Chopping Down The Christmas Tree” tradition

For some reason unknown to me, we decided one year to NOT buy a Christmas Tree. This would have likely been in the mid-1960’s, with me being somewhere around 4th-6th grade? As I recall, Billy Howland (who later became our step-brother) joined (led?) us on this adventure. Out into the “Great Cedar Swamp” we drove, following the dirt bog roads behind the old Ocean Spray Buildings – Me, Laurie, Wes (with his super 8mm camera to record the event), Billy, and Dad (and maybe Marlene and/or Eric?) (a review of the film should be enough to verify the facts). After much drive-spot-debate-drive-spot-debate, we eventually made a decision (or got too tired, cranky, and frustrated in the process and just settled for the next green tree we saw). The result was a very UN-traditional Cedar Tree – found a few feet off the side of the swamp road. Whether we chopped or sawed I’m not certain (again, let’s check the replay), but the was plenty of vocal cheerleading and “TIMBER”ing and general excitement. Onto the top of the car it went, and over the swamp roads and through the woods we headed back home. Now I would imagine that although a cedar tree is a very uncommon choice for a Christmas tree and I’m sure looked a little odd to any friends and relatives that visited (I’ll bet that any ribbing that my parents took over THAT was probably deftly blamed on us kids who “picked it”), I’ll bet the house smelled wonderful that year (not to mention the added bonus of not having to spend money on moth balls). But however unconventional it may have been, the excitement of adventuring off into the swamps to find and cut down our own tree stuck with us kids. Each year we couldn’t wait to go get our tree, and before long had added the “preseason warmup” adventure of going for a Thanksgiving hike to “spot” and “tag” our tree. After the first (or maybe second) year, we abandoned the Cedar tree for the fuller figured (‘tho still rather unconventional) common white pine. In our pre-season explorations, we learned to investigate locations where good sunshine would make the pine trees grow thicker and fuller at a “reasonably” short height. The railroad tracks, the fields, open spaces around the bogs, the boarders of sandpits were all viable options. Being able to drive reasonably close to it’s location was also of importance – Dad didn’t want to hike and carry too far, and Nenna liked to witness the event and bring our littlest brothers & sisters along too. Now in our family, SIZE MATTERED – A LOT. We regarded the size and uniqueness of our trees to be sort of a status symbol. People came from miles around to be amazed at our magnificent display of Christmas spirit. Each year we attempted to out-do ourselves – bigger was better. With so many siblings and relatives, we needed a lot of tree to place so many presents under. We also liked to sleep under the tree – 5-8 of us at a time depending on who was “old enough” and how many cousins were sleeping over. So we deliberately searched for the most impressive trees we could find – knowing that Dad (and later, Henry) would take a little off the top or off the bottom – whatever was required to get it to actually stand up in the front room.

One year Laurie and I decided it was time to get the tree (we had neglected to previously tag one that year), and as she now had her drivers license she was determined to drive somewhere to find the right one. For whatever reason, it was a “shorthanded expedition” with either just the two of us, or possibly with Marlene also along with us (I don’t recall her being along, but either she or Laurie claims she was). Laurie drove her old dark green car down Reed St, and pulled onto the bog entrance road across from the Hanson AA. Due to the amount of snow on the ground, we dared not attempt to go in more than 20 feet or so. So we hiked, and hiked, and hiked. Finally, in an open field beyond Bog 19 (side note:Bog 19 – at the time, the largest undivided cranberry bog in the world!) nearly to Elm St we found the PERFECT tree – fully round, thick with branches and needles. We knew that Henry would have to trim the height some, but that was always the case and being a little tall meant that he could determine whether to cut off the top or the bottom – whichever was best. So down it came with a thud. We started the trek back to the car – over two miles of snow-covered dikes and bog roads which felt like an eternity. With great effort from our tired arms, we hoisted the prized tree onto the car roof and tied it down. It was a bit hard to see the road, peering through the windshield obstructed by pine branches, but we successfully made the mile-or-so drive back to Phillips St to show off our haul. The family came outside to evaluate our tree. Henry had us stand it up, tape measured it for height and width, got out HIS saw and removed 8 feet off of the overall height. Then he proceeded to trim some of the excess branches from the top. We never did out-do that tree, and Laurie and I never went by ourselves to pick out another.

Our trees were always such a conversation piece that on occasion, we kept them up longer if a dear friend or relative had not been able to stop by and see it yet. It was not unusual to see our tree finally being taken down in late January, although our record was the year we had hoped that cousin Tommy would get to see it when he got home from the Navy in April. Sometime around early March, Nenna decided that it was too much of a fire hazard and decided it had to go.

Christmas in Boston

I recall going into Boston to window shop and to see the Christmas Lights around the "Common".

Boston Common seemed very large and brightly lit. We walked along the sidewalks beneath the overhanging streamers and wreaths and strings of lights. All of the stores had window displays and their own decorations. Everywhere you looked, the city seemed to be shouting "IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME" over the sound of canned Christmas music being broadcast over unseen loudspeakers. I don't know if we even bought anything (I don't recall actually going into any stores), or if it was strickly a sightseeing trip - and I don't know if we went more than once. I just remember the awe of the magnitude of the city, the store fronts, the sights and the sounds.

Trick or Treat

The Earliest Halloween memory I have is of Nenna wearing a cow costume, complete with a functioning udder (rigged with a loaded baby bottle that she could squirt at people). We drove to East Bridgewater to visit and trick-or-treat at Billy McCarthy’s house. In our earliest days there were only houses on the lower end of Phillips St, so there wasn’t much candy to be had in the neighborhood.

Halloween was one of the few times that we ever used the front door. Handing out treats and keeping an eye on the neighborhood proceedings was easier from the front door. Some where along the way, Dad acquired an intercom system – two small speaker/microphone boxes connected by a long length of wire (remember – this was in the early 1960’s – this was an impressive and unusual piece of technology). Dad placed a large Jack-o-Lantern near the front steps, hid one end of the intercom in the bush right beside it, and sat in the darkened upstairs bedroom with the other end. He watched as little children approached, and then made the Jack-o-Lantern talk to them. This truly startled many a small child, and likewise an occasional adult chaperone. Some children had to be convinced that they weren’t about to experience some horrible fate, and that it was OK to get some candy from the nice lady inside the doorway. Some were wonderously fascinated and held conversations with the Great Pumpkin, asking questions or just chatting.

One of the “tricks” Dad & Nenna liked to do was to Toilet Paper friends houses. It was a fun and artistic display of friendship – done only to people who would smile at being a “victim” and appreciate the connotation. As they were supposed to be mature responsible adults now, they gave up this quaint tradition – but us children gleefully learned the trade. Being from an artistically conscious family, we did not think much of people who simply heaved whole rolls up and over tree branches and telephone lines. They were unimaginative amatures. WE “decorated”, creating TP ribbons and bows on the shrubbery so that when people came outside and discovered that they had been victimized, they would be pleased and impressed with the dedication and talent and sincere effort that some one had put forth for their viewing pleasure. Initially, neighbors and friends didn’t know who had done this remarkable prank. We LOVED to overhear conversations that these people would have with Nenna, explaining to her what they had found that night or the next morning. It didn’t take long before they KNEW, and would be on the lookout for us the following year. So, as most anything could become a competition to us, we were determined to successfully TP their houses without getting caught in the act – just as they were equally determined to catch us (either before or during our artistic performance). Often on November 1st, Nenna would drive up Phillips Street and inspect our Gallery, offering commentary – compliments or words of advice for how we might improve our craft.

As we grew older and got licenses and became more mobile, we were able to expand our range and victimize new friends (much to the relief of our long-suffering neighbors). Of course these new friends/targets had heard us brag about previous exploits and were therefore fore-warned and fore-armed – new and exciting challenges. The Robinson family on Bonny Hill Lane became a favorite target. They eagerly lay in wait for our arrival. We waited longer than normal. Then with headlights shut off we parked just beyond the line of sight from their windows. We could see them inside but bravely continued on. I managed to scale up a support post, onto the porch roof, and reach far enough to place a TP scarf around the neck of the large wooden eagle mounted to their chimney. As I was climbing down, I recognized the sound of commotion inside and realized they were on to us. Away we ran, jumped into the waiting get-away car, backed up, lights off, smack into the street sign post on the corner – setting it at a 60 degree angle. The following year, the family was going through a bad divorce, and I was sternly instructed to “leave them alone” as they certainly didn’t need THAT. I reluctantly skipped their house that year. Two days later I heard through the grapevine that they were actually sad and disappointed that we did not “visit” them. They had been eagerly waiting all night for our “attack”.

After being told I was too old to trick-or-treat, I volunteered to bring little sister Heather on the rounds of the neighborhood. Of course I got to dress in costume and I selected a long white sheet for a simple ghost outfit. With Heather in a Cinderella or Princess costume, we would go to each house (I on my knees to look shorter). When we got our treats, I would jump up, grab her hand and away we would run.

