In the Spring of 1968 we temporarily left 30 Phillips St and moved into a summer cottage on Abbey Street (I later wished I could say I once lived on Abbey Road, but it was in fact Abbey St.) near Rexhame Beach in Marshfield. Dad and our neighbor/carpenter Henry Howland were building an addition onto our house and we needed to be out so they could finish the work. I am not sure if I realized at the time that when the addition was finished and we returned to our newly improved home that Dad would be leaving it. Traveling daily back to Hanson for school was a logistical nightmare for my mother I’m sure, but for me it meant a long car ride listening to the newest music on the AM radio (The Who’s “Happy Jack” was the big hit then) and being the first 7th grader to arrive at the Indian Head Jr High School. I would do my unfinished homework or help the teacher by doing some chore or just sit and daydream. I got dropped off 1st and early, High-Schoolers Wes & Laurie were the 2nd stop and just in time, then the rest followed (I have no recollection of what the leaving school routine was). It was an unusual arrangement but we were living at the beach and it was a splendid adventure.
The ocean was just over the hill to the east, the South River behind us to the west, and two streets to the north was a large beach parking lot surrounded by acres of sand dunes with many scrub brush patches and crisscrossing paths – all easily within our 1/4mile-from-base “exploring radius”. Many of the surrounding houses were vacant until summertime, so there were not too many people to worry about bothering with our noise level or routes of travel. Our favorite section of dunes was between the river and the parking lot – set far enough back from the tar so the average beach visitor ignored them. One of our favorite TV shows was “The Rat Patrol” - 
{ THE RAT PATROL followed the adventures of an elite team of commandos of 111th Armor Recon, attached to the Long Range Desert Group, as they wreaked havoc with Rommel's Afrika Korps during WW II.Led by the charismatic Sergeant Sam Troy, our heroes often found themselves pitted against their German nemesis DAK Hauptmann Dietrich.}
– brave army guys racing around the desert with machine guns mounted on their Jeeps. So, in vague imitation (lots of artistic license here) we fought to expel the enemy from our Rexhame dunes – running in tight formation. Not having machine guns available, we used sticks, broom handles, or simply grasped imaginary gun handles with fists vibrating in the air from the kick of the imaginary guns. Not having Jeeps we ran in pairs, one close behind the other, driver in front and gunner in rear – racing up the back side of dunes and leaping from the tops of the steep crests, airborne until we eventually landed well below in the sloped sand. Just like in the Army, you had to be a well oiled machine and totally trust in your partner – the gunner couldn’t out-jump the driver or else you would land on top of him. The driver couldn’t lead the gunner blindly into a pile of broken glass as we were often barefoot (and as evidenced by charcoaled driftwood, broken bottles, and random lost or discarded clothing, other people used these dunes after dark for their own more adult games). So we would fight about who’s turn to be the Germans, then we would split up and hide – then crawl and scout and spy through pretend binoculars and run and chase and capture (or argue about being shot or not – we would have LOVED paintball except the physical evidence would have ruined lots of good arguments) and escape.
When the weather was fowl we watched the river. Storms and full moons raised the river above its usual banks, making it flood up through the back yards and the road – creeping ever closer to our steps. The worst storm brought the river into our backyard and the ocean was sending foam and spray over the height of land between us and the Atlantic. At one point we decided it would be more interesting if we could walk up to the parking lot and climb the highest dunes overlooking the ocean. Mom was always one who loved watching the ocean during a good storm so was sympathetic to our pleas. After lots of verbal warnings and instructions, allowed us older kids out the door while she kept the younger ones safely inside. We didn’t last long. Rain and sand was whipping, completely horizontal, stinging our faces and drenching us through our rain coats. Walking backwards didn’t help – the wind so strong we had trouble making any progress against it. We made it past the neighboring house and turned onto Standish St. We might have gotten along as far as Gilbert St before we smartened up and retreated.
The fierce German Army couldn’t stop us, but we were no match for a good old New England nor’easter.
When the weather was fowl we watched the river. Storms and full moons raised the river above its usual banks, making it flood up through the back yards and the road – creeping ever closer to our steps. The worst storm brought the river into our backyard and the ocean was sending foam and spray over the height of land between us and the Atlantic. At one point we decided it would be more interesting if we could walk up to the parking lot and climb the highest dunes overlooking the ocean. Mom was always one who loved watching the ocean during a good storm so was sympathetic to our pleas. After lots of verbal warnings and instructions, allowed us older kids out the door while she kept the younger ones safely inside. We didn’t last long. Rain and sand was whipping, completely horizontal, stinging our faces and drenching us through our rain coats. Walking backwards didn’t help – the wind so strong we had trouble making any progress against it. We made it past the neighboring house and turned onto Standish St. We might have gotten along as far as Gilbert St before we smartened up and retreated.
The fierce German Army couldn’t stop us, but we were no match for a good old New England nor’easter.
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