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).