TRICK OR TREAT

Ladies & Gentlemen, step right up and prepare to be amazed…

Wes liked to script little performances.
It started when he would pretend to go to boy scouts (he was never actually in boy scouts) and then return in costume and try to convince the rest of us kids that he was Peter Pan. Then he would write short performances for the rest of us to act out for Grammy or any other unsuspecting relative who might visit. At some point in time, he determined that we could reach a larger audience and make some money while we were at it. We could put on our own little carnival for the neighborhood. There would of course be clown acts, skits, games, music, animals – the whole works. Wes wrote and directed the play, Laurie maybe coached Eric and David as proper clowns, Laurie, Marlene, Cousin Tommy and I were the band, we created home-made ring toss and beanbag toss games, Mary-Lou Hannigan brought her pony to give rides. Wes drew up posters to be delivered to all the neighbors houses – announcing the upcoming spectacle. The lawn between our house and Nanna’s became our performance stage, the small spruce tree being the backdrop, and behind the same tree was the “green room”. Chairs were set up in the shade under the maple tree near the road and we charged 25 cents admission. Individual games-of-skill were a nickel per try. After the show was over, we gleefully counted how much money we raked in. This happened for maybe three years running, until Helen Casoli – one of our neighbors up the street – determined that she could actually steal our idea and turn it into a town-wide charity fundraiser for Gerry Lewis’s muscular dystrophy cause – and held on the town hall lawns. We had gotten just that much older and maybe had started to outgrown hosting our own, but we were quite disturbed that she had “ripped us off and stolen our idea”. Of course we also got volunteered to help her pull it all off – manning booths, and setting up a slap-shot game where customers could shoot a puck off a piece of plexiglass and try to score off of a goalie from the brand new youth hockey league team. Eventually, we all (including Helen) outgrew hosting an all volunteer home-made carnival, but Wes never stopped scripting plays and even expanded into movie making with his fancy new 8mm movie camera. Even into his teen years he continued to coax us into some grand adventure movie to be filmed up in the woods, at Urann’s Pond, or the Hall’s Fields.





















(standing: Marlene, Laurie, Billy, Eric, Wes)
(sitting: David, Tommy, Donnie)

The Front Stairs

Very early on, the front stairs and the front room were separated by a wall, so that there was actually a front hall just large enough to have the stairs, a narrow storage space, and a doorway into the downstairs front room. I don’t recall ever using the front stairs until after Dad removed the dividing wall (then I remember being amazed at the whole process, now I wonder about how that was safely accomplished as it must have been a load-bearing wall). With the wall gone, making the front room more usable, we kids discovered how much fun the front stairs could be. We would use them to sneak down and spy on the grownups. We would take turns sliding down the banister (it was a kind of Russian Roulette game, never knowing who would be the unfortunate one to discover the firm hand of Dad or Nenna slapping their bottom at the bottom, as this activity was strictly forbidden). At Christmas time, the tree would be set up in place of the lamp table – OK, actually in place of half of the room. We loved super-sized trees that went to the ceiling and were as wide as they were tall (later when Aunkie stayed in the upstairs front room she put a small tree on the floor of her room and convinced the youngest of the grandchildren that it wasn’t her own tree, but was actually the top of the tree downstairs coming up through the floor). With a tree this large, the stairs were totally obscured from sight and again became a great hiding spot where we could spy on people who were in the room without ever coming lower than the top couple of steps. And the thrill of all small children – you could go up one set of stairs and come down the other, completing a full circle while never retracing your steps (it is always funny how fascinated and amazed little kids can be with this simple [?game?adventure?discovery?].

Rink Rat – 1973

I was playing in my final year of Youth Hockey eligibility (there used to be a level above Midgets called Juveniles – nowadays 17/18 year olds would play Junior Hockey). My W.H.Y.H. team usually had a game on Saturday nights from 9:00-10:00pm. At 11:00pm a private group of guys which included a few W.H. and Pembroke Coaches - Leo & Frank Runney, Tom Schmidt, Ray Larosee – skated in a pickup game which technically ended at 12:00, but because nobody had the ice-time afterwards, often went until 1:00am or later. Occasionally they would be short a few skaters and let a couple of us kids play with them so they could have two full lines per team. Before long, it became a regular thing and I (and sometimes Eric and/or David as well) would be sticking around after my team game to skate a “Double-Header”. By 1:30am just about everybody had had enough and gone home, but a few die-hards just loved the idea of having free open ice and would stick around – skating and stickhandling, practicing slapshots and backhanders, inventing 1-on-1 or 2-on-1 drills until sunrise. Maybe if we were lucky, somebody with a car and a few spare dollars had also stuck around and had made a donut run. Around 6:00am my team-mates would start returning for our regular morning practice hour and I’d sit down to rest a bit. From 6:30-7:30am we practiced, at 7:40 I would go out again to participate in the opening 15 minutes of skating drills with the Bantams, do it again at 8:50 with the Peewee’s and at 10:00 with the Squirts and once more at 11:10 with the Mites. At this point, having been in my skates and on the ice for the better part of the past 13-1/2 hours I would have to decide whether I was done or if I should stay around and help coach the Instructionals from 12:20-1:20. At either of the “I’m done” points, I would go home, eat lunch, go to bed, wake up for supper, and then call it an early night. On one occasion I opted to go dirtbike riding after lunch, but soon realized that my reflexes weren’t too sharp and recognized that I might be tempting fate and risking a foolish injury – so I decided that bed was indeed the better afternoon option.
Needless to say, I was in the best skating shape of my life in the spring of ’73.

Up on The Roof

Sitting on the roof was an adventure we occasionally indulged in. We could get a ladder up to the edge of the roof, or later we learned how to climb out the attic window onto the section of roof above the pantry. By loosening the edges of the shingles, we could get a grip and pull ourselves up to the peak and, much like Yeartle The Turtle, be the rulers of all we could see (mostly Ocean Spray headquarters and the Cedar Swamp beyond). Dad couldn't really yell at us because he enjoyed a relaxing roof-sit himself. This photo of Dad shows the parking lot, Ocean Spray building (right), Drysdales house (left - formerly the Clarkes of "Clarkes Store") and the tall smoke stack built by great-great-grandfather McClellan which remains as THE landmark in South Hanson.

After the addition was built, Henry added a multi-gabled porch roof which doubled as a fire escape / tanning salon outside of Marlenes bedroom window.

August 18th 1967

[Fenway tribute for Conigliaro: Forty years to the day after he was hit in the left eye by a pitch from Angels right-hander Jack Hamilton, the late Red Sox slugger Tony Conigliaro will be honored in a pregame ceremony at Fenway Park. Conigliaro's career was never the same after he was beaned on Aug. 18, 1967. Less than a month before, the 22-year-old native of Revere, Mass., had become the youngest player to hit 100 career home runs. ]
===================================

1967 was the year I became a Red Sox Fan. I was 12 and it was the Impossible Dream season. They had Yaz winning the Triple Crown and Jim Lonborg winning the Cy Young Award but Tony C was my hero. I loved his wide batting stance, his swing, his #25 shirt, and his home run prowess. He was a local boy, a star, the youngest player ever to reach 100 home runs and in my mind a surefire Hall of Famer who might actually beat Babe Ruth's home run record (Aaron wouldn't beat it for many years still) and he recorded a record and sang on the Merv Griffin show. I was crushed when he got hit and obviously lost for the season. Jose Tartabull just wasn't a comparable replacement, nor was even Hawk Harrelson who later came to the team as the official Red Sox Slugger (I also loved Hawk, but still he was no Tony C).

Favorite Treats & Sweets

* we used to pick thimbleberries (wild black raspberries) behind Nenna’s house and put them on our breakfast cereal.
* at the island we would pick blackberries for our cereal
* at the pond we picked blueberries and blackberries
* we would climb the trees behind Nanna’s house and pick/eat grapes
* Grammies 3rd husband Emerson would bring commercial sized containers of Peach Ice cream from the Plymouth County Hospital where he worked as a cook.
* Peaceful Meadows ice cream
* ice chips off the back of the Peaceful Meadows milk truck
* salt water taffy and fudge from Este’s Candy Kitchen
* rock candy from the corner pharmacy
* Lauries specialty - home made peppermints (lots of wax paper on the kitchen table)
* My specialty – homemade fudge
* watermelon (though mostly as a preliminary to the seed spitting contest)
* fudgesicles & creamsicles
* strawberry frappes at the diner (next to the town hall) at the end of my paper rout
* “Horses Neck’s” (vanilla ice cream in Coca Cola)
* Zarex (brand of flavored syrup) drinks
* there was some fizzy (just like Alka-Seltzer) flavored tablet you could put into a glass of water
* when all else failed, raw tomatoes covered with lots of sugar was quite acceptable

New York City unplanned

My old friend Corey just reminded me of this as we were IMing. "Hey, do you remember when...."

We were hanging around in Brant rock (??summer 1979??) - Me, Corey, and a few kids playing basketball - Lee, Beth watching and getting bored. Beth decided we should go to Providence to a club she knew to hear a band she liked. So with exactly that much planning, we went - me, Corey, Lee, and Beth. Any ways, instead of recalling the story from my faulty memory, I present you with the poem that Beth wrote afterwards - and the song that I wrote afterwards. If you then need more details, just ask.

