Growing up at Nenna's house

Grammy Sally Annis

2010-02-05T20:21:00.003-05:00

Martha's Vineyard with Grammy and Tommy

2009-08-28T18:19:00.001-05:00

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

2009-03-09T13:53:00.003-05:00

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

2009-03-05T21:29:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-27T20:21:00.006-05:00

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.

Early driving lesson

2008-10-02T13:41:00.003-05:00

very early in my life I learned (the hard way) to NOT touch things in the car. Back then, all cars were standard shifts and Dad had a habit of not using the parking brake - simply leaving the car in gear when he shut it off. One day as I pretended to drive, I shifted into neutral. Our driveway being on an uphill slope from the road, meant the car started rolling backwards towards the street. Apparently Dad spotted it and raced out, running alongside, trying to open the door and stop the runaway vehicle. We did all end up across the street in the neighbors yard but managed to miss any traffic and the telephone pole on the corner.
So kids, don't shift when you are pretend driving.
(PS: that cigarette lighter push button thing with the bright red coil inside -- don't put it on your chin to see if it really is hot. Just take my word for it, OK?)

Marshfield Fair 1975

2008-08-20T18:17:00.005-05:00

I was never a big Fair/Carnival lover although we occasionally went to them. The best time tho' was when Mark & Dave Tanner and a few other friends (who's identities escape me now) and I went to the Marshfield Fair. That year the "prize of the year" were big glass goblets - sort of like holds a "Jim Dandy" at Friendly's, or a hefty brandy snifter - that had various Beer brand names and artwork on them. We played all the games that were actually winnable - particularly the "squirt the water into the target to make your toy racehorse go up the board" one, or any game you directly competed against others. We could monopolize a booth so that one of our gang was guaranteed to win. By the end of the night we were having serious trouble getting our bounty back to the car. We drove back to the Tanners house to show off our collection. As we removed glassware from cardboard boxes and paper bags, somebody decided to build a pyramid on the kitchen table with them as we tallied our take. Five tiers of over 40 goblets stacked impressively on the table until somebody got up to leave, bumped the table, and started a glass avalanche. About half of our winnings (and our macho enthusiasm) were shattered. I only got to arrive home with 4 glasses, which survived a number of years longer. The story of our exploits and the following disaster lasted much longer.

Ellen's mustard and ketchup sandwiches

2008-08-18T13:22:00.002-05:00

No - that is not a typo or secret code. As a young child, neighbor and later step-sister Ellen liked to eat mustard & ketchup sandwiches - no balogna or ham - just condiments and Wonder Bread. I still have a clear image of her in our back yard on a hot summer day, eating her sandwich while yellowjackets buzzed around and even landing on the bread while she - apparently oblivious or unconcerned - continued to chomp away.

I Wanna Dance with the dolly with the holes in the stocking

2008-05-30T11:39:00.004-05:00

1960?

Laurie got (for Christmas?) a 3ft tall raggety ann type doll with elastic straps on the bottoms of her feet. You would stand the doll on top of your own feet, with the elastic straps to keep them there, and start dancing around the room. This made for the perfect dance partner for a 5-7 year old. The doll would not try to lead, complain that you went the wrong way or too fast, only stepped on your feet because she was strapped to them, and could get dumped on the floor when you were finished without feeling rejected. We might have a radio or record player providing music, but mostly we simply sang while we took turns dancing. Mostly we sang the old song about "dancing with the dolly with the holes in her stocking and her knees kept a'knocking" and waltzed her around the upstairs front bedroom. For real excitement, we would un-strap her feet and do the twist - her legs flapping spasticly in the air - or just spin as fast as we could with her legs like helicoptor propellers and slapping and any brother or sister who didn't get out of the way.

(a little sibling can turn anything into a weapon against a rival sibling!)

The Ocean Spray Cranberry Buildings

2008-04-03T13:00:00.007-05:00

We were closely tied to the Ocean Spray Cranberry company, as Grammy was the switchboard operator, Dad worked nights doing janitorial work, Nenna worked some evenings doing secretarial work, Uncle Mac did some part-time evening warehouse work there, and of course we lived across the street – our yard abutting the employee parking lot. Not only did the family grownups receive income from the company, but thanks to Grammy we sold lots of hand made Princess Pine wreaths and streamers there. Each winter she would bring us a list of who wanted which or how many door decorations, we would tromp through the woods filling our onion sacks with the bushy little ferns, empty them out on the cellar floor, and produce whatever the list required. This generated a rather nice Christmas income for us kids.

When I was in 7th grade I would occasionally help dad buff the floors at night. After supper I would cross Main Street and go in the front door. Just inside was the receptionist/telephone operator who would greet visitors and send them in the proper direction, and connect incoming phone calls to the intended recipients using an old fashioned switchboard system.

To the right was the main hallway into the sprawling building, and instead of drinking water in the water dispenser they had it filled with chilled cranberry juice. I never failed to grab the little triangular paper cups and take a swig or two. I quickly became adept at operating the powerful buffing machine, making it slide back and forth simply by changing the tilt of the handle – careful not to let it get away and crash into walls or furniture. [This skill (and Dad’s network of friends) helped me get my first paid summer job at the Maquan School – cleaning and buffing.]
Once I finished my buffing duties, I would wander around and explore the nearly empty and mostly darkened multi-level complex. The main floor was comprised mostly of various meeting rooms and hallways. In the front/right there was a sort of sunken meeting room built into an enclosed converted loading dock space. Turning towards the back of the building a sloped hallway went uphill and then turned left into the mailing room area. Passing through there, you entered a warehousing area with berry sorting machines and elevators. Uncle Mac taught me how to drive the forklift in there and let me practice – until I got it stuck on the elevator. He had to figure out how to work it free for me. Upstairs was where most of the offices where, with one large open room which contained probably 30 desks, surrounded by the smaller private offices of the managers and their personal secretaries. John was the upstairs night janitor and never minded if I explored his part of the building.

On the third floor was a large cafeteria with lots of windows overlooking downtown South Hanson (i.e. not much), and a large ornate office/meeting room which seemed more like a fraternal lodge gathering space to me – heavy drapes, plush cushy chairs, and dark paneled walls (there might have been deer heads or such). Down in the basement they had a laboratory where the cranberry scientists would experiment and test new drink flavors or whatever. There was even a trap door which when opened exposed the underground river that flowed out of Urann’s Pond, under the parking lot, Main St, the main building, the railroad tracks, the ‘cold storage warehouse’ and into the Great Cedar Swamp beyond. The railroad tracks ran smack between the office and the cold warehouse buildings, splitting into three sets wide, leaving just enough room between the tracks and the front building for a vehicle to drive along. Often a handful of freight cars would be parked between the buildings, but I never tried to get into or onto one. Although we occasionally walked the tracks between the buildings, mostly we rode our dirt bikes through to get to our gateway to the swamp. Literally, when we reached the end of the building where the enormous chimney is (built by great-great grand-dad McClellan) we would cross the tracks and ride through the generally open chain link gateway into the cold storage warehouse lot. From there and through another chain link gate, a quarter-mile long dirt dike road led to the cranberry dump. Mountains of left-over cranberry shells from product trials and tests, and bad berries removed from the sorting process were brought here via dump truck and piled around the perimeter of a roughly 2 acre lot. How much of the lot was on solid ground and how much was simply cranberry backfill was hard to tell but the piles were fun to run up and down. The odor of biodegrading berries was sometimes too strong to hang around in, but usually it wasn’t too bad. Many bog roads and dike roads and old woods roads and power line paths branched off from here – leading all around to places like Burrage (Reed St), Monponsett (rt 58), Halifax (rt 106), Bog 18 (off of Elm St), and beyond from there. The Ocean Spray parking lot was our playground. Once the employees left for the day, we had all that open space to ride our bikes (and later – dirt bikes), play street hockey and touch football, or long-toss baseballs and Frisbees. The warehouse between our back yard and the pond was used for storing empty cranberry crates. Two stories high, the lower section would be loaded from the front of the building facing the parking lot. The upper section was entered from the rear, facing the woods. The empty crates would be packed almost to the 15 foot ceilings, leaving just enough head room for us to crawl over and through – when on occasion we discovered a broken window that allowed us an entry point. We never broke windows ourselves (well, maybe a stray hockey puck shot from the pond might accidentally find itself launched in through a pain of glass – but that was always hard to pin blame on someone – maybe the shooter, maybe someone deflected it maybe the goalie was bad) but were not against being opportunistic. We carefully and considerately only ever burned broken crates when we needed a bonfire for a late-night skating party. I’m sure we never broke them by crawling around on top of them or shooting poorly aimed slapshots at them.

http://www.answers.com/topic/ocean-spray-cranberries-inc?cat=biz-fin

BIGFOOT

2008-03-19T12:36:00.004-05:00

In one year while in jr. high school (7th – 8th grade) my shoe size went from a size 7 to a size 10. This was the cause of lots of jokes aimed in my direction, as at that moment in time I officially had the largest feet in the house. The teasing was good natured and I didn’t particularly mind having something that I could lay claim to being #1 at. Then one night JR stopped by to visit and presented me with a gift he found at a yard sale – a pair of size 20 hightop sneakers. This produced a tremendous amount of amusement for everybody. I gratefully took them and placed my already sneakered foot inside of them and laced them up. Needless to say, they flopped loudly as I walked across the floor and they were quite cumbersome as I tried to shoot baskets on the court out back. Over the course of time I actually got lots of mileage (literally and figuratively) out of them. On the last day of school, people were allowed to dress crazy so I wore them to my classes. Classmates were certainly impressed, although with the harder core kids – not favorably. In high school there were occasional “dress crazy” days that I would get to wear them. On one of these days, the grumpy gym teacher looked at me and then assigned the whole class to run laps before going to our assigned activity. Those laps were torture, but once I got to the tennis court – I still managed to beat Gary Brine in three straight sets. Other members of the family also got use out of the absurd sneakers. Laurie was completing her Red Cross Life Saving training and one part of the test required her to “save” a drowning “victim”. One of the Williams brothers volunteered to be the victim, but just for fun laced on the size 20’s and jumped off the end of the dock. After a momentary appearance that he might actually walk on water, they filled up and he went down. Unable to come back up and do the stereotypical thrash and splash “help, I can’t swim” routine, Laurie had to leap in and ACTUALLY save him. Failing on her first attempt to bring him up for air, a second student jumped in and together they got him to the surface alive. They both passed and became lifeguards. Nobody ever made the mistake of trying to swim with huge basketball footwear again. The last time I remember seeing them, we played a Halloween fundraising concert at Camp Kiwanee and Marlene put them on at one point – trying to get some good old “foot stomping” music going. Various band members took turns clomping around in them throughout the evening. The crowd loved it, but apparently somebody that night loved it too much because as we packed up at the end of the night it was discovered that the beloved sneakers were stolen – never to be seen again.

