Martha's Vineyard with Grammy and Tommy

Grammy took Cousin Tommy & me on a sightseeing adventure to Martha's Vineyard. I was probably middleschool aged (so 1966-1968ish), and have no idea what prompted the trip, but I remember it well. It was fall - not too late, probably september or early october - warm enough and sort of overcast. Leaving Woods Hole on the ferry, I marveled at the boat and the levels of decks and indoor seating and outdoor seating. There were some pretty fair swells to ride up & down over, occasionally splashing over the bow a little - though I'd seen worse at the Brant Rock Seawall. We arrived at Vinal Haven and walked around town a bit. Some of the houses had enormous hedges taller than me and so thick you could barely tell how much yard might be behind them. We boarded a tour bus and headed to the far end where we were told how the indians inhabited the area of Gay Head, and we marveled at the steep dunes and endless views. Then around the southern shore line, past a fresh water pond separated from the ocean by some small amount of land measured in feet, long stretches of beaches, and touristy villages. We did not purchase any souveniers - I don't think it occurred to Tommy or me, and Grammy never volunteered. The ferry ride back was better than the first. The swells were noticably larger for a stretch, and I played with the odd effect of waiting for the boat to reach a high point, then as it started to drop, I'd try to step - which was difficult, because as you tried to place your foot down on the deck, the deck was falling lower, but when the boat rose up on a swell, boy did your feet hit the floor in a hurry.

Memorial Day Boat Races

For many years, Memorial Day meant power boats races on Wampatuck Pond. Also known as Town Hall Pond, because the Town Hall sits on a jut of land protruding into the north end, Wampatuck is a man-made pond - created in the 1700's when Nathanial Thomas dammed up a brook to power a grist mill. This created a long, shallow mill pond which is bordered by the Town Forest along the East bank, Fern Hill Cemetery and homes along the West Bank, cranberry bogs/reservoirs to the south, and Liberty St/Rt.14&58 across the dam along the north edge. Although this is about two miles from Phillips St, we could hear the whine of the boat motors rev'ing around the pond. Racers from up & down the east coast and spectators from miles around came to this annual spectacle. If we were lucky, Dad &/or Nenna would decide to let us stop in and watch for a bit. The Town Hall lot was the most common place to watch from, as there was parking nearby and easy access to waters edge, and the approaching boats would make their first turn of each lap virtually right in front of this spot. The sight of huge "rooster tails" of water spraying from the rear of these racers, and the likely hood of a boat either swamping or flipping was very exciting. Inevitably there would be stories about some pilot being hauled away in the ambulance, or how an out-of-control boat nearly ran into the crowd on shore (always happening on a day that you WEREN'T there, told by totally reliable 2nd grader). The cemetery was an OK spot to watch but you were high on a hill, facing a long straight section of the course, and the action was probably 200 yards away. One year (I was 16 or 17) I rode my bicycle up to watch the excitement. From the cemetery view point I realized that straight across on the far shore was a huge clock/timer and a judges table. They may have gotten to that point but boat, but I knew that by going through the Town Forest I could easily get up close and see what the operation was all about. I watched from a safe distance for a bit and figured out that they used a 30 second countdown to start each heat. The boats would circle around the far end, and then approach the starting line -trying to build up as much speed as possible without crossing the start "line" before the timer struck zero. There were two judges, one with a pretty teenaged daughter helping, who ran the clock, signaled the racers, kept the records, and walkie talkied back to the PA Announcer (stationed by the Town Hall). They kindly let me ask questions, which they cheerfully answered - filling me in on all the rules and strategies involved. The girl was friendly and talkative, lived in New Jersey, and loved travelling around to these races. I hung around until the races were done, and then looked forward to next Memorial Day - fully planning to attend and maybe even volunteering to help out.

Sadly, that was the last year the races were allowed to be held in Hanson - the town determining that the insurance liability was too great (too many flipping boats and spectators who couldn't get out of the way), and because not everybody in town enjoyed The Holiday Weekend being filled with the incessent buzz (or if they lived close enough - roar) of racing motors. The end of another local tradition, and another lost opportunity (I certainly would have gotten her name the next year).