=====

from Beth McDonald (seasonal waitress at Charlies Restaraunt in Brant Rock)

It was so quiet when we walked in,
that even the customers at the counter knew it was all our fault
you see, I wanted to tell them,
don’t plan anything
because
people will always expect you to always be
what they want you to do
we found out
that living could be scheduled
to their expectations, only,
when we left out the fun
but
I couldn’t see them well enough to explain
My contacts were in two
Coffee cups (no ice please…)
That a Greek waiter gave me
Too early in the morning
In Fairfield Connecticut
In a diner that was too new
for unwinding
and mysterious about appearing out of the dark
in a thunder of lights
this occurred well after Lee ate dinner
and we went bowling and found gas
in Abington at a station
open ‘till 11
across from Corey’s two rooms
that resembled ‘Holy Hell’
It was much after
A discussion on hot peppers vs. hot stuff
Equaled
A free sub,
And a very black dog
Ran through my legs
At the Met café
On Friendship Street
Donny thought the yellow van thru the window
was his
and all night he watched it
All night he watched a yellow van
Thru the window
That he thought was his
He was doing someone else a favor
Because his van wasn’t thru the window
But
Around the corner
And up a street

We are so very nice
Even Harry
Who has been a regular
For 14 years
Bought us a round of ‘Lite’ for coming “all that way”
To hear Nee Ningy
Before they left for Maine

We are so very nice
That we went to New York
To visit Lee’s old boyfriend
What’s 500 miles
When there is someone at the end of the line
From a pay phone on Tremont Street
Who is REALLY THERE!!

Even the cops in Queens
Where happy to give directions
Repeated three times
Repeated three times
Repeated three times

The man we almost hit
Near 89 35 90th
Didn’t mind talking so early
Or,
That he was almost late for work
Permanently
* * *
Finish dinner. I wanted to say,
And do something that you can shake your head
Over and over
Do something
Side-of-the-road
Go home (to the old guy by himself)
And make root beer
Build a barn
Or don’t go home at all

Take the kids (to the family at the end)
And walk the jetty in the middle tide,
Get soaked
And cold
Fall a few times
Light candles in the kitchen
Eat cookies
Bake another batch
And eat cookies again

Tell your boyfriend (to the girl with long hair)
You are leaving for Maine to visit
No one in particular
And travel no where special
And sleep
In a tent
Or,
Just say you will return in time for
The end of the week

Bring a sandwich (to the man at her side)
Of sprouts and Gouda, tuna and wheat germ
Watch the guys at work
Eat
Roast beef and mustard, cheeseburgers and ketchup
The same as yesterday
Bring Cranberry juice in a thermos to share with them
** *** **

It was so quiet when we walked in,
That I heard them thinking
Jealousy
So I gathered another dance in my hand
And palmed a spirit that whispered
“there are fairies in the fog…”

======
New York City (words & music by Don Blauss)

We were expressway travelling which might or might not be suited for us
We were expressing ways of traveling that might or might not be suited for us
We didn’t care
So long as it got us there
Tell New York City we are on our way

We were freeway wheeling it’s not like we were stealing away
It was free fun dealing couldn’t see so we was feeling our way
We didn’t plan
We just climbed into the van
Tell New York City we’ll be there today

And nothing could be finer than to find an all night diner in the morning
And it just seemed so minor to miss work at nine or ten without a warning
We had a scheme
Let’s look up a friend in Queens
Tell New York City to bad we can’t stay

Now we rolled in from Boston we felt like we was lost and we couldn’t be found
So we called up the boss asked him not to be cross but we wouldn’t be ‘round
We never dreamed
It would create such a scene
Tell New York City we’ve got to go away

Now we’re back in Massachusetts it’s no use it’s just some people seem to think it’s a crime
That for no apparent reason it could seem to be so pleasin’ just to have a good time
And now it’s done
But we sure did have our fun
Tell New York City Her memory will stay

======
the end.

No more monkeys jumping on the bed

We were the legendary “Monkeys Jumping On The Bed”. From an early age we could bounce up and touch the ceiling, do flips, tag-team jump, and even jump from one bed to another. We would occasionally knock support boards out from under the box springs and the bed would crash to the floor. For a while, it was an evening sport – which Dad hated. Dad would yell, Dad would fume, Dad would climb up the stairs – leather belt in hand – and convince us to stop. As scared as we were of the belt, we jumped carefree until we heard his feet on the stairs. Hiding under the blankets didn’t work; hiding under the bed was too obvious. One night in a stroke of genius I squeezed down between the edge of the mattress and the wall. But there was no place to hide – Dad was too smart to be fooled. Dad also had a wooden paddle with a depiction of a young deer looking over its shoulder at a black bear following it – with the saying “For the cute little deer with the bear behind”. Despite our young age, we clearly knew what the play on words meant! I don’t recall that Dad actually used the paddle on us.

(Years later as I was coaching a youth hockey team, we were on a trip to Maine for an overnight tournament. The kids were excited about staying in motel rooms and as I did rounds, caught a couple of boys bouncing on the beds. They bragged about how they could actually touch the ceiling. Totally unimpressed, I announced that they were amateurs and “I” could touch the ceiling with my feet. So I jumped, flat on my back, feet skyward, bounced up and kicked the ceiling as predicted. Actually, a bit harder than expected. The boys had a grand time telling their teammates how I dented the ceiling in their room. The parents were a bit less impressed.)

Sliding down the banister on the front stair case was another forbidden sport that we loved to do. Usually the first couple of kids would make it down successfully and get back up the stairs, but it never took long until just as we were hitting bottom Mom or Dad’s palm was hitting our bottom.

For some reason Dad didn’t like us to laugh at the supper table. This turned into the sport of who could prompt someone else to get into a fit of the giggles. We could get Laurie to the point of barely suppressing her laughter – then she would screech “I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM” and RACE up the stairs, bursting out in loud laughter as soon as she was out of sight (but certainly still within earshot). But she was safe, as she hadn’t laughed at the table!

Peeka and the Kissing Ghost

The family kitchen was where you could find most family and friends hanging out, but it was also a hiding place for Debbie and Heather when each was very young. The kitchen was newly expanded and Dad was still living with us, and a very small Debbie could hide behind the far side of the refrigerator. Dad, knowing she was hiding would say "Where's my Peeka? I can't find her."- then she would peek out at Dad and say "peek-a-boo".

Years later with Henry now the family father, Heather - now the youngest - would hide behind his chair at the end of the table as he sat there. She would stand up, kiss the back of his head, and duck back down. Henry of course would act all flabergasted, wondering who on earth had kissed him as there was obviously nobody near. It was quickly concluded that there must be a "Kissing Ghost" in the house, and this game went on joyously for months. I'm pretty sure that unlike Peeka who always made sure she was found, The Kissing Ghost never was caught.

I do wonder why Peeka was the one who always said Boo, not the Ghost.

Uncle Happy's boat

Uncle “Happy” Annis was Grammie’s brother up in Maine. Annises were boat people – their father Billy had been the captain for the Mayor of Boston’s private yacht . Happy had a power boat on the Kennebeck River and took us all out for a ride on summers day when we went to visit. Happy of course was at the controls, and Mom, Dad, Grammy and I (at around five years old?) were all circled around. Hap happily pushed the throttle wide open and showed us just how fast the boat could go. The river was very wide and turning a bend, opened up into more of a harbor (Boothbay maybe? I don’t recall going into open ocean). I don’t remember where all my other siblings were, but I can still see the shape of the bow and the cables running along and the spray splashing off the sides – and I can see the T-shaped throttle on the side-board. Apparently Grammy could see that I saw it – as I heard her recall the same story from her own perspective – watching my small hand sliding slowly, inconspicuously along the side board towards the throttle. I’m not sure if Uncle Hap was alerted by Grammy or what, but I never did get to push it.

My Baseball Career

At nine years old, I signed up to play Little League. The teams for eight and nine year olds were called Minors and the ten-through-twelve tear olds were Majors. I ended up on the Orioles with Dickie Ruxton as my coach (he was maybe still a teenager or in his very early 20’s) and I recall being very impressed with his huge biceps. On "Opening Day" there was a parade from the center of town up to the major league field and our team got to ride on one of the firetrucks.

Usually Nenna or my Dad would drive me to the lower field on Robinson Street for games, but occasionally I got to ride my bike the 3/4 mile distance. Beyond 1st base at the end of the chain link fence was a water spigot that we could drink from (and try to squirt our teammates with). Although there was roadside parking by the first base side fence, Dad preferred to watch from his car parked in the upper lot near right field – out of reach from most foul balls and close to the position I usually played. That is until the game when – because our usual 3rd baseman Jeff Ibbitson was away on vacation – I got the assignment to play the infield. If memory serves me right, Nick Gardner was our pitcher and David Haas was the batter. Dave hit the ball into the outfield for a double, but as the ball was being returned to the pitcher he broke for third base. Nick threw the ball to me (which yes I caught) in time to turn David back towards second base. I recognized the “rundown” situation and with ball in hand gave chase – ready to throw. Everybody was screaming for me to throw the ball but I knew he was not far enough back yet and that if I threw too soon, he’d about-face again and make it to third safely. So I bluffed the throw, and he turned back towards me, and to his (and I think everybody’s) surprise I easily tagged him out. Dad wasn’t at the field for the start of the game, but after the play I heard his car horn and saw him sitting in his usual spot. It was the first time in my life (that I can recall) that I felt true pride in an accomplishment. Later in that same game a runner took a wide turn around third base as the ball was returned to our pitcher. I called to Nick to throw me the ball and we caught the unsuspecting runner casually walking back to the base. Each play drew lots of cheers and horn-honking from the spectators. I wished that Jeff would never return from vacation so I could play third all the time.