Happy 5th Birthday

2008-02-28T13:56:00.003-05:00

My mother wasn't at my 5th birthday party. She was at the hospital delivering a baby. At some point during the day I was told that I had a new brother. I remember a few days later she brought David home, sat me in a chair, and put him in my lap/arms and said "you got a brother for your birthday". I don't remember being impressed.

(No offense, Dave. You've grown on me since then!)

Ruthie McDonnell

2008-02-18T11:53:00.004-05:00

Ruthie McDonnell - upper left in photo
In 1979 the Hanson Girls Softball 13-17 yr old team had a 6-8 record playing in the North River Girls Fastpitch Softball League. I was the head coach of this wild and crazy and diverse collection of teenage softball players. Many of the girls had unmistakable and strong personalities of various types. Some were shy or quiet and just sort of blended in without being particularly noteworthy, which is how I had tended to be as a teenager and young adult. But after getting talked into helping coach this team, and then becoming the head coach – I was forced to learn to interact in a more vocal and demonstrative way. These girls were the best thing to happen to me at that point in my life.
One of the best players and strongest personalities on any of the teams I coached over eight years was “Ruthie”. She was a big strong girl who could hit for power, had a cannon of an arm, and would gladly run over the opposing catcher if she tried to block home plate. AND, she would laugh about it the whole way – as if to say “I can’t believe you thought you were going to stop me”. In any moment of competition, Ruthie had a determined scowl which instantly gave way to a proud and beaming smile. She LOVED doing her job well. As a shortstop, she would throw so hard to first base that Nancy (our 1st baseman) would complain that she was throwing too hard. Ruthie hated pitching because she couldn’t throw as hard underhand as she could overhand. What she excelled at was being the catcher.
Stereotypically big and slow moving, and happily bossy, Ruthie at 16 and 17 years old was the field general. She would pump up the pitcher, wake up the infielders, joke with the umpire and batter, and let me know that I wasn’t really needed here – she had it all under control. Our pitchers quickly learned that their own head was directly in the line of fire when Ruthie tried to throw a runner out stealing second base. She would sternly remind them of that fact and warn them to be ready to duck – not to save their own lives, but so their head wouldn’t interfere with her throw. This public and confident announcement was sometimes enough to convince a baserunner NOT to try stealing second. On plays at home plate, she KNEW she had a size advantage over most girls and would practically DARE anyone to try to run through her to score. She knew she was big and strong and relished in being able to take advantage of her “physical talent”.At bat she was fearless and always grinned at the opposing pitcher – her way of trying to psych out the opponent, no matter how fast the girl could pitch.
In batting practice, she was murder. When Ruthie stepped into the batters box, most of our own pitchers were too scared (or too smart) to pitch to her, and because we didn’t have many girls who threw real fastballs (but many of the opponents did) I would throw a lot of batting practice so our own batters could practice hitting against speed. Ruthie had an uncanny knack of hitting line drives back through the pitchers circle – anywhere from head high to “just-below-belt-high”. She would have me ducking and leaping throughout her whole BP session, with the rest of the team laughing at my predicament and rooting her on. Every body loved Ruthie – you couldn’t help it, unless you were on the other team. She learned that her power zone was hitting towards right-center field, and that most teams weakest players were in right field. She needed to hit the ball into that gap, because Ruthie didn’t particularly run around the bases – she thundered around them. Team-mates good naturedly complained about earthquakes and thunder, and joked about the 3rd baseman running for cover as she huffed and puffed into 3rd base. She just smiled and laughed with them.
Playing down in Plympton, the opposing star player was also their catcher. Ruthie was on 2nd base and a ball was hit to the outfield. She rounded 3rd and headed for home –ready for a close play. The throw was high causing the catcher to leap. Ruthie – not one to be polite or to avoid a collision - went low and took the girls legs out from under her, and they landed in a heap. The umpire called “Safe”, the catcher got up looking for a fight, but Ruthie just casually got up and triumphantly walked away – beaming as always, and to a chorus of cheering from her impressed team-mates.That was Ruthie in all of her glory. Never to be a prom queen, she held court on 95 degree hot July afternoons, full catchers gear on, dirty, sweaty, and personally victorious no matter what the final score was. She was the hero of all the pretty girls who wished they were “ballplayers”, the shy girls who wished they were outgoing, and any other girl who simply marveled at the person who was “Ruthie”. She was a joy to coach.

When Lau laid down the Law

2008-02-07T20:10:00.001-05:00

Laurie played hockey on Urann’s Pond for years with the neighborhood kids, so she knew how to play pretty well.

She was friends with many of the High School hockey team players, so she ended up playing in some of the pickup games at our outdoor rink. One day we had a number of high school kids, Eric and David, Uncle Mac and a handful of fathers all involved in a big game on a clear sunny day. Glen P happened to be the big body builder football player of my grade, but as he skated up ice with the puck, Laurie demonstrated the old adage of “the bigger they are, the harder they fall”. With a picture perfect legal hip check, Glen went down in a dramatic heap while Laurie (white figure skates and all) skated away with the puck – much to the very loud vocal amusement of everybody present. Well, every body but Glen’s father – who in an effort to get revenge for his shamed son started chasing Laurie in an obvious effort to even the score. Uncle Mac lived by the theory “mess with my family and you mess with ME!” so he started chasing Mr.P around to head him off before he got to Laurie. Glen tried to become invisible – hiding from the fact that he got decked by a girl and that his Dad was making a fool of himself and that a brawl was on the verge of breaking out over the whole deal. Cooler heads prevailed, Laurie became a folk hero, Uncle Mac was comfortable in knowing that he would have killed Mr. P if necessary, and Glen went on to lift enough weights to become as big as a house and compete in men’s body building competitions (where he would certainly never get shown up by a girl!). He eventually joined the Police Force where he could carry a gun and be really manly. That Christmas I bought Laurie shin guards on the theory that she would never get a date with shins black and blue from getting slashed in a hockey game.

How I started the Whitman-Hanson Youth Hockey program.

2008-02-07T14:11:00.000-05:00

OK – so it took a little bit of initiative from some other people who copied an idea of mine and expanded it and improved it, and that led to the formation of the first WH youth hockey team (and I didn’t even get to play on it).

I was in high school and didn’t feel like walking over to Urann’s Pond just to skate. I had noticed how melt water would drip onto the cement back steps and freeze into a pretty thick layer. I thought if I could spray water onto the patio bricks, maybe I could form a good enough ice surface to skate on our basketball court. I had learned that an outdoor water spigot won’t freeze if you keep the water turned slightly on, so I did – and waited until after dark when the temperature dropped to below 32. Slowly and patiently I repeatedly sprayed a mist of water onto the backyard bricks. This would freeze rather quickly and I found I could re-spray about every 15 minutes until I had maybe a ¼ inch layer over the entire patio/court. This didn’t hold up well to skate blades, but after a couple of nights of diligent spraying, I had close to an inch of ice to skate on. Jim R. stopped by one night as I was skating and became intrigued at my home-made rink, and asked how I accomplished it. I demonstrated my spraying techniques, and a new idea was hatched in his head. Jim was friends with Charlie Oertel – the grandfather of my friend Russell Dean on West Washington St – who owned a large field across the street from his house and abutted by a small stream. Charlie gave his blessing and a bulldozer was brought in to scrape clean and level a spot for an outdoor hockey rink. Assisted by a borrowed generator and pump, we would take shifts spending a few hours late at night pumping water onto the rink. Before long we had a solid 2 inch ice surface surrounded by telephone poles layed flat for the “boards”. A good snow storm and a lot of shoveling it off to the sides made the boards a little easier to get checked into. Jim had a couple of goals built at his work, invested in the nets, and also bought some plywood for sturdier boards behind the goals. On our new rink, we would have pickup games with all of the kids (and a handful of Uncle Mac’s friends, who just so happened to have kids too). But Jim was friends with a guy from Duxbury who was involved in their youth hockey program. A scrimmage game was set up with them, so of course we needed a team to play against them. David and Eric were about the right age to participate. An assortment of 4th to 6th grade kids– basically anyone who claimed to have a clue about how to play hockey - were assembled. After a couple of practices, they didn’t look very formidable. Much to my dismay, because I was clearly too tall and old to possible sneak in, I couldn’t play. Even worse, Chipper Cane – who was in my grade – got to play, simply because he was very short for his age and a very good hockey player, therefore giving us a cheating chance at being competitive. A few games against Duxbury were played that winter, and not long after that The Hobomock Rink was built in Pembroke by George Gould (also a friend of Jim’s). The Whitman Hanson Youth Hockey organization was officially created, with Jim as the President, and along with Pembroke and Duxbury were the very first teams to play at Hobomock Arena. And to think it all started when I ingeniously iced the backyard patio brick basketball court at 30 Phillips St. just to save a few steps.