Back Yard Mechanics

Spring 1973:
Ed Colley gave me a 1964 Chevy Biscayne staton wagon for free - called it a graduation gift. It wouldn't pass inspection because the body was too rotted out, but the engine was pretty solid. Laurie owned a 1965 Impalla who's body was fine, but the motor was on it's way out. Jay was a friend and a sophmore in high school who's father had set him up with his own garage on the family compound known as Woodman Terrace (Jay's family, and various uncles & grandparents all owned adjacent houses on this dirt dead end road). Jay volunteered that swapping the motors would be a piece of cake and he could do it in our back yard. Not having all his shop tools at hand, we had to improvise a bit. The swings came off the swing set, replaced with a "chain-fall" pully. My car was rolled under it, hoses & wires & cables all dis-assembled, and the motor lifted up and out. We pushed my motorless car out from under and placed the engine on a wooden palet, which in turn was dragged out of the way. Then Lauries car went through the same process. Then the good motor dragged back, lifted, and Lauries car rolled back. Rather miraculously, after all of this manual shoving and hoisting and dragging and repeating - the Biscayne motor and the Impalla car drove away under it's own power (and continued to drive for 4 or 5 years further).

I was left without a car now. Somewhere I ended up with an old VW Bug that of course - needed work. Sadly, Jay had backpacked with Laurie & I during the summer - and it was not pretty. He had hitchhiked home from Pennsyvania after one week on the AT (Appalachian Trail) and we were not on good terms any more (another story for another time). But cousin Dave Gurney was a fairly handy amature mechanic and because I pumped gas at Lloyds Garage, we had a place where we could work on it some - after hours. Of course I couldn't get it there legally as it was unregistered, so I had to drive it through the woods trail behind Nenna's, past Casoli's house, across Phillips St, across what used to be the Hall's Farm (since plowed bare into a large dirt pit) across the railroad tracks (where there was no actual crossing) to get into the lot behind the garage. NO PROBLEM - except when I tried to approach the tracks. There was a low muddy trench where run-off water gathered, then a sharp incline to get up over the tracks. The VW didn't make it through the mud and got stuck - 5 ft off of the tracks. Dave had to drive his car around to the other side, tie a rope from his bumper, over the tracks, and onto the VW - and pull like crazy. Well, the bug made it over, we put in new brake lines and drove it back. It made it over the tracks OK, but there was the darned mud again. At least that time we didn't have to worry about trains coming while we towed it out.

Let It Snow

We loved lots of snow! We lived right beside the Ocean Spray Company parking lot and when it snowed, the lot was plowed up to our property line - with the lilac trees marking the edge. Our neighbors a few houses up the street owned Casoli Sand & Gravel company and therefore had very large trucks and front end loaders, and had the contract to plow the parking lot. I loved to look out my window at night and watch the trucks & plows push the snow into enormous piles - more accurately, a 10-12 foot high by 100 foot long ridge. Here - 30 feet from our porch - we built fortress walls and extensive tunnel networks. There was enough room for everyone to have their very own "room". Snowball wars were frequent as the quality of our fort building had to be tested. Certain parts were set up for sledding (short but steep). As a teenager, Johnny Casoli loved BIG storms because he got to stay up all night in a BIG "loader" and made BIG $$$. Sledding and tobogganing were always good winter activities when the snow was plentiful. Very early on we tried sledding on Barkers Hill behind the Estes house off of Winter St, but I think too many trees made it too scary. One day Jim Riddell took a bunch of us (me, Laurie, Janet & Nancy Williams, maybe someone else) over to DW Field Park in Brockton where there was a BIG hill leading down into the golf course. As we piled out of the Bronco and unloaded the toboggan, a competition unspokenly developed to try to get the first ride down the slope. Jim jumped on and I managed to get on behind him and get started before Laurie could grab on - leaving her sprawled in the snow at the top of the hill. In our haste to be first, we didn't survey the terrain and didn't notice the "ski jump" ramp somebody had formed near the bottom and right in our path. I remember hearing Jim say "o-oh! Hold On" and then seeing nothing but clear blue sky and then somehow regaining conciousness while already walking and near the top of the hill. A trip directly to the ER for x-rays on my back showed no real damage, just lots of pain that would eventually subside. A few days later Jim showed up with a back brace which he had to wear for a mumber of months. (Now I prefer skiing or tubing)
Snow did cause a nuisiance as far as ice skating was concerned. We didn't like bringing snow shovels over to the pond, and sometimes if we were too impatient and the ice wasn't as thick as it aught to be, the ice would crack where the snow was piled and water would leak through and cause slush where we were trying to play hockey. One day we were all amazed to find a guy with a Jeep and plow out on Wampatuck Pond - clearing a large area for skating.
I remember Dad having and using tire chains, and later the seasonal change of tires when studded snow tires were in vogue, and that there were certain driving decisions that had to be pre-planned to avoid certain hilly roads when travelling. Cars would line up and take turns attempting to make the top of Spring Street hill, the unsuccessful ones skidding and fishtailing before sliding back down to let the next car try. There was a theory that driving up a snowcovered hill in reverse was a better alternative but I don't recall ever seeing it work.