The one big hit I remember getting was against Mark LoGiudice - on a bad pitch that bounced well in front of home plate. It bounced waist high over the middle of the plate and I hit it over Charlie Hatches head (actually between his up-stretched hands like a football kicked through the goal posts) in left field for a double. Shortly thereafter I scored and proudly returned to our bench on the third base side, where coach Ruxton spoke to me about not swinging at pitches that bounce in front of the plate.

I finished the season back in right field, and when it was time to move up to the majors the next year I didn’t sign up as I didn’t think I was good enough for that league. Years later I played in a band that had Dickie Ruxton as the drummer. He asked why I didn’t play majors because he also moved up to that level that year and was looking for me at tryouts to pick me for his team.

There are places I remember....

.... all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better - some are gone and some remain. (Lennon/McCartney)

Nana’s Onset beach house:

Nana McClellan had a summer house in Onset. We would drive through Middleboro on Rt28, past the farm with the “Dalmatian Cows”. Into Wareham’s Onset section, we would cross the bridge over the East River and very soon turn right onto a narrow side street (it must have been Admiral Way or possibly Onset Bay Lane). There was a story that there used to be a large hotel at the end – right on the beach – that had burned down years before. Nana’s 2-story cottage was on the right side and about two or three houses before the beach. We would go around to the left side of the house and enter through the rear – never used the front door and don’t know why. Anyway, we spent little time in the house – instead heading to the beach and looking for shells. Looking left there was the marina with all sorts of boats, but usually we went to the right to the point of sand at the mouth of the river. Occasionally we wandered as far up as the bridge. This beach was not on the open ocean and had shells like no other beach we knew (i.e. Brant Rock, Humarock or Duxbury) and was therefore always an adventure. After Nana passed away, the cottage went to Aunt Edie and Uncle Bud. We visited at least once more while they owned it, and then it left the family ownership.

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=admiral+way,+onset+MA&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=33.435463,57.919922&layer=&num=10&iwloc=addr&iwstate1=saveplace


Auntie Gin’s house:

Auntie Gin (my fathers half-sister) & Uncle (Fred ?) owned the house in Whitman on the corner of Auburn Street & School Street. In our view, the house was fancy – with a bar in the section connecting the main house to the garage. At the top of the stairs was like a balcony going all around the opening. Outside, the yard was long and narrow and mostly to the right of the house (similar to our Carver home & yard). Towards the far end was a large Weeping Willow tree we would climb, and a decorative wishing well under it. This also had a circular drive, but didn’t go around the house. I recall sitting in the car waiting seemingly forever to leave and Dad telling us “We’re just waiting for Windy (referring to Nenna) to stop talking so we can go home”. We kids thought that Dad calling Mom “Windy” was just about the funniest thing we had heard.
Dad lived above Auntie Gin’s garage for a while after the divorce.

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=admiral+way,+onset+MA&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=33.435463,57.919922&layer=&num=10&iwloc=addr&iwstate1=saveplace

Aunt Gerry’s House:

Dad’s other half-sister Gerry lived in a rundown & overgrown house on Bedford Street in Whitman. We only went there once or twice as I recall. It was torn down to make way for the current Burger King. Aunt Gerry was generally considered to be kind of crazy. We kids barely knew her.

Uncle Macs Pembroke trailer home:

I have a very young memory of visiting Uncle Mac and Aunt Shirley and cousins Mo & Jo when they lived in Pembroke. Their road (possibly un-paved) turned off of Wampatuck Street at an angle, and their trailer home (white & brown?) was on the right side – surrounded by tall pine trees. We played tag in the yard, and Wes, Laurie, Maureen and Joanne got to walk to the end of the road to Oldham Pond. I apparently wasn’t old enough to go. I’m sure I had been inside the trailer, but have only a vague uncertain recollection of it.

Mary Blauss relatives in Whitman? Joneses maybe? Bates maybe?

I have a very young memory of attending a party with some unremembered relatives at a house in Whitman? I vaguely recall the interior, but clearly remember they had a circular driveway that went off the street on one side of the house, circled all the way around behind and came back out to the street on the other side.

Cranberry Company acquaintances?

The Taylors (I believe my parents knew from working at Ocean Spray) invited us to visit their summer place in Myles Standish Forest. The dirt road leading to there we called the rollercoaster road as it went up and down over very large hills. From the top of each hill you could see ahead to the next number of approaching hills. The terrain consisted of lots of scrub pine and sand, and I can only suppose the house was on one of the many ponds. A dirt driveway led off of the dirt road and curved up to the front of the house. A wooden sign with the inscription "The Taylor's" was nailed to a tree at the head of the driveway. Wooden steps led up to a wooden deck –this house I have no idea what the inside looked like.

Easter & Halloween Candy

Because we loved candy as much as any typical kids, we loved Easter & Halloween because candy was the main reason for those two holidays. The amount of candy we each received at Easter was very generous and equal, while Halloween candy varied as to how many doors each child knocked at and if the giver was more generous towards a smaller child or a better costume or whatever unit of measure.
For some reason, we made a contest out of (surprisingly NOT of who received the most – because that was based more on luck than skill) who could make their candy last the longest. The ULTIMATE measure of greatness was if you could stretch your consumption so that come Halloween you still had Easter candy left, and by Easter you still had Halloween candy left.

Of course the trouble with this contest was that most candy was not very edible after a period of time. Those yellow marshmallow chicks get stale and very unappetizing in short order. Chocolates also had to be consumed before too long, so you saved the jelly beans or other more durables the longest. But alas even jelly beans become very un-jelly-like after many months. Cavities are one thing, broken teeth is quite another – and the deliberate avoidance of glutony to avoid the former problem could lead to the latter if not very careful.

This was not the most intellegent competition we ever conceived, but we did carry it out with great pride and determination.

Este's Candy Kitchen

During the 1960’s, Brant Rock center had a movie theater/bowling alley and Este’s Candy Kitchen. We got to see a few movies there during our island days (I forget which activity was upstairs and which was downstairs, but you could watch the movie and hear the pins getting knocked down at the same time), but my favorite excursions from the island and into town were those that included a stop at Este’s. Nenna liked to get their Salt Water Taffy which came in many different flavors and I believe they made themselves. My favorite treat was their homemade fudge which came in sticks about 1” x 1” x 4” and wrapped in white paper – twisted shut at each end. I would wait impatiently while Nenna chatted with the store clerk/lady – hoping that she would let me get my precious fudge stick. If I was particularly lucky, I had my own quarter to buy it for myself. Like all of Brant Rock, it was an old wood building – wooden steps, bare wooden floors, wood & glass display cases – and full of mystique for a young school boy.

Este’s Candy Kitchen burned down in 1971 and was never rebuilt. The movie house/bowling alley followed suit in 1973 after being vacant for a number of years.

EXPO67 - Man & his World

During the summer of 1967 we took the “Big Family Vacation” by going to Montreal to visit the Worlds Fair / Exposition. I had little idea what to expect, other than a long, crowded car ride. We made our home base in a campground outside of the city which was handy to a shuttle bus stop. I recall sitting in our car parked near the tent and pretending I was driving – turning the wheel (what little it would turn), making motor noises and pumping the brake pedal. At twelve years old I didn’t realize that stepping on the brake pedal caused the tail lights to go on – until I heard a man call out to my parents that the car lights were on. They discovered me playing inside and banished me from imaginary driving. Riding the bus was more adventure than the scariest of carnival rides. The drivers speeded through curved tunnels, nearly scraping the cement walls inside. We were quite certain that we would not survive getting to the Fair grounds – and if we did, everything afterwards would be anti-climatic.

Well we did, and it was. There were lots of futuristically designed “Pavilions” and buildings, lots of people, and it was HOT. My favorite was the display from Burma – very old fashioned, “King and I” looking.

The worst one was an ugly housing project called Habitat67 that looked like some little kid had done a bad job of stacking odd sized brown blocks. I believe the projects out near the Kennedy Library were vaguely modeled after this display (they too are ugly).

(check this link http://expo67.ncf.ca/expo_habitat_p1.html )

The USA building was a huge geodesic dome which housed displays inside. The tram cars / monorail ran through it (and all around the park). We rode through and part of it was dark (we may have gone during the evening) and somebody ahead of us kept setting off firecrackers.