The Human Zamboni

2008-02-07T13:15:00.000-05:00

Friday Night public skating at Asiaf Arena in Brockton was where we went to practice our skating skills when pond ice was not available. Nenna’s friend Jim would pack a bunch of us into his Thunderbird or Bronco and off we would go. David was about 8 years old and still just learning to skate. Learning to skate means falling down a lot. Before you master all of the maneuvers, you fall when you stop, when you turn left or right, when you skate backwards, when you get cut off, bumped, tripped. At a busy public skating session, all of these would happen and David spent a LOT of time “learning”. Actually we spent a lot of time watching him sliding across the ice – on his belly, side, or back. The ice would be pretty scratched up by so many skate blades, but every fall and slide would leave an 8 yr old sized swath of freshly cleaned ice. David “cleaned” the ice so often we started calling him “The Human Zamboni”. Smartly, Nenna always had him thickly dresses with layers of warm clothing , ski pants, gloves, and a hat. He never got hurt, or cold, and he just loved skating so he never minded the falls or the nickname. When we got home he would proudly tell mom just how many times he actually fell (Mom! I only fell 35 times tonight!), and we could gauge his improvement as the number shrunk.

David eventually became the most accomplished hockey player in the family – starring in Youth Hockey, High School, and still playing weekly 40 years after his Asiaf ice cleaning days.

The Whitman Movie Theater & The Yellow Canary

2008-01-19T15:25:00.000-05:00

So one night we travel to Whitman as we often do to visit with the Tobin’s. Nenna and Aunt Edie drink tea and chat and Wes, Laurie and I – along with Skip, Bill and Tom – Invent some game to play or some investigation to conduct around the Roberts St neighborhood or through the graveyard behind their house. But one night while Nenna and Edie visited, we were given money and allowed to walk the few blocks to downtown to catch a movie at the Whitman Movie Theater. Now we had been there before to see Disney Movies like Sleeping Beauty and such, always preceded by cartoons – Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd, Tom & Jerry, Mickey & Goofy. But now we were big kids (I was 8 and the youngest, so Wes and Skip were 12 or 13) and we got to go without parental supervision. The movie being shown was called “The Yellow Canary” – and it was scary!!!

===========================

The Yellow Canary
Genre: Crime
Director: Buzz Kulik
Main Cast: Pat Boone, Barbara Eden, Steve Forrest, Jack Klugman, Jesse White
Release Year: 1963
Run Time: 93 minutes
Plot
Written by mystery master Rod Serling, The Yellow Canary stars Pat Boone as insufferable singing idol Andy Paxton. Barbara Eden plays his wife Lissa, who is fed up with her husband's egotistical attitude and is ready to leave him. When their baby son is kidnapped, Andy Paxton refuses to enlist the help of the police. He still does not cooperate even after three people are murdered in crimes apparently related to the kidnapping. Finally, acting on his own, he agrees to pay $200,000 in ransom, but the kidnapper never shows up at an arranged meeting. In desperation, the singer finally gets more involved in tracking down the kidnapper. ~ Michael Betzold, All Movie Guide
==========================

Now Laurie always loved to be scared by TV shows or movies, but this was tense and suspenseful with kidnapping and murder and we were all hiding our eyes. Unfortunately, our eyes were open and we were unsuspecting when at a critical moment Pat Boone enters a darkened room and shuts the door behind him – and although HE doesn’t at first see it, we DO – the dead body of a man hung by a noose behind the door.
I don’t actually recall too much detail about the movie, other than the key clue is that the killer had beech sand in his shoes (I’m guessing that I not spoiling the plot for you as you are likely not running out to rent it!). Walking back through Whitman Center to Roberts Street in the dark was nerve-racking tho’, and Wes was particularly traumatized by the whole ordeal. For days and weeks (and months) afterwards all I had to do was to say out loud “THE YELLOW CANARY” and he would cower in fear. Even years later I could get a rise out of him by uttering that movie title to him, and now – if you were to walk up to Uncle Wes and say “look out for the Yellow Canary” he will either fake-scream in fear or grab you and fake-beat-you-up. Try it. It’s fun.

Family Politics

2008-01-18T21:17:00.000-05:00

1963 – Aunt Edie had been a Whitman Town Hall secretary, but decided to run for town treasurer. Her 1^st husband George Tobin had been a town official for many years – it was actually how they met. Now married to Uncle Bud – a town policeman – she recruited her children and niece and nephews to canvas the town and pass out fliers. Laurie & Wes & cousin Skip were given stacks of fliers and a route to follow and instructions. Being only 8, I went with Aunt Edie to help her. Down sidewalks, up driveways, sticking leaflets in people’s front doors was easy enough, but I was amazed at how many back doors and side doors had to be approached as well. Hanson had almost no apartments, so the concept of 2 or more different families living in the same house was new to me. I remember feeling invested in the outcome due to the effort I put in on her behalf, and the disappointment I felt when she didn’t win the election. It was almost like I had lost the election and it just didn’t seem fair.

Shredded Wheat

2008-01-10T10:39:00.000-05:00

(To my surprise, I saw these on sale still – possibly a leftover box from 1965!)

Our winter time breakfast menu had two notable additions – Hot oatmeal with raisins and Shredded Wheat. Fairly often, Nenna would cook up a pot of Quaker Oats with raisins mixed in. The pot would stay hot on the stove all morning and we could help ourselves at whatever time we were ready to eat, scooping out a bowlful and adding milk and sugar (lots of sugar) or maple syrup. If oatmeal wasn’t on the stove (or the occasional substitutes Cream Of Wheat or Maypo) and we wanted something hot, there was always a box of Shredded Wheat.

Decades before Frosted Mini-Wheats were invented, Shredded Wheat came as what looked like a large steel wool pad made out of (as the name would indicate) shredded strands of stiff brittle wheat. We would put one of these “bricks” into a bowl and pour boiling water from the tea-pot over it. This softened the block into a limp wet pile of wheat strands. Then one would drain the hot water out of the bowl, trying not to let the mushy form of the pad fall apart (for some reason it seemed very important to maintain the resemblance of it’s original form), and would slowly pour about half a cup of milk around it.

Topping it off with a generous supply of sugar completed the production.

We invented Frosted Mega-Wheats! (best served hot)

The “Chopping Down The Christmas Tree” tradition

2007-12-13T13:01:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-10T11:08:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-03T14:36:00.000-05:00

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…

2007-10-26T13:55:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-10T11:50:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-03T10:34:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-27T15:09:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-17T18:53:00.001-05:00

[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

2007-08-13T14:30:00.000-05:00

* 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

2007-08-09T22:32:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-26T12:42:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-21T22:18:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-17T12:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-17T13:22:00.000-05:00

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....

2007-04-24T11:59:00.000-05:00

.... 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

2007-04-23T11:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-20T07:33:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-17T14:46:00.000-05:00

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")

2007-04-02T12:47:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-30T14:00:00.000-05:00

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&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;layer=&ie=UTF8&z=16&ll=42.056654,-70.852697&spn=0.006883,0.020514&t=k&om=1

The Day I Quit Smoking

2007-03-30T08:35:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-29T23:04:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-29T10:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-23T22:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-21T13:16:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-11T11:50:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-07T16:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-06T12:56:00.000-05:00

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)

2007-03-02T15:53:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-01T15:42:00.000-05:00

We were so full of hot air

2007-03-01T11:16:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-01T09:31:00.000-05:00

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)

2007-02-28T09:35:00.000-05:00

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

The Monkee Club (by Eric & Wes)

2007-02-26T11:39:00.000-05:00

The Monkey Club inspired tree-climbing antics. Wes, Laurie, and their adored cousin, red-headed and antic Tommy Tobin, were the founding members, but the littler ones were soon sworn in, solemnly and with some magisterial words from Wes, after climbing to the top of the maple tree in the front yard on Phillips Street, much to the dismay of step great-grandmother “Nana” Grace McClellan who spied them from next door. Norway maples lined the road, apple trees blossomed in the back yard, and all provided stairways to Heaven for the merry band of acrobats. But the island had two of the best jungle gyms that the Monkey Club could scramble up, over, around, through, in and out, and down. Just to the south of the path leading to the bunkhouse and maybe six feet from the western bank of the island was a leaning birch tree, about ten inches in diameter at the stump. Mature and thick, it made a perfect horse for the climbers. The oldest would pull themselves up first, bending the topmost branches groundward under their weight. The younger ones would follow, generally in particular order of ages. God forbid that Eric should precede Marlene, or Marlene sneak in ahead of Donnie or Tommy. Once most were in the saddle, hanging on with anticipation, the heavyweights, all small for their age, whether Wes and Laurie or diminutive but daring John White, would jump off, grab the topmost branches now close to the grass, and give the others a bronco-busting ride, yanking and pulling and thrashing the tree up and around, trying to shake everyone else from their precarious perches. Success was guaranteed, for as others let go, the tree bucked higher, leaving only one or two clinging madly, joyfully to the birch’s smooth sides, until all would tumble to earth or, eventually, and to their great surprise, the tree itself followed under the weight of the entire tribe, and dropped them all with a resounding crack and dull thud into the grass. The near horizontal “brontosaurus” dropped the six little Blausses with a finality that left the younger ones sad, the older ones guilty, and Laurie and Tommy on their feet, agile and balanced as always.
Tom was president of the Monkey Club, Laurie vice president. Wes was modest enough to let others scale the heights. He was always good about including everyone in his clubs, games, fantasies, and plays. Never taking the lead roles himself, he usually played the foiled villain with a smirky, wisecracking Donnie as his retarded cohort, while Laurie and Tommy became the heroes of every game or skit that he created. Eric claimed later that he learned from Wes’s example that having a brother or sister for a hero was sometimes better than being the hero oneself. Always at the end of the line, the last on the heap, Eric and Dave frequented the island years later as young adults, and in one of their many gasoline-fed campfires burned the existing remains of the birch, long dead like the dinosaurs, flammable as ancient coal, a meager reminder of sweet summer days gone by when
"the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches."
--Robert Frost, "Birches"

Behind Nana and Grampa Roddy’s house on Phillips Street a cluster of maple trees stood, overgrown and heavy laden with tangled vines of Concord grapes. Large, blue, and juicy, the grapes provided a treat come autumn for the intrepid tree climbers — with Nana’s permission, of course. The island had grapevines too, about a thousand square foot of them. Probably once fruitful but now overgrown and barren, the vines, like the cherry trees, had once been pruned and tended by Eversons, the art now lost to the Blausses. Reaching as high as ten feet or more in places, strangling the life out of the sumacs that supported them, and engulfing other bushes in an ever spreading blanket of greenery, the grapevines offered a most challenging opportunity for a “Monkey.” Laurie and Tommy reached the highest spots attainable to a lightweight. The featherweights followed, eager to emulate the grand, heroic feats of their older sister and cousin. When heavier cousins Skip and Bill Tobin attempted to scale Tommy’s summits, they broke branches and crushed the flimsy sumac with their extra pounds, upsetting the Monkey Club leaders and leaving the entire tribe lower in the jungle canopy than they had hitherto been able to climb. Down below Wes warily waited. He, more than Skip and Bill, understood the near-sacred nature of these vulnerable places. What the sixty-pounders could achieve atop the trees and vines, he at eighty plus pounds could not without wreaking similar havoc on the fragile structure, and he was willing to leave the best climbs for those who didn’t weigh as much. Being small was an advantage in the Monkey Club.

Island Games (by Eric & Wes)

2007-02-26T10:48:00.000-05:00

Donnie and Eric poked around for hours at a time in the pram, taking turns rowing, naming landmarks like Hidden Cove, and catching crabs. Afraid to grab at a pinching rock crab, Eric stuck to snails and hermit crabs in their stolen periwinkle shells. Wes, Laurie, and Marlene were climbing in the dense jungle of grape vines that blanketed a sumac grove behind the outhouse and provided hours of near trampoline-like pleasure on the treetops. Curled up in the sun, Fluffy or Snowball or whichever cat was then the family pet watched Dave dig in the sand. Edna watched too.
Toward midday, the gang gathered for lunch, peanut butter and jelly or banana sandwiches, followed by Edna’s eternal admonition, “No swimming for an hour now. You could get a cramp and drown.” The kids could easily entertain themselves until the afternoon sun beat down so intently that clothing fell in little heaps across the bristly lawn, summer-baked to a prickly carpet, and everyone migrated to the small, sandy beach. It was time for a “Happy Fizzies Party.” A big kid must have named it, but everyone took part. All the kids, including the Tobins and other friends, crowded into the big boat and rowed into the channel, a little toward the dike from the dock. Donnie dropped anchor, a half of a cement block tied to the bow rope, and then everyone went stark, raving mad. Crawling over the seats and each other, balancing on the gunwales like tightrope walkers, kids would start shouting silly phrases like, “Washington Crossing the Delaware!” or “Happy Fizzies Party!” At the end of each statement they would strike a ridiculous pose and then plunge, as accidentally-looking as possible, into the river. The water, cold, salty, and bubbly or fizzy as it was, no doubt gave the activity its name.

Using boats and plastic floats or inner tubes for bases and pitcher’s mound, they played water baseball and kickball. The batter stood at the end of the dock. Often a beachball, light and brightly-colored and striped, was hit with a whiffle-ball bat and floated through the air like a balloon toward the dripping infielders. Beachballs broke easily. More often a heavier plastic ball, about a foot in diameter, sold at the Brant Rock Market next to the plastic buckets and shovels, served the purpose. Pitchers dove and shortstops dog-paddled and catchers danced on the pier. Shouts and splashes punctuated the hot afternoon, refreshing everyone, and wild, wet laughter entertained them all.

Headhunter! A game invented by us, a perfect pastime for a jungly island and a tribe of active, anxious, young savages. Here in Eric’s own words is a description of the game and environs:

“The landscape of the island has always been a changing scene. Clearings and paths overgrow in a season. You stop mowing. It never stops growing. Sapling sumac and blackberry vines spring up in weeks and take right over if unchecked. Dad was not as diligent as some of us later became about mowing. About twenty feet out of the porch door, facing southeast, was a grove of sumac. Pretty good size too, up to six or seven inches at the butt. The yard was mowed.

“The Grove” was also mowed about twenty feet in. To the right, looking south from the door, at the edge where the land dropped off about four feet to the river, and running alongside the grove, was a cleared extension from the yard, about twenty feet wide. The grass in this area was a little pricklier on the feet. On the edge of the lawn where it dropped off to the river bank, there was a brown porcelain stove that Mom and Dad burned the paper trash in. Just a few trees into the grove a hammock hung, tied to two trees. The hammock served as goals in a game of Headhunter. One person would be IT. When gathering around to start a game, someone would yell, “Not IT!” The last one to say, “Not IT!” was IT, although some of us little kids might get out of IT sometimes. Being IT to a young, little fellow like myself was a dreaded and burdensome task.
The game went as follows. Everyone not IT would lie across the hammock face down and count to whatever. I remember Dave and me repeating the numbers counted out by the big kids, somewhere around ten, because we couldn’t count much higher. Whoever was IT had this old wet mop. The difference between Headhunter and Hide and Seek was that the person who was IT would hide. After the count those who weren’t IT would look for the one who was. As those not IT strayed away from the hammock they became more vulnerable to the Headhunter, whose job it was to tag someone with the mop before they reached the hammock. Upon reaching the hammock we always dived across sideways and somersaulted right around it. The younger the child, the closer to goals one stayed, so when the bigger kids dove across the hammock we were usually on it already, holding on tight for the ride. The hammock would flap around like a sheet in the high wind, and Dave, Marlene, and I must have looked like cowboys on a rodeo bull, hanging on so as not to be bounced off and fall easy prey to the wild, approaching Headhunter. I can still see clearly in my mind the view of the trees against the sky, upside-down from looking under the hammock, spinning and tumbling around as each lucky player made it back safely to goals ahead of the Headhunter’s screeching yells. And I can still see Donnie. He was IT. He kept his cool in his hiding spot long enough for the more timid of the players to wander further from goals. I was halfway past the house. Some of the big kids were even further toward the bunkhouse when Donnie stood up from behind the brown porcelain stove, shaking his mop violently in the air and screaming, “Ya! Ya! Ya! Ya! Ya!” I don’t remember whom he chose to tag but he had us all dead to rights, and immortalized himself in my mind as the undisputed Headhunter champion of the island and the world. As the dry and lightweight tassels of the mop hovered against the southern sky at dusk, and the tribal-sounding yell pierced the silence of the quickly approaching twilight, in the view of the low, jungle-looking fauna, even his face was momentarily transformed into that of a savage. And I hardly noticed that he wasn’t robed in grass clothing and adorned with a necklace made from the teeth of his past victims — or that he was wearing glasses.”

Going to the island (Eric's version - as transposed and possibly embelished by Wes)

2007-02-25T22:34:00.000-05:00

Sometime in the course of every summer, before the arrival of the youngest sisters Debbie and Heather, Mom and Dad would pack their six children into the station wagon, along with piles of bedding and beach towels, two weeks’ worth of food, diapers, kerosene, oarlocks, mosquito repellent, beer, Band-Aids, and all the other supplies necessary for a vacation at the island, the only vacation affordable to a family of limited means. For the Blausses it was a little leftover bit of Eden enjoyed for a couple of weeks, and a couple of long weekends every summer. Parental preparation loomed large, but for the six children it promised nothing but fun, fun, fun.
Packed to near bursting with provisions, the Chevrolet beach wagon waited in the dirt driveway at 30 Phillips Street as everyone piled in on a Saturday morning in July. Dad had a week’s vacation from Peaceful Meadows, and was eager himself to sit on the porch of the two-room cottage, cradle a bottle of beer, and, as he so often said with a contented grin, "watch the rest of the world go by." The cat was always the last passenger to load in. Then, last minute bathroom runs completed and all in readiness, doors slammed, the car motor rumbled to life, and the journey commenced.