We must have spent a couple of days there, and then headed for home. On our way we drove through Pinkham Notch and had planned to drive up Mt. Washington. Unfortunately, it was going to cost more than my father had anticipated (unlike the drive-in theaters, the auto rode charges per person – not per car load) – and it was recommended that he unload all of the luggage off the roof racks before going up. Needless to say we changed our plan and didn’t drive the auto road.

(one week later, the brakes went on the car – leaving Nenna to contemplate the scenario of losing them as we came down the Mt. Washington Auto Road hairpin turns)

more photos at

http://community.webshots.com/album/8752218NDAVpnJomv?start=0

http://www.space1999.net/~sorellarium13/expo-67.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Expo_67

Kick-The-Can (the "Cranberry Cove Edition")

Kick-The-Can at Cranberry Cove was playing in a whole different league. The difference was like going from Whiffleball to Babe Ruth League, Flag football to Tackle, Bicycling to Motocross. The playing field was larger and more challenging, the players were bigger, stronger and more intense, and smart strategy was imperative – for both the hiders and the seekers.

The “playing field” is predominantly open, sandy, and well lit – with the hiding places around the perimeter. A run to kick the can could be as much as 50 yards exposed and visible through difficult running conditions. Hiding places could be in the trees, in the bathrooms in the cement block building, on the flat roof of the building, in the drainage ditch, in the water, under the docks, or way down the entrance road. Early or late enough in the season - the docks would be stacked and stored by the Kiwanee fence, adding more hiding spots. Hiders could be mobile and move to occupy a spot previously checked and deemed vacant by the seeker, simply by taking advantage of sight-lines when the seeker entered a blind zone. Strategic noises could be made by hiders trying to lure the seeker far enough away so that a different hider could make a break to kick the can. It became a team sport (in as much as NASCAR is a “team” sport), especially when a little kid was “IT” which meant TWO little kids were it together in an effort for fairness. We would even go so far as to set up booby-traps – a bucket of water balanced inside on top of the bathroom door.

The final challenge was to not let the police catch us. Nobody was supposed to be at The Cove after hours, and the police would randomly check – or get calls from neighbors who could easily hear the shouting and noise echoing across the lake. To get into The Cove, the police had to drive down the cement Camp Kiwanee road (which borders the entire length of Grampa Mac’s land), unlock the chain across the entrance to The Cove (out of sight and around the bend) and drive in from the south. Gramp’s land is now West, Kiwanee is East and water is North – escape routes are limited. Cousin Billy – who practiced hard at wishing himself to being half Indian – had an uncanny knack for hearing an approaching cruiser, or could hear the unlocking of the paddlelock 100 yards away through the woods. In mid-game, Billy would yell “Cheeze it, the Fuzz” – and by the time the officer got back behind the wheel and cruised lights-off down to the beach we had become Ninja’s practicing the art of invisibility. Well, not always.

One night Officer MacNamara caught us red handed. Most of us were in our hiding places, but poor Eric at maybe 10 years old and “IT” froze in fear – the proverbial deer in the headlights of the cruiser. As the officer climbed out of the car, the solitary child standing unattended at 10:00pm in a vacant recreation facility timidly said “Hi Mr. MacNamara”. Being good siblings (and knowing that Mr. MacNamara was friends of my parents) Wes came out from hiding and to little Eric’s rescue, then eventually the rest of the immediate family came forth (the Tobin’s remained in hiding, and laughed at us for the longest time after), got scolded and sent back to our tents.

On another night we were in the middle of arguing who was going to be “IT” for the next round when the cruiser with two officers surprised us. Of course we ran. Being smart kids we took off to the terrain we knew best, and headed straight towards our tents – about 200 yards through Grampa’s pine forest. Evidently we thought that if we could get there quick enough, we could fake being asleep - or maybe they wouldn’t actually chase us. But chase they did. We knew where every root and stump and gully was – we could do this with our eyes shut (actually I think we occasionally did, just for the challenge). One cop chasing Laurie, tripped in the dirt road – slamming to the ground and losing his flashlight. The other in hot pursuit of Cousin Skip didn’t notice him duck under the volleyball net strung between two trees and got clothes-lined. It was like slapstick comedy – except the officers weren’t being amused. We were stupid enough to lead them straight to our secret hideouts (aka - large family sized tents). They were foolish enough to follow (must have been untrained rookies). Grampa Mac was a well known townie and former member of the police force, and now-Chief MacNamara already knew who and where we were – and our parents – and our grandparents. The officers ended up with bruised appendages and egos I imagine. We certainly got bruised egos and banned from playing Kick-The-Can “The Cove Edition” for the rest of the summer (not too bad considering it was technically a banned sport to begin with).

Camping at "The Pond" - the early years

Grampa Mac’s Pond (or more accurately the 11 acres of pine woods on the southern edge of Maquan Pond, since passed down to Auntie Maria) was our own sort of private campground / recreation area. Sometimes we would just stop on our way home from the island or the beach just to wash off the salt and sand – much easier for my parents than trying to get us all individually bathed at the house, and much more fun for us kids. Many weekends that were not spent at the island, were spent swimming at the pond. Occasionally we would camp overnight.

In the earliest memory I have of camping at the pond, there is a small brick fireplace with the backside facing the “road” (the cement footing for this can still be found). Relatives cars were parked in various places between the tall pines, vaguely like a wagon train circle. After dark, Dad would stoke the fire and drink his beer, Mom and Aunt Ede would talk or sing songs, we would cook hot dogs or marshmallows, drink "Zarex" punch and run around in the shadows. There were a couple of tents set up and we younger kids got tucked in while the rest of the clan stayed up longer. I remember lying in our tent listening to the voices outside and watching the flickering fire light illuminate the canvas walls. One night I was awakened by lots of shouting and somebody grabbing me and pulling me out of the tent, which had caught on fire from a stray spark – not badly damaged, but Nenna was a wreck.

[Marly, David & Eric on Grampa Mac's float--
Cranberry Cove docks behind]

A boat dock reached out into the water and a floating raft was anchored about 20 feet out from the end. Little kids were allowed to jump off the dock and learn to dive, while bigger proven swimmers were allowed out on the raft where pushing games and cannonballs and general aquatic horseplay was vaguely acceptable. Old truck tire inner-tubes made good floats and we learned to target dive through them (remember to make sure the air valve safely turned away before you dove). Eventually Grampa decided that the liability risk and the appeal of the dock & float for uninvited strangers was not worth it, so he took them down. (In retrospect I think they were needing repairs and as he himself didn’t need or use them, he simply saved himself time, money and aggravation and took them down – and blaming unknown strangers was an easy excuse).

A chain link fence and a few small bushes separated Grampa Mac’s property from the Cranberry Cove beach to the right. Often Nenna would sit on our side of the fence and chat with acquaintances on the other side, but same as now-a-days we were not allowed to cross over to “The Cove” (at least not while the lifeguards and other swimmers were there) and Cove visitors were not allowed onto our side (“excuse me but this is private property on this side of the chain link fence” was our stock comment for people stupid enough to not figure it out as they detoured around the end of the fence and past the “No Trespassing” sign). The one exception was on Saturday mornings when a couple of instructors would bring a group of little swimmer-wannabees over and teach them how to kick and paddle and blow bubbles with their faces in the water. This meant for about an hour in the morning we couldn’t swim while they took over our spot. We quite scornfully scoffed that anyone would need lessons to learn to swim – we never did and we swam just fine.

So we played with plastic golf sticks & whiffle golf balls, paper Dixie cups sunken into the pine needle covered ground served as our “greens”. For a while, tetherball was a good distraction, and it was an ideal location for simply playing Cowboys and Indians.

The sounds of the Camp Kiwanee signal bell and the Camp Rainbow “moot” horn and young camper’s voices from both sides of the pond, and the sight of the sailboats and canoe fleets from the opposing summer camps kept us amused. Every two weeks, new city kids struggled to get their boats to go in the desired directions or even afloat. Flipping a canoe and righting it again were simply fun and intentional games for us. We could overturn, lift, drain and flip up-right the canoe even when we were over our heads and couldn’t touch bottom. Similar to our Island game “Happy Fizzy Party”, falling out of a boat was more fun than staying in it. Hanging out in the trapped air pocket under the canoe was also a common past-time.

The adults spent most of their time sitting in folding chairs on the shore – talking, reading books, and keeping an eye out with occasional obligatory warning shouts when we got too rambunctious. Everything came to a near standstill when Gramma Lil decided she was ready for a dip. No splashing or running allowed until she returned to her chair. Grampa Mac preferred to sit and listen to the Red Sox games on a transistor radio. When the game ended he would run into the water and dive. Then we would wait in anticipation to figure out when and where he would emerge – Grampa could hold his breath an incredibly long time and wouldn’t necessarily continue swimming in the same direction that he initially dove in. He might come up in the lily pads near the Rainbow docks, or on the opposite side of the Cove. One day he panicked us all by not coming up ANYWHERE – well, actually he came up under the Cove dock where we couldn’t easily see him. Mom and Gramma Lil were both quite mad at him and tried to disguise their fear and relief by scolding him for being a bad influence on us – being at the Cove where he of all people knew we were never supposed to go.

After the Cove closed for the day, we would go beach-combing for left behind towels, toys, sandals, and whatevers. I would suppose that Mom went YEARS without every buying new towels. We would climb into the lifeguard tower/chair and yell rules at imaginary swimmers.

Once we all got a little older (Wes & Laurie in highschool) the rules changed and we got to spend longer time at the pond, with Tobin and Blauss tents pitched for the entire summer , and parental supervision less constant. We graduated into “The Older Years” of camping at the pond.


http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=camp+kiwanee+rd,+hanson,+ma.&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=59.252398,110.390625&layer=&ie=UTF8&z=16&ll=42.056654,-70.852697&spn=0.006883,0.020514&t=k&om=1

The Day I Quit Smoking

One evening I was hiding at the bottom of the back stairway (through the years we rarely used the front stairway – except for illegally sliding down the banister, or for evening spying ventures) spying on Dad and Uncle Mac, who were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, smoking a cigarette, and talking. The kitchen was small and cramped (it was pre-addition) and not lit too brightly. Evidently I was not hiding very well because Dad spotted me and called me over. He apparently decided that of the available motives, I must have been interested in the cigarette. Although I wasn’t even old enough to attend school yet, he must have felt it was not too early to teach me something. So he showed me how to hold the cigarette properly and how to suck air through it. He handed it to me and coaxed me along. One attempt had me gasping and choking and feeling sick. Nenna came running in from the living room and scolded Dad and her brother who were laughing quite hardily, and helped me rinse out my mouth. Since that day, I never seriously contemplated smoking a cigarette. The candy ones would be quite enough after that (which we did get great pleasure out of – rolling the box into our t-shirt sleeve just like Dad did. That was a good enough imitation for me).

Nana

Nana (Grace McClellan) lived next door with Grampa Roddy and Aunt Evelyn. They were old. Grampa Roddy didn’t interact much with us kids, and Aunt Evelyn (who wasn’t actually related to us) was quite deaf and not very mobile – mostly staying in her downstairs front room. But Nana, although technically our step-great grandmother, was nice to us kids. I liked to go over and visit with her every so often. She would play dominoes with me, and then give me those little chewy candies – the rectangular half white / half strawberry nugget with the different colored gummy Dot’s sort of things embedded in them. Nana would call on the phone when she needed anything and someone – depending on what was needed - would run next door. She defended me one day when Nenna was angry at me for coloring on the walls (upstairs front hallway near the top of the stairs was my favorite location). Nana scolded Mom for being so strict and offered that I was always welcome to stay with her. I was cool with that. When Mom asked what she would do if I colored on her walls, Nana decided she would then send me back. Again I was quite pleased. “Good, then I’d get to live at home again” I declared as if I had already moved out and was now returning.

One morning when I was 11, Nana called and Nenna got that “trouble” sound to her voice. Mom and Dad were back and forth, Nana came to our house for a bit which was unusual, and Wes told me Roddy died. I only remember seeing a big black station wagon parked in front of the house and some men bustling around, and then they brought a stretcher to the front door and took him out (covered by the white sheet) and drove away.
After that, Mom would occasionally send one of us over to visit – one at a time and on a rotating schedule.

Being a retired teacher, she would help me with learning my cursive writing. She also was the one who showed me how to tie my shoes – bunny-ear style (I still tie that way). Mom may have tried but it’s Nana I remember instructing me, foot up on a chair in her den. Up the side porch and into the kitchen I would poke my head and call to her, and she would come out of the den or Aunt Evelyns room or from upstairs and invite me in. We would sit at the kitchen table and chat, she'd have me do some small task for her, then she would send me to get the box of black wooden dominoes kept on the bookshelf in the den. The dining room had a big round table with the single large pedestal leg centered under it, but usually we’d play on the kitchen table. For good luck, I would touch the deer hoof that hung by the door – intrigued that it was real and that Grampa had made it.

When I was 13, I would stop in every Saturday morning and she would give me a list of groceries to pick up at Clarkes Store. I could be trusted going the 100 yards to the end of our street and crossing Main Street and returning with the items undamaged. I enjoyed having my special job and getting my little candy reward. One snowy Saturday morning I was playing outside and forgot. When Mom reminded me to do the store run, I knocked and poked my head into the kitchen – but she didn’t answer. I entered the kitchen and called but no response. I turned the corner and looked in the dining room and only saw her feet and ankles lying on the floor behind the dining table pedestal– black shoes and baggy tan stockings. I ran home and told Mom. That was my last and lasting image of Nana.
When Mom was cleaning out the house, we kids got to go in and select an item to keep. I wasn’t able to get the dominoes, so I selected a large white radio/alarm clock that had been in her bedroom. I used it for many years after.

My Timeline History

Date === who involved == event
2/28/1955 === Me ===== Born
12/10/1956 == Marlene === Born
6/19/1958==== Eric ===== Born
1958 ======= Mom ===== Buys island from Grampa Mac
2/28/1960 === David ===== Born on my 5th birthday
9/1961 ===== Me (6 yrs) == Enter 1st grade, LZ Thomas School
9/1962 ===== Me (7 yrs) == Enter 2nd grade, LZ Thomas School
4/8/1963 ==== Sue Hanlon == Born (unknown to me at the time)
9/1963 ===== Me (8 yrs) === Enter 3rd grade, Indian Head
11/22/1963 == JFK ======= Assassinated
5/1964 ===== Me (9 yrs) === Minor LL BaseBall - Orioles
7/4/1964 === Grandmother Mary Blauss == passed away
9/1964 ===== Me (9 yrs) === Enter 4th grade, Indian Head
9/1965 ===== Me (10 yrs) == Enter 5th grade, Indian Head
11/9/1965 === New England, NY == Great northeast blackout
12/7/1965 === Debbie ===== Born
9/1966 ===== Me (11 yrs) == Enter 6th grade, Indian Head
1966 ======= Great-Grampa Roddy == Passed away
1967 summer = Family ===== EXPO67 Worlds Fair vacation in Montreal
9/1967 ===== Me (12 yrs) == Enter 7th grade, Indian Head Jr High
1967 =======Red Sox ===== Impossible Dream pennant year
1968 spring/summer == Family = Live at Rexham Beach during parents separation
1968 Fall === Mom & Dad === divorced
9/1968 ==== Me (13 yrs) ==== Enter 8th grade, Indian Head Jr High
2/1969 ==== Nanna (Grace) == Passed away
1969 ====== Island ======== New tide gates installed
1969 ====== Music ======== Woodstock
1969 summer == Me ======== Work at Maquan School - janitor
8/1969 ==== Mom & Henry === Married
9/1969 ==== Me (14 yrs) ==== Enter 9th grade, WHRHS
9/1969 ==== Wes ========= Start college – Marietta Ohio
2/1970 ==== Dad & Allie ==== Married
1970 Summer == Me ======= Work at Camp Kiwanee
9/1970 ==== Me (15 yrs) === Enter 10th grade, WHRHS
1971 summer == Me ====== Start working at gas station
9/1971 ==== Me (16 yrs) === Enter 11th grade, WHRHS
9/1972 ==== Me (17 yrs) === Enter 12th grade, WHRHS
1973 Spring==Me (18 yrs) === get drivers license
6/1973 ==== Me (18 yrs) === WHRHS Graduation
6/1973 ==== Me & Laurie === Hike Appalachian Trail (PA to MA)
11/1973 === Heather ======= Born

Night Crawlers

We were nocturnal creatures. Starting with evening visits from Peter Pan (which were always after Wes went to his evening boyscout meetings - funny, he never had the outfit or acquired any badges) to Dark Town, Kick The Can, Night Crawler hunting, Camp fires - all sorts of night activities kept us prowling around in the dark. We also loved spy shows - Man From Uncle, James Bond, Get Smart, etc...

So we practiced stealth movement and spying. We would sneak down the front stairs and hide in the shadows of the darkened front room and spy on the grownups watching TV in the living room or talking in the kitchen. We even spied one night when the minister stopped by to visit, then retreated up stairs in time for Nenna to check up on us in bed (I imagine she and the minister were impressed by how well behaved and quiet we were). We were amazingly sneaky quiet and practiced our Indian move-without-a-sound skills. It was one thing to sneak and spy on the grownups - they were clueless. It was quite another challenge to sneak up on each other, especially in an old house with so many creaky floor boards. After we were all tucked in and checked up on, I would slowly carefully silently slide out of my bed and in a pushup position start tip-toe/finger tip crawling my way across my floor, into the hall, into the girls room, right up to Laurie's bed and "RAAAA" - scare the bejeabez out of her. Of course she would attempt the same maneuver on me. There were easier victims to be had, and we often practiced on them. Marlene sometimes attempted to try her hand(s, fingers & tip toes) at this game, but being just enough younger, she didn't have the same success rate. Laurie and I were each others biggest challenge. Occasionally we got caught if we forgot which board was the creaky one, and occassionally we met half way. One night I snuck in while she was in the bathroom and hid under her bed, and waited about fifteen minutes - knowing she was listening for me to crawl in - before I announced my victory with traditional "RAAAAAA"! One night I hid under my own bed and waited for her to come to try to sneak up on me. Of course she thought that by getting that close without me calling her out that she had imminent victory and was poised to attack me in my bed. It had not occured to her that she would receive a pre-emptive strike from under it.

The best maneuver was one night when she caught me before I could "RAAAAA" her, but I had inadvertently caught her illegally eating cookies in bed - so she shushed me, invited me to climb under the covers, and taught me how to eat without leaving incriminating crumbs. The secret she demonstrated was to inhale through the mouth while biting, to suck any crumbs inward before they could fall out. It certainly sounded logical, and I got to eat cookies in her bed without fear of getting caught (if I did spill any crumbs, she would have been the one to get in trouble because "hey, there are no crumbs in my bed!").

I guess it's no wonder why we were cat people, not dog people - all of our games involved hiding, stalking, creeping, pouncing, and then gloating over our victims just to prove superiority.

Uncle Mac & Claude

Uncle Mac was an idol. His given name was Edgar but I don’t recall ever hearing anyone call him that - always Cam (middle name Cameron) or Mac (last name McClellan). He always called us boys by nicknames that he alone assigned and used. I was ‘Dukie”. Eric was “Clyde”. David was “Sport”. Maybe he just couldn’t keep our real names straight, but he never ever mixed up our nicknames. Although short, he was very strong and athletic. He could do one-handed pushups. He could do them with Eric or David sitting on his back. He could stand beside Nana’s house and drop kick a football over our roof – between the spruce trees across the parking lot – and into the rubbish cage behind the drug store. He was impressively skilled and physically brutal in a pickup pond hockey game. He coached the local Babe Ruth League baseball team and could hit balls over the center field treetops. Legend has it that he was invited to try out for the New York Yankees after high school. There was also that story about him making a small pond by peeing in the woods.

But above and beyond all of that, Uncle Mac had a rubbish truck. On occasion, he might stop by our house at the end of his pickup route and let us ride to the dump with him. Once there, we would climb into the back, stand on top of the rubbish, and hang on as the truck bed tipped up up up and the rubbish slid down down down out from under our feet. We clearly had the coolest uncle in the world.

He was so cool that for some God-only-knows-why reason, Mom let him give David a pig. Claude was a good pig I suppose, and David at 5 years old loved Claude. Because we had no pig pen on our ¼ acre lot, the playhouse in the back yard became Claude’s home. Except of course Claude was an escape artist pig. Numerous attempts to gate him into the playhouse had imperfect results. He would inevitably get loose and roam the neighborhood. Us kids would give chase, the neighbors (kids and adults) would attempt to help, even the local policeman pitched in – but to no avail. Either no one was quick and strong enough, or no one was brave enough to catch him. So Dad would come home, call out “Come here Claude”, pick him up and put him back in the pen. It didn’t take long to realize that Claude had to go. So Uncle Mac took David and Claude to a pig farm in Hanover, where David sadly sold his pet pig for $5. Sadder yet was the fact that a five dollar bill really didn’t seem like much money. Uncle Mac fixed that by bringing David to the bank and trading the five dollar bill for 500 pennies. David was much happier – 500 pennies was a whole lot of money for a 5 year old boy back in 1965. He would carry the coins around in a plastic bucket and scoop them up and watch them slip through his fingers back into the bucket. It seemed to ease the pain of losing his pet Claude!

(PS: nobody wanted to play in or clean out the playhouse after Claude, so it eventually was torn down)

Ellen, Flowers and Cans

I’m about six years old and Wes, Laurie, and the Tobins have a fun plan. They pick a handful of flowers and give them to me, and talk me into bringing them two houses over where five year old Ellen Howland lives. I am supposed to give her the flowers and tell her that I love her. Although I am rather intimidated about performing this assignment, I am more intimidated about the consequences of NOT carrying out the big kids instructions. They are semi-hiding behind Nana’a house watching as I knock on the door. Ellen does come out and I do give her the flowers, but didn’t carry out the remainder of the instructions. The big kids were quite pleased with themselves anyway, and are proud of how funny and tricky they are.

I’m about nine years old and have played little league baseball for a full season. I am in the back yard tossing a can in the air and catching it, just for practice. Ellen is swinging on our tire swing and watching me from about twenty feet away. As she swings side-to-side back-and-forth, she decides that I wouldn’t be able to hit her with the can – so she challenges me to try. So I try (I might have mentioned that we are fairly competitive) because she told me to.

I carefully gage her speed and distance – and hit her in the forehead, right between the eyes. She is now crying loudly and bleeding. I am pleased with my perfect aim versus a moving target. I do not understand why Dad and Mom are so angry at me. She told me to throw it! They should all be proud of me, not spanking me.



I have never heard Ellen repeat the flower story, but she has often (and with the proper sense of awe and respect) retold “The Can” story.
Even 40+ years later she remembers clearly how I impressed her.

Start of Fishing Season

Fishing season used to open on April 15th, and anyone under 16 years old didn’t need a license. Now we were not a big fishing family but for some reason we all got excited about opening day. We would get our poles ready on the 14th, and spend the night searching the yard for night crawlers. That morning we were up before the sun, strapping our poles and lunch boxes onto our bikes. We would peddle the mile or so to Poor Meadow Brook trying to arrive before the rest of South Hanson junior fishermen. The state stocked the river with Rainbow trout the week before, so we were confident and eager. Each with our own cans/jars/boxes of worms, we would pick our individual spots on the river bank. Great planning went into selecting our location, and as typical 8 to 14 year olds, we all felt as if we knew all of the ins and outs of why the fish would be where and how to best catch them. They liked overhanging or submerged branches, the deep side of a river bend, down stream side of a boulder – yes we were self-proclaimed pros. Well, semi-pros – we lost a lot of worms and hooks and caught our share of overhead branches with errant casts, We might split up with some on the east bank and some on the west bank, but always the smaller kids had to be near a bigger kid – in our minds because the youngsters couldn’t get the worm on the hook or the fish off of it. Occasionally some Elm Street or Main street kids would try to crowd in on our turf, and a few grownups might pass by but they would move further up stream where our commotion wouldn’t spook the trout. We actually did catch a few fish over the years, and although I remember trying my hand at gutting and de-boning, I was fairly content to let Dad do it. Mom would cook it but wanted not part it gutting them first – if we expected her to clean fish, she expected we would NOT fish. I suspect that was a major reason we quit fishing – not because we got old enough to need to buy a license.

My Worst Nightmare

I am standing in our driveway. I can see through the screen porch and kitchen window to where Mom and Dad and Uncle Mac and Aunt Shirley are sitting at the table, playing cards. A big snake comes out from under the shed and starts to wrap around me. I try to yell but they don’t hear me. The snake wraps further around and I can’t yell any more, and they still don’t see me and my problem.

I was 5 or 6 ???

I have never forgotten that dream (obviously)

I suppose from watching too much Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom?

Memorable Motorcycle Moments (hint: they are mostly crashes)

1) David breaking his collarbone while riding with Johnny Casoli and watching his speedometer instead of the trail.


2) David being a spectator in his cast, watching the races at Middleboro, and getting run over by an errant motocrosser.


3) David with a stuck throttle shooting off the end of the Middleboro track during a race.


4) Laurie filming crashes at the Middleboro race Track.


5) Sand pit hillclimbing near Bog 19


6) Night riding through the bogs & woods to Halifax and an All-you-can-eat spaghetti meal at Kittie’s Restaurant.


7) Me wiping out on a bog road and getting run over by Laurie near the cranberry dump, and being grateful that large Clayton on his Yamaha 350 was not the one right behind me.


8) Watching Dave Gurney hanging on to the handle bars, belly on the seat, feet dragging behind in the tar – up until he hit the jump leading into the woods trail at full throttle.


9) Riding the riverbed, laying in wait for Eric to turn the blind corner, then spraying him with mud.


10) Riding the bog roads, waiting for Eric to almost catch me, then spraying him as I wheelie through a puddle.


11) Practicing jumping the big hill behind Casoli’s and swerving around the parked Tractor Trailer on the minibike – then switching to the big bike, not landing it in time to swerve, and crashing underneath the truck


12) Laurie hitting an unseen chain across a bog road with her front tire which flipped the chain up, hitting her in the chin and throwing her off the back of the bike.