At Lloyd Prario’s service station on Main Street, just beyond the deserted Hanson railroad station, with the smell of gasoline rising through the tailgate window, Dad would gas up the car for the big trip. Eighteen miles away high adventure and sweet relaxation waited. Wesley, Laurie, Donnie, Marlene, Eric, and Dave could hardly wait. Long years afterward the smell of gasoline still reminded Eric of going to Brant Rock, where the Green Harbor River joined the Atlantic, a salty smell of passion that bonded him and his siblings forever to the sea.
The oil checked and the tank fueled up, and with a friendly good-bye from Lloyd as he stepped back inside to work on his perfectly-detailed dollhouses and model country stores, Dad would turn the car southeast down Route 27. Moments later Laurie would burst into song:
"Oh, you can’t go to Heaven
In a rocking chair
‘Cause the Lord don’t want
No lazy bones there,"
with the brothers and sisters gleefully joining in, repeating each line in an ebullient echo. Verses followed for each family member:
"Oh, you can’t go to Heaven
In Daddy’s car
‘Cause the darned old thing
Won’t go that far."
Nor would Mommy’s boat, Wes’s pants, Laurie’s bike, or any other number of bright ideas provide the requisite transportation to Paradise. "The Ants Go Marching" came next, or "One more river, and that wide river is Jordan," with a succession of sing-along favorites close behind, and the singing didn’t stop until the familiar sights and smells of the coast caught the children’s attention. Next to Dad sat Little Dave in the car seat with its own plastic steering wheel and horn. Mom rode shotgun position, turned sideways to accompany the chorus of high-pitched voices. The Blauss family was going to the island! After a whole year they were on their way again. The thought of salt water, clam shells everywhere, crabs side-stepping under the wharf, periwinkles or snails clinging to the wooden posts that held up the dock, waiting for the tide to rise again, kept the kids in high anticipation. And for Eric, in the rough years that followed, the smell of beach roses always brought on the longing for and refreshed the vision of those hot, safe island days.

From Hanson through Pembroke and Duxbury, along King Philip’s Path and over the bridge at Route 3 the overcrowded vehicle groaned happily. Soon they had reached the north end of Duxbury Bay’s extensive salt marsh and then the historic Winslow house and the sign for Camp Cedar Crest. They recognized they were close now. The old Chevrolet passed a few more sandy streets and cottages with neat hedges, came abreast of the Green Harbor Marina, and out onto the dike. The dike, the dike!

Upon riding onto the dike everyone except Dad would exclaim, "Hi, island!" Pulling the car up to the guard rails on the river side, Don clambered out, untied the rowboat from the roof racks, and heaved it over the guard rails, the bushes on the slope below so thick that the sturdy, little vessel would slide right down the twenty foot embankment, gently and undamaged, on the cushiony underbrush. The boat was soon in the water and the Chevrolet partly unpacked. Most importantly the heavy aluminum beer keg that would provide their source of potable water was hoisted with effort over the side and everyone stepped back as it rolled crashing down the hill, ending with a splash in the marsh grass. The little kids remained itchily in the car. The loaded boat had no room for more than Dad and Wes once all the provisions had been stowed aboard. The first trip over began. Dad rowed. Mom and her children closed the car doors and drove the short distance to Marshall Avenue, then a left on Webster and another on June Street. In a little pink house lived the Helpins, where Edna stopped to fill more jugs of drinking water. The children were becoming antsy now to get on with it. Back in the car Edna drove slowly around the bend of the dirt road. A tall chain-link fence surrounded a high voltage electrical transformer, and just to the far end of the fence a circle of dirt and grass had been worn down by car tires, a circle about thirty feet in diameter. A guide wire from an electrical pole anchored in the middle of it. Often another car would be parked there already, belonging to Belle and Bill Dexter, "Auntie Belle and Uncle Bill." They owned, after years of squatting, the little log cottage down the path, the family’s next, if temporary, destination. Nine years of residence on the unclaimed property had given them title to it. Uncle Bill mowed the trail from the parking area to the river. In some places boards or slabs provided dry footing over the muddy spots. Blackberry bushes groped out from the sides, snares for unwary children carrying bundles and boxes of provisions. A lightly-laden younger child could pause and refresh himself on fruit before running to catch up with his older siblings. The Dexters’ cottage and clearing seemed a long way from the car. It wasn’t, much less than a quarter of a mile. The world just seemed that much bigger when we were small.
The Dexters and their grandchildren relaxed in lounge chairs and hammocks on the shaded lawn at path’s end, Uncle Bill nursing a Narragansett beer, Auntie Belle with a mixed drink and Kent cigarette in hand. Edna and Auntie Belle exchanged big hugs. Uncle Bill’s greeting, though seated, was no less sincere. Now another generation had arrived. In terry cloth underwear and no shirt, three-year-old Cathleen Dexter, their granddaughter, ran uninhibited over the soft carpet of grass, so gentle on bare feet compared to the bristly island lawn. Three years older, Marlene was just as likely to run shirtless after her under the shade trees. Modesty was not an issue for Edna’s children until the girls started to develop, and the Blauss girls developed late. The island was private, and the Dexters’ was the transition into the freer world where underpants ruled. No one deliberately stripped on arrival, but a toddling David clad only in diapers fit seamlessly with the terrain.
After nearly a year’s absence, everyone visited. Donnie and Eric tangled cheerfully on the rope swing. Into the hammock clambered Cathleen, Marlene, and David, maybe baby Brenda Dexter as well, and Laurie provided wild pushes, while Edna sat with Belle and Bill and exchanged the news of the year. Cathleen and Brenda were the children of Laddy Dexter, lobsterman son of Belle and Bill, who had settled in Brant Rock, less than a mile from the cottage where he, his brother Danny, and his parents had spent their summers, and his parents’ presence provided easy babysitting service. The kids romped. The adults jibber-jabbered while awaiting the arrival of Wes and the unladen boat.
Eric ran to the riverbank, hurdling a ditch, barely noting the old stone fireplace and Uncle Bill’s thatch duck blind, to await Wes’s arrival. The muddy riverbank dropped into salt water, shallow off the Dexters’ pier. Clamshells littered the bottom. Dropping to his belly on the rough wooden planks, Eric reached down into the river to examine several. While he paddled, Wes appeared around the end of the island with the empty boat. "Hello!" shouted Eric, leaping up to run with the news. "Here he comes! Hurry up! Hurry up!"
Edna would stay with the Dexters a while longer. Not enough room in the boat for everyone, but the kids crowded down to the shoreline, possibly with supplies in tow. "All aboard that’s getting aboard!" Laurie announced. Into the back clambered Eric and Dave, Laurie wedging her skinny self between them. Marly and Donnie got the front seat. Wes stood up with one oar, handed the other to his brother. "Here, Donnie, help shove off," said the rower. Shoving against the muddy bottom, they broke the suction of the mucky flats and inched off from the bank. The boys sat. The oars were slipped back into the oarlocks. Wes turned the stern upriver and the bow toward the island, pushing one scull forward and he other back. Often one oar only worked at the turn, the other poised horizontally, relaxed over the water’s surface. Eric would study his older brother’s rowing techniques. ‘I’m going to row the same way,’ he’d think. From Dexters’ dock to the end of the island was about a hundred feet. A wide flat extending out from island’s end gradually dropped to a depth of four or five feet at high tide. Showing off, Wes pulled hard. The boat, overfull and low in the water almost to the gunwales, raced over the flats, just clearing the muddy bottom. Eric watched the swirls of water twisting off the end of the oars, the boat racing away from them with each pull.

As the family rounded the point of the island, the dike came into view. If the tide was coming in, white foam floated up the channel in the current. Wes steered out toward the center of the river to avoid shallow water and the thick, algal bloom that covered large areas of the river in midsummer. The green, slimy growth could drag on an oar, making it too heavy to pull a stroke, and the oarsman would perform annoyed contortions, rolling the blade, until the gunk fell off. Sumac groves swept by, the stand of birch trees on which they would soon be swinging.

There, close by, sat the little barn red cottage. Closing in on the sandy landing area, Wes alternated strokes, left, right, left, right, one oar in the water at a time, the port oar pulling slightly harder, arching the boat around the end of the little dock and pulling it up alongside. "Land ho!" yelled Laurie. "All ashore that’s going ashore!"
Donnie, holding the bow rope, secured the rowboat. Everyone else scrambled onto the pier. Someone had to go get Mom, still over at the Dexters’. In the early summers the job went to the "big kids", Laurie and Donnie, but soon Eric was volunteering to go, hoping to practice his strokes and turns the way Wes and Mom did. There was no rush. The children unloaded provisions. Bags and pillowcases and cardboard boxes were lugged up onto the lawn, then instantly deserted as their bearers raced around in a near frenzy of delight at their summer homecoming. Back upriver Eric headed to pick up Mom. Pulling alongside Hidden Cove, not really a cove, but a little indentation in the bank that Donnie had named, where a double birch tree grew out from the island almost parallel with the water, Eric practiced his sculling techniques. Pushing the left oar and pulling the right, he turned the boat in a few quick circles. Then scaring himself because he was alone, he rowed as fast as he could for his mother. Hopefully she would be waiting for him at the dock and not still jibber-jabbering with Auntie Belle and Uncle Bill. That was unlikely. A whole year had passed since they last saw each other. They had plenty to talk about.

But now Edna was ready to move on. She had plenty to do when they got to the island, even if "those kids" hadn’t vandalized the cottage as they did almost every offseason. "Those kids" broke windows, scattered crockery, smeared peanut butter on the walls. Edna didn’t know who "those kids" were, but once or twice they were spotted retreating from the island as the family approached, and many times they had broken into the empty camp and spent the nights drinking and trashing the place. Occasionally they might be spotted on the mainland, carrying guns. The little ones were fearful of them. Was there vandalism this time? Edna wanted to know. Eric reported that all was well on the island. Still, even without "those kids’" efforts, Edna had many chores ahead, washing the dishes, airing out the blankets, and all.

She and Eric pulled up at the dock. Eric beamed as his mother commented on what a good rower he was becoming.

Hail Hail, the gangs all (almost all) here

2007-02-23T17:42:00.000-05:00

Tom*, Don, Skip*, Nanna (in background), Marlene in the baby seat, Wes, Grampa Roddy, Laurie, Jojo*, Mo*, Billy*

* indicates cousin

??? circa 1958 = if it's summer '58 Wes is 7-1/2+, Laurie is 5+, I am 3-1/2 and Marly (the baby) is 1-1/2, Eric would be a newborn (June 19th) and not shown here. The (Aunt Sally) Doyle cousins are not yet born (well, maybe Mark is).

Eric, Dad, Laurie, Dave (born 2/28/60), Mom, Marly, Don, Wes
??? late 1960 - early 1961 ???

Debbie ('65) and Heather ('73) are still not in the picture yet!

The Rat Patrol of Abbey Road

2007-02-21T09:29:00.000-05:00

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.

http://www.bigredhair.com/movies/ratpatrol.html

Our Favorite Foxes

2007-02-20T16:23:00.000-05:00

It was a warm summers day, the big kids (Tobins included) were playing in the back yard, I was in the kitchen where Mom was washing dishes. The window above the sink looks out into the back yard and (as this was before we had a fence) beyond to the tar drive leading to the back of the warehouse. Much to my mother’s surprise (and then concern) she noticed a fox casually meander out of the woods and down the asphalt slope towards the parking lot. This was highly unusual behavior for a fox. She called out the window “Look, a fox” to alert the children. Laurie mis-heard, confused as to why Mom would bother to point out a box, but noting the concern in her voice decided it was worth looking at. About this time the fox changed direction and headed towards our yard. I decided the screen porch was a better vantage point to see what the commotion was about. Kids were climbing into the dogwood tree and to the top of swingset. Cousins ran up the slide and jumped onto the playhouse roof. Billy chose the sapling tree next to the shed, not the best choice. Saplings aren’t good for climbing and bend like a fishing pole with a big catch on the line. He clung tight with arms and legs wrapped around the drooping branch, hanging as if tied to a pole being carried by cannibals. The fox wandered right into the commotion, curiously investigating the strange being hovering above. Apparently this fox didn’t feel like exerting himself and wandered down into the parking lot. Mom had quickly called the police about our suspicious acting intruder. They quickly arrived in our driveway and along with a couple of fast responding firefighters restrained and captured the animal which following testing was confirmed to have been rabid. For days later, now-brave children would re-enact what they did and where they went, for any and all audiences.

Although this fox was a cause of great momentary excitement, our favorite fox was Disney’s “Swamp Fox” – a very short lived television series.

http://www.startedbyamouse.com/archives/SwampFox.shtml
Originally on: ABC (60 min.)
Status: Ended Premiered: October 23, 1959 Last Aired: January 8, 1961
Show Categories: Action/Adventure, Drama
"Swamp Fox, Swamp Fox, tail on his hat. Nobody knows where the Swamp Fox's at..." So begins the legend of 'The Swamp Fox'. In reality, this Revolutionary War hero was Colonel Francis Marion--a semi-renegade patriot with an ax to grind with the British. The series takes us through the life of this hero, and gives us a glimpse into the lives of the men and women who helped make this country...
starring Leslie Neilson.

Wes had us all running around the yard singing the theme song (one of the earliest songs I recall singing) and chasing the British out of the neighborhood.

Those Dammed Rivers

2007-02-19T16:23:00.000-05:00

Flowing water held a fascination for me as a child. Probably it started in the bathtub where I discovered that by covering up the overflow drain with my foot, I could make the water rise to abnormal levels – causing it to find another way out. More than once did Nenna find water dripping through her bedroom ceiling (coincidently located right below the bathroom). The bathroom was simply another playroom.

(This just in! – I just had another memory -- of us taking turns standing on the stage (aka – toilet) doing Elvis imitations – Eric & David very young (3 & 5?), very naked, but enthusiastically strumming air guitars and singing Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog)

Sorry about that interruption == so anyway, after it was ever-so gently (sure!) explained to me that playing with water in the bathroom was not allowed, I had to find my fun outside. The swampy woods and streams behind Urann’s pond were always fun to play around and attempt to jump, but I didn’t have much control over them. The pond was already formed by a manmade coffer dam, but I was intreged that the outlet river actually was underneath the Ocean Spray parking lot -- you could hear it running below at the storm drain.

I discover that damming up the out-flow from tidal pools at the beach was very empowering and simultaneously creative, and an easy media to work with.

Then Wes discovered the stream flowing out of the woods beyond the Hannigans house up the street. With his 8mm movie camera in hand and younger siblings and cousins in tow, off we went to film adventure movies in the woods. Large trees fallen across the river were perfect for adaptations of Robin Hood / Little John type stories – all scripted and filmed by Director Wes. My preference was playing with the flowing water – stacking rocks and inserting sticks, diverting the direction here & there.

Just a bit further up Phillips Street was “Wampatuck Road” – an unused dirt road to nowhere (but strangely listed on every map of Hanson as if it were a Main St) with swamp water on all sides and crossing the road in many spots as tiny rivers. It started as a route to explore, but became a destination for aspiring water control engineers. Complex dam systems creating reservoirs and canals and locks were being continuously constructed. Occasionally we would be appalled to discover (because as outstanding outdoorsmen and naturalists, we could interpret the tracks) that horses had ridden through and stomped some of our creations. Yes, we worked in miniature – our stone and earthen dams were typically about 1 – 2 inches high. Undeterred, we returned on many warm sunny days, spending painstaking hours working on our dammed rivers.

Although the others were good builders and enjoyed the work, I alone was acknowledged as the Master of all Dam Creation.

Kick the Can and the Mother of All Water Fights (by Marlene)

2007-02-17T17:03:00.000-05:00

The best part of summer (excepting the years we camped at Maquan Pond) was staying up all night playing kick the can - hide and seek with a portable (kickable) goals.

I remember one night, playing down at Grammie's house (next door to Nessarella's Farm Stand). We talked Dad into joining the game. Now Dad was a great playmate - When he was in the mood. But ordinarily, he was happier suppying us with an empty beer can than in joining the horseplay. And this particular night, he wanted to finish the game and be done with it as quickly as possible. So he vollunteered to be 'IT', counted to 100, picked up the can and tucked it into his back pocket. He walked around the yard, finding each of us and touching the can in his pocket while calling us by name. Eric, ever the advocate of fair play, quickly and loudly proclaimed, "NO FAIRS! NO FAIRS! THAT'S CHEATING!!!!!

So now, Laurie was alerted to the nature of the game, and she decided to supply justice. She began following Dad, with her ninja-like abilties, and at 'the opportune moment', she ran up behind Dad and kicked the can right out of his pocket. As I recall, that ended the game and Dad decided it was time to go home and 'put the kids to bed.'

But the most awesome night of kick the can also happened to be the only time I've ever seen Nenna intimidated - or been her partner in crime. I had called a personal 'time out' to go into the house and use the bathroom. Just as I reached the top of the stairs, I met up with Mom coming out of the bathroom with Debbie's potty chair pot in her hand. She grinned at me and said, "Watch this."

I followed her into my bedroom where she walked over to the window and told me to open the screen. Down below, I saw Laurie hiding between the house and the tall patch of Pampas Grass. Mom reached her hand out the window, leaned through the window herself and called, "Oh Laurie."

Laurie looked up and saw Mom with pot in hand an instant before she felt the warm water flowing down her back and soaking into her clothing. She had no way to know that Mom had indeed washed the pot and filled it with clean, warm water. She assumed the worst and screached in protest - probably the only time I've ever heard Laurie screach!

Within seconds, all the neighborhood friends had come out of hiding and were conferencing at the lamp post (goals). Within minutes, they had all dissappeared to their own homes and reappeared, armed with various water pistols and squirt bottles. They boldly entered the kitchen and counter-attacked this deranged woman we called Mom. By the time the water fight ended, Mom was hiding under her bed (can you imagine?) By the time Henry came home from work around 2 in the morning, Mom had finished mopping up the foot of water that had innundated the kitchen floor, but she couldn't disguise the fact that all the vinyl tiles had become unstuck and would never cover the floor again. Mom was contrite and never initiated another mob scene. Henry was pissed, but fortunately, that skilled carpenter was always happy to show off his skills and prove to Mom how much he loved her by repairing and improving the house as an on-going hobby.

Terror -the sequel (by Wes)

2007-02-16T14:26:00.000-05:00

Imagination is a wonderful gift, and it keeps them crazy. It’s the summer after Wes’s senior year in high school. He works in the dish room at Jeff’s, a classy restaurant on Main Street, just above the hollow of Poor Meadow Brook. On weekends the crew cleans and scours until one in the morning. When they come out from their kitchen duties they all smell of beer and French fries. Luckily Wes has Maquan Pond and his grandfather Edgar’s waterfront property to head for. A little skinny-dipping before sleeping bag time washes away the stench and grease. Since it’s July, the family is already down there, asleep in a big army tent in Grampa Mac’s pine grove. Wes will take his midnight swim – this was before Jaws cured him of midnight swims – and then head back up to sack out. He fishes the car keys out of his cutoff shorts and climbs into his ’49 Chevy. He drives out of the parking lot, left onto route 27, and heads past the foot of Phillips Street, down to the lights at 58.
In those days you could take an early left onto Indian Head Street without going through the lights. He does. A man is hitchhiking, silhouetted against the traffic lights. He’s heading southeast toward Plymouth, maybe. Wes is headed north. The guy looks a little grungy. It’s at least the very witching hour. Wes slows down to make the turn, and turns, and drives on. His imagination kicks in. Boy, was that guy creepy looking. Gee, just like in all those spooky hitchhiker movies. The hitchhiker is always a crazed killer. What if that hitchhiker was a crazed killer? What if Wes had stopped and picked him up? Wes would never stop and pick him up. Wes hates crazed killers. But what if the man were really crazy? What if he was looking for his next victim? Luckily he’s heading to Plymouth for his next victim, and Wes is going in a different direction. But what if he changed his mind? Maybe he doesn’t care if his next victim comes from southeast of Monponsett or not. What if he jumped onto the back of the ’49 Chevy? Which he couldn’t, since the trunk on a ’49 Chevy is seriously rounded, and he’d slide right off. And Wes is going too fast. But what if when he slowed down to take the turn, the guy jumped on back? What if he’s hanging on to the back right now, clutching the bumper and rear license plate? Good grief, Charlie Brown! A serial killer is tailing Wes right into the piney woods where his innocent younger siblings are peacefully sleeping, unaware that death is rapidly approaching on the trunk of their brother’s car.
Wes turns down the dirt road into the piney woods. There is no psychopath on the back of his car. He knows that. He recognizes that fact quite clearly. He is a very bright boy. He is hyperventilating – and the stench of beer and French fries is overwhelming him. Still, you can’t go skinny-dipping alone in the middle of the night when there’s a madman on the back of your car. He could kill you even quicker than a shark in the dark. No, Wes doesn’t even think about a shark in the dark. Robert Benchley hasn’t scared him to death with Jaws yet. But what about that enormous snapping turtle that lurks in the black lake? Never mind about the turtle. No one’s going anywhere near the water with a homicidal fruitcake on his tail. Wes careens a little wildly around a couple curves to shake him off, but since he’s not really there, he can’t. When Wes reaches the tent, he’s still not with him, and Wes is scared to death. He slams on the brakes about three feet from the tent door. Does he dare turn out the headlights? Yeah, he has to turn out the headlights. He’s more scared of draining the battery than of feeling the killer breathing down the back of his neck – no, he’s not! – yes, he is! – but there’s no way Wes will be coming back out here later to shut off the lights. Besides if he doesn’t shut off the lights, he’ll wake up the kids.
What the hell, wake ‘em all up! They are all awake anyway. Laurie’s never one for letting the brothers and sisters sleep before it’s necessary, and tonight they have cousins Billy and Tommy Tobin, and their friend, bull-sized Franny Kramarski, the cheerful Pollack, staying over with them. Reinforcements! Yes! Wes lunges from the car to the tent (a three feet dive at most) and then, gathering his wits, enters calmly, to cheerful greetings, and announces calmly, to general consternation, that a murderous hitchhiker jumped onto the back of his ’49 Chevy down by the lights at 27 and 58, has followed him into the woods, and is in fact outside the tent this very moment, ready to do his worst.
Pandemonium ensues.
If any members of the Blauss-Tobin-Kramarski clan are less imaginative than Wesley Blauss, they are at least as eager for a good old-fashioned screamfest. The demented dishwasher is forced to recount the tale in lurid detail. Their eyes grow wide in the abrupt glare of flashlights popping on all over the tent. A hitchhiker? Murderer? Here? In the woods? At one in the morning?
And then, Laurie remembers. She’s left the axe outside. In the crotch of a nearby pine tree.
The axe!
Omigod, the weapon of choice for your average American axe murderer, left right out there in the pitch black where he can easily spot it.
Pitched whispers all around.
They’ve got to retrieve the axe.
“Laurie—you left it there—“
Fearless Laurie takes a flashlight. She will fetch the axe. Everyone waits breathlessly while she unzips the tent door, slips out into the night. Silence. Silence. Little noises. Silence. A rush of footsteps, and she returns, diving through the tent door. Wes zips it behind her to prevent any forcible entry. Where’s the axe?
“It isn’t there! It’s gone! I know just where I left it in the crotch of that tree, and now it isn’t there.”
“Omigod! The axe murderer has the axe!”
Pandemonium reensues. More or less.
And they have nothing with which to protect themselves except—they look around. The broom. That’s it. They have a broom. (Mom is a stickler for cleaning up every living space, tent included.) Wes takes the broom. He’s the oldest. And if he swings it wildly enough, he may fend the psychopath off long enough so that Wes is the last to die. Like musk oxen facing the wolves, they back into a circle, all their little heads bristling outward in a show of terror-stricken camaraderie.
They will face this cruel fate together. They will sacrifice the littlest ones, Eric and Dave, only if they must. They will be brave. Resourceful. Strong.
Snap. A twig cracks outside the tent.
A rushed intake of breaths all around, followed by intense silence. They cringe. So tight is the circle their shoulder blades have begun to fuse together.
Rustle. Shuffling in the grove.
No one inhales. No one exhales. Everyone holds his final breath in dread unison.
Thud! A heavy footstep in the pine needles.
Crash! Trees falling to the crazed murder weapon. (It may be pinecones dropping, but these are pinecones with the weight of imagination hurling themselves down like grenades.)
Moments pass. Seconds slip away. Minutes crawl. The night woods are alive with the sounds of – the night woods, amplified by ear drums stretched taut with smothered screams forced inward, accompanied by the pounding of nine little tell-tale hearts. The axe murderer is everywhere. He’s on the left of the tent, he’s on the right. North! South! West! He’s upon them! He’s holding them in awful suspense. He savors the agonizing beauty of an infinitely momentary pause before the attack begins. Where will the axe fall first? Through which pitch of canvas will it suddenly rip, cleaving an innocent sibling to the brisket? In Wes’s hands the broom swings crazily. More danger by far from concussion at Wes’s hands than dismemberment at the hands of –
“I have to go to the bathroom,” whimpers Eric.
The woods fall hushed.
“Sssshhh,” they all admonish. “You have to wait.”
The stillness stretches almost to eternity, and then Eric wails, “I really have to go to the bathroom.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hold it.”
“I can’t hold it.”
“There’s an axe murderer out there.”
“I gotta pee.”
“He’ll chop it off.”
“I’m gonna wet myself.”
“All right,” says Wes, considering the options carefully, and finding none. “All right.” Gotta think this out. Death or wet sleeping bags. Neither alternative appeals, but the wet sleeping bags would be really gross. “All right. Here’s what we do. (They are speaking in stage whispers now) I’ll unzip the door. Then I’ll slip out with the broom and stand there outside the door. You duck out between my legs, take three steps, pee, and I’ll cover you with the broom.”
Silently Wes kneels before the flap and begins to unzip. It takes forever to unzip a tent flap when lives depend on absolute silence. Eric clutches his crotch. His big brother steps out onto the damp pine needles, soaked in the blood of dead squirrels and decapitated skunks. With an upward sweep he drives the nightsoft cobwebs from the air before them. Now, Eric!
Eric leaps out from between his brother’s legs, nearly upending him. He takes three steps forward and pees all over the bumper of Wes’s car. The broom ricochets wildly through the shadows as the terrified kitchen boy wards off serial killers and vampire bats. Then as one the pair fling themselves headlong back into the tent. They pant. They curse the darkness (the Tobins are more expressive than the Blausses are ever allowed to be by their mother, and their curses are more colorful and crude). The children sit in a huddled circle, backs inward, faces turned to impending doom, and await the morning.
The morning comes. Bird song filters through the grove. A groggy gray steals over the wakeful band. Not so wakeful after this night of the living dead, but everyone is struggling to keep his eyelids open. The flashlight batteries have long since died, but now they begin to see each other by the dawn’s early light. Up peeks the sun behind the tent. They are a retarded sight, the lot of them.
Laurie slips out into the relative safety of daybreak to relieve herself. She returns with a weak grin, clutching the axe. “I forgot,” she says. “It was in the other tree.”
“There wasn’t really a guy on the back of the car,” Wes says. “I was just hallucinating.”
Laurie swings at him, but fortunately the axe misses and only grazes a younger brother. Franny and Billy land a couple of friendly punches in his ribs, and Tommy, the monkey on his back, gets him in a headlock. The youngsters set upon their eldest sibling with pillows and, by the time Mom shows up with breakfast, the tent is full of sleeping children, covered in a snowfall of feathers.

You can never have enough terror in a cheerful childhood.

Burning at the Pond

2007-02-16T14:22:00.000-05:00

Most people refer to the seasons in a general framework – winter, spring summer, and fall. Others are more specific – hunting season, fishing season, ski – about identifying seasons. I love autumn in general, but specifically my family always got (gets) excited about the time from January 15th through April 30th – “Burning Season”!

Sure, like most folks we would rake and clean all around the house and shrubs in the early spring and burn the pile of leaves and broken branches. But for us, that was just like doing stretching exercises – it was just a warmup, spring cleaning spring training. The real game was at “The Pond”. Not to be confused with the previously blogged Urann’s Pond, “THE POND” is Maquan Pond where Grampa Mac owned 11 acres of open pine woods on the southern edge, between The Rainbow Girls camp and Cranberry Cove (Hanson’s public beach). Following a mild winter there would be enough branches that had fallen for a good weekend burning party. Following a particularly GOOD (i.e. BAD) winter there would be enough branches and whole trees downed for numerous weekends of pyromania gluttony. This was not just burning brush – this was a well produced event. First make sure Grampa got the permit, second find out what weekend was available to the largest number of relatives (most importantly the Tobin boys). Then shop for supplies – from filling the gas can to filling the cooler. Preparation activities for the designated Saturday started long before the 10:00am allowable start time posted on the permit. Gather and load the rakes, axes, shovels, buckets, chairs, blankets, gloves, coolers, etc… Drive to the pond and determine where best to light the fire (near the largest amount of blow-down, out of site from vehicles on the Camp Kiwanee Road, where it would be unlikely to spread – in that order of importance). Then we would start building the pile (envision your living room stacked to the ceiling with pine branches). Occasionally, after a really GOOD winter and with enough available helpers, we would divide into two teams, make two piles, and let the competition begin!

If mom was not bringing the littlest kids until later, we could fire it up by 9:30. Now considering the flames produced from the living room sized pine pile and the fact that we had already been working for a solid hour or more – it was break time. Stand back and admire the lighting of the Olympic torch! Have a donut and some hot chocolate from the thermos. Once the initial flames settled down into a solid steady burn, it was back to throwing more fuel to the fire. Usually we had predetermined area to clean, sometimes we would fight about whether or not someone had taken branches from the opponents turf. Always we would scold someone for not pulling their weight (measured in arm loads and frequency). This routine would continue all day until 4:00pm when the permit said to extinguish all flames. Our version of the English language interpreted this to mean don’t throw any more onto the fire after 4:00pm. As previously mentioned, we were not visible from the Kiwanee road, and Grampa Mac had once upon a time been a policeman in town, and Uncle Mac was a beloved “Townie” so we never felt too compelled to follow the letter of the law in this regard. Besides, the best portion of the day was yet to come.

By 5:00 the fire had reduced itself to a pile of bright red glowing coals and small flames about the size of loveseat. With caution, you could get close enough to cook hotdogs on a stick. Potatoes would be wrapped in foil and tossed right in to bake. These, plus chips & cookies & soda equaled supper. Once darkness fell, we settled in to chairs and blankets, with guitars and fire-poking sticks to keep us amused. By 10:00 or 11:00pm when the refreshments were gone and the fingers too cold and the embers quite well contained the last couple of fire tenders would go home.

Sunday morning was a new day, and by simply raking the ashes off the top of the pile the still glowing coals underneath would easily re-ignite with the introduction of more branches and pine needles. Pretty much Sunday was a repeat of Saturday with less prep work and an earlier closing time. No surprise that on Monday there was plenty of heat still radiating off of the ottoman sized pile of ash covered coals. The amazing part was that on Thursday the ash pile had shrunk to about the size of a toss pillow but was still warm to the touch. We never did (haven’t yet) burn down the woods as Nenna feared. This annual spring cleaning ritual was our payment to Grampa for letting us all invade and camp and swim for the summer (stay tuned for separate chapter). We burned. We camped. We swam. I don’t think us kids ever saw it all as connected - it was just another fun thing to do. It was all more fun than most kids could ever hope for.

http://maps.yahoo.com/index.php#mvt=h&q1=480%20indian%20head%20st,%20hanson,%20ma,%20us&trf=0&lon=-70.857375&lat=42.054869&mag=3

BLACKOUT !!

2007-02-15T13:49:00.000-05:00

November 9th, 1965 Nenna was at school (she was taking night classes at BSC) and Aunt Maria was babysitting us kids. Late in the afternoon as it was getting dark out, all of the lights in the house went out. Strangely enough, so did all of the neighbors lights. As a family who regularly camped at the island and the pond, candles and hurricane lanterns were never packed away. We kids knew where they were all kept and we could see again in no time. As this was how all big storms were handled, this would have been no big deal – except that there was no storm at all, and Mom and Dad weren’t home, and this was probably more responsibility than Maria had planned for. Dad was at his Ocean Spray night job and not easily contacted under good conditions. Mom was in Bridgewater and no one could guess when she would get home. Next door, Nana (step-great grandmother) and (great-)Grampa Roddy had to be checked on. Who would go? Although news didn’t travel too fast without electricity anywhere so we didn’t hear any speculation as to the cause of this darkness, we were quite scared of UFO activity. Neighbor Henry Howland (later to become my step-father)on the other side of Nana’s house used to tell tales of how he came from Mars, and although we figured (but not totally certain) that he was making it up we (especially Laurie) were thoroughly convinced and wary of UFO’s real existence. I also have a vague but uncertain recollection of Billy Howland being there with a puppy, who (the puppy, not Billy) pooped on the living room rug. [I need Wes or Laurie to confirm or debunk this, please]

So eventually Mom came home, Dad came home – safe and sound. The lights came back the next day. News of a failure at a Niagra Falls Power Plant reached us. As amazed as we were that 1) our electricity came from that far away and 2) that all New England and New York were blacked out, our real surprise (much to Henry’s delight) was a report that UFO’s over Niagra had caused the whole thing. His mother ship simply needed power to get back home.

To this day I can still see Laurie - one random evening - coming home from babysitting at the Mahoney's house, crossing Nana’s back yard, racing from the back of the Nana's house, ducking behind the apple tree and dashing to our back door -- terrified at seeing glowing lights in the sky beyond Halls Farm (despite wearing glasses, she obviously had better eyesight than the rest of us and could see things that nobody else could).

http://blackout.gmu.edu/events/tl1965.html

http://ufologie.net/htm/blackout65.htm

http://www.ufocasebook.com/bestufopictures.html

More “Dark Town”

2007-02-14T11:32:00.000-05:00

There were three ways to win at “Dark Town”.
1 – be “IT” and find everybody without anybody getting to the light switch and turning it on.
2 – be able to get from your hiding spot and sneak back and turn on the light switch without getting caught.
3 – hide where “IT” can’t find you so he/she gives up in frustration.

Now when Wes claims it was dark, he is talking PITCH BLACK, shades pulled, door at the bottom of the stairs closed, can’t see your hand in front of your face dark! Laurie (as always) reigned supreme – hiding in the hamper under the clothes or scaling the hall walls, feet and hands pressing against the opposite walls and back pressed against the ceiling and “IT” walking right under her, completely unaware (I’ll bet she even had the presence of mind to hold her breath when “IT” passed under) of her proximity inches overhead. We learned stealth movement that would have made Indians jealous. One night in a stroke of pure genius, I conceived the boldest and most perfect hiding place. The light switch (gouls – or however you spell it) was just inside the door to Wes’ bedroom, on the right wall which had a long low bookcase cabinet & desktop. “IT” (in this case probably Wes, but I don’t truly remember who) shut off the light and started to count.
[Now it was common knowledge to listen to the scurrying of footsteps away from gouls to gauge how many went in which directions, so my plan was dangerous]
I ever-so-carefully climbed up onto the desktop, feet as far away as physically possible, body twisted and bent while reaching with one arm to get my hand as close to the switch as possible. Wes (or whomever) yells “Here I Come, ready or not” practically in my ear and I, to his complete shock and horror (and when I say horror, think back to his previous writing about how we dealt with fear), immediately flick on the light and yell “GOULS”.

It only worked once, but once was enough.

(“For a moment, wasn’t I a king” == Garth Brooks, The Dance)

Our Favorite Jokes

2007-02-14T10:30:00.000-05:00

At one time, we knew proudly almost every Italian joke known to mankind. Then we expanded on this - we decided each one should be numbered so that in an effort to save time we could simply call out "Number 83!" and every child within earshot would burst out laughing. (OK, we didn't ACTUALLY number the jokes - we simply concieved of this scheme and randomly called out numbers and laughed at them just to confuse other unwitting people).

Otherwise, our favorite jokes (translation = long winded stories that weren't really all that funny) revolved around some poor old woman with a dog named "Bummitches". Some trajedy always befell the poor dog causing the woman to wail "OH my poor Bummitches",

to which the response came

"Why don't you scratch it?".

Terror, the prequel - or - Dark Town (by Wes)

2007-02-14T10:26:00.000-05:00

They lived in a cheerful state of terror. It seemed natural in childhood. When the wolf in Disney’s Lambert the Sheepish Lion appeared, fiendishly lit in a flash of animated lightning, their hearts nearly stopped. Lambert found the courage to save his adopted sheep family from the ravening beast. The Blauss children did not. They cowered on the living room couch, knees high in a prenatal position. Several evenings later when both parents were out at work or on errands, Wes drew that wolf from memory on a page of notebook paper. Laurie and he hid under a bureau in fright. The picture lay on the floor where they dropped it, scant feet away, but they dared not move from their retreat for fear it would attack. When Mom came home, they crawled out and rushed to the safety of her bewildered presence with vast relief. (They were probably in high school at the time.)
So — let’s imagine. They were — are still — awesome at it.

“There was a dark, dark town, and in the dark, dark town, there was a dark, dark street, and on the dark, dark street, there was a dark, dark house, and in the dark, dark house, there was a dark, dark room…”

Night after night Nenna could be persuaded to repeat this litany in a sepulchral monotone, her children hanging on every dark, dark, frozen like birds before the cobra’s gaze, waiting for the awful moment when, after following her through corners and closets and boxes and every other dark, dark enclosure imaginable, she suddenly bursts out, “THERE WAS A GHOST!” Oh, the