13) Building a ramp in the parking lot behind the house, then convincing all the neighbor hood kids to lie down while Eric and David jumped over us.
(Hey, Mom wouldn’t let us jump cars but she never said we couldn’t jump little kids)
(PS: the record was 14 kids lying side-by-side)
(hard to believe there were that many dumb kids in one neighborhood)
(I always had to volunteer to be the last one in the lineup)
(beyond the distance of 10 kids, I only trusted Eric - David had a history of occasional mis-cues on motocycles)

Mom and me in the parking lot - 1971

We were never too chicken to play in the snow

We were so full of hot air

It’s winter and cold, but instead of staying in bed wrapped up in blankets we try to get up ahead of the other kids. Why? Because we heard the furnace kick on, sort of like a starting gun for the race to claim the best registers – the holes in the floor with the metal grates where the hot air comes out. The two best ones are in the living room and are worth fighting for. There we sit, knees pulled up to our chins, pajama or t-shirts pulled over our legs and held tight to the floor where we sit squatted, trapping all of the hot air inside the shirt. We might be savvy enough to allow a younger sibling to temporarily sit on the one we first claimed – so nobody else tries to steal it while we run to the bathroom. They are thankful to be the chosen one, however momentary, who gets both the luxurious warmth and the honor of saving big brother or sisters spot. We could even manage to eat breakfast where we squat, squeezed behind the chair near the laundry room door or beside the couch near the window – but getting dressed for school there was nearly impossible. Sooner or later the furnace would take a break and the hot air flow would stop and we would scramble to finish getting ready for the bus. Boy, we hated to give up our precious hot-air T-shirt tents.

An Emotional Drain - or - I didn't see that coming

One summer day as I was playing outside, I spotted the town DPW crew using a strange rig to clean out the storm drains along the road. Now storm drains already held a fascination and we could happily idle the hours away dropping sand, stones, sticks, leaves, whatever into the water below – or if they had dried out, we would put gum on the end of a stick and try to retrieve coins or other cool prizes out of them. I’m sure we did our share to cause the town to need to clean them out. So, up Phillips Street they came – odd bucket, upside-down, hinged, jawed and toothed hanging from a cable from a boom-arm off the back of a big truck. I climbed the maple tree that hung over the north driveway and the next drain they would clean. I had a perfect view looking almost straight down into the hole as they removed the heavy metal grate and scooped away. The workers knew they had an audience overhead and chatted with me as they worked. As they were almost done I decided to climb down, but as I turned my head a small branch hooked my glasses and they tumbled down, bounced in the dirt at the edge of the road, and disappeared down into the not-yet-covered pool below. The workers scurried to try to locate the glasses, now vanished under the muddy stirred up mess to no avail. I was filled with anguish, knowing that losing glasses would be no small issue and an expense too large for me to comprehend. With nothing more to do here, the work crew moved onward and Mom soon arrived home to find me wandering anxiously around the front yard. She looked at me wondering what was different about me (you know that feeling when someone has shaved off their moustache but you can’t figure it out) and why I was so nervous. I assumed that she must have been very distressed, but thankfully she didn’t really scold me. She found my previous pair of glasses – frame broken and taped back together – and I wore them until we could get them replaced (evidently for the second time).

playing in "The Fields" (or Hall's Farm)

On a triangular patch of land between the railroad tracks and the homes on the west side of Phillips St (where now the South Hanson Train Station parking lot is located), the Hall family had their farm. Before my time it must have been a productive venture but I only recall it being mostly overgrown fields and run down abandoned barns and pigpens.

Emily Hall (we called her Momily for reasons unknown, but probably similar to the reasons our cousins and others called Mom “Nenna”) was friendly and very much the farmer wife. Bud was the father, big and strong and we mostly avoided him although he seemed nice (we were little and he was big and that alone was enough to scare us off). I remember contemplating the circumstances of his death – walking home from the post office, crossing the tracks, and collapsing on the side of the road with a heart attach, spotted by a passing motorist – less than 50 yards from his front door.
The oldest son Al Hall competed in 4 Olympics (1950’s & early 60’s) and won medals as a Hammer Thrower. Although he was considerably older than me, it was fun to watch him on TV claim to know him. David Hall went off to Vietnam and went MIA after his helicopter crashed (we found his name on the memorial wall in D.C.). Sally Hall, daughter & youngest – but still older than us, later married and moved to Guilford NH (location for a few stories - including a ghost story - to come later).

The most famous family story involving the Hall family and ours is this: Nenna crosses the street to visit with Momily. Al and various Olympian friends and team-mates (including a western European javelin thrower who was married to Bob Backus, a shot putter) were practicing in his yard. Knowing that my mother was known as a tomboy and athletic, they dared her into trying the shot. Her expertise was with baseballs and footballs, and had never held a shotput before. They handed her the 16 pound iron ball after quickly demonstrating how to hold and push it. She lunged and thrust it airborne. Surprised and impressed they grabbed the tape measure – on her first and only attempt, it fell only a few feet short of the women’s Olympic record (with a 16 pound men’s shot – not the 8 pound shot the women use). The astounded javelin thrower insisted that mom train for the Olympic team, Nenna replied “and what will I do with my six children?”.

The house, just in off of Main Street, was a typical rustic old white farm house, with few modern amenities but always smelling of good food. I vaguely recall there once being a fire, but it was caught before it did TOO much damage.

Between the railroad tracks and the house was “The Witch Tree”. This was an enormous tree, scraggly and twisted, always looming visible from where ever we were, and (at least seemingly) perpetually barren. During the daytime we might be brave enough to approach it, but come dusk when the sunset silhouetted it’s gnarled branches and the flying squirrels that inhabited it could be seen sailing to the ground (looking remarkably like the flying monkeys in the Wizard Of Oz) it was a terrifying sight. One night under a full moon (don’t ask what we kids were doing anywhere near there at night – really – well we might have been out on the pretense of searching for nightcrawlers in the back yard to go fishing with the next day) I remember Laurie being incredibly brave (or foolhardy – possibly responding to a dare by Billy Tobin) actually touching the tree. It was a sad day when that tree was cut down.

Further along, the distance between the tracks & Phillips St widening (and therefore the farm), separate “fields” became like rooms and various kids were assigned their spots where we would fix up with invisible walls and improvised furniture and we would visit each others “homes”. Maybe Eric had the old pig house, someone had the space between two logs, someone else had that clear spot over there, etc… Now this is not unusual behavior as many little children make play houses with invisible wall in the pine grove or under the forsythia bush (don’t they?), but our central feature in our make-shift neighborhood-in-the-fields was our elaborate church.

Just off the main cart path was a clearing with a thick tree stump about chest high, with remnants of other trunks scattered about roughly in a semi-circle. With a little muscle and rearranging we had pews and a pulpit. Wes being the eldest son and the one who conceived of most of our adventures was the primary preacher and master of ceremonies. Laurie or one of the older cousins occasionally got invites as guest speakers. During funerals for deceased pet turtles or baby birds who had unsuccessfully attempted to fly too soon, anyone could get up and say their piece. I believe we even convinced Nenna to attend a service or two. As most good churches, this one had it’s own adjacent and crowded cemetery - full of shoebox coffins, popsicle stick crosses and dandelion bouquets.

When we got a little bigger, we found that atop of a hill beside one of the dilapidated barns that we had always steered clear of was a zip line and a rope swing. The barn was scary and full of old rusted junk and occasional dead cats, but the zip line was even scarier – going down a steep hill between the tall pines. I was still small enough (or maybe scared enough) so I stayed away from the zip line, so the rope swing was my favorite thrill ride. Set high and with some sort of rod/handle instead of the traditional seat, you could spin it and wind, wind, wind it up until your toes couldn’t grip the ground anymore – then pick up your feet and let it unwind faster and faster. By touching one toe as a pivot point and keeping a tight spin you could go incredibly fast, the whole world becoming a dizzy blur. This was entertainment for many hours at a time.

Later, with Bud and David gone and Al famous and moved on, Momily moved to New Hampshire to live with her daughters family and sold the farm to a local business tycoon. Much to our intrigue and amazement the house was lifted onto a trailer and moved – first to the Ocean Spray parking lot, then to behind the Urann house (we were not supposed to play inside it, but who could resist), and eventually to High Street where it now sits. The land was bulldozed clear, in preparation for much speculated industry that would move in and make him rich. All vegetation was removed and the rich loam soil pushed into huge mountainous piles. Always able to make lemonade out of life’s lemons, this became the perfect motocross training grounds with flat tracks and hill climbs and jumps and stream crossings. As various friends and neighbors also acquired dirt bikes, we would go out in groups and race or play follow the leader – trying to find a route that others couldn’t follow us through. One day the rear tire of my Suzuki sank up past the axle into the quicksand-like mud along one of the streams. Eric and I were unable to overcome the suctioning effect to extract it, and had to go home to recruit more help. One day my brother David was riding with Johnny Casoli, who had no speedometer but wanted to know how fast he was going. Dave paced along side, staring at his meter – ignoring the mostly flat raceway (mostly, except for a few random 1-ft high lumps of dirt). Johnny appeared at our door announcing David was hurt and unconscious. Mom took the car, and we with dirt bikes (any excuse was a good one) sped up to help. Dave was dazed but on his feet and had removed his shirt (???), and had decidedly unusual lump on his collarbone. He indeed had broken it, and we were later told by the doctor that when he lifted his arm to remove the shirt it was miraculous that he didn’t puncture his lung with the broken bone.

Neither Gillette nor Anheuser-Busch ever built in “the fields”. Now the commuter rail station and parking lot cover the lower end, and a couple of small businesses built facilities at about the mid-section. The rest is mostly overgrown again.

http://video.google.co.uk/videoplay?docid=4245867189656042017
Al Hall hammer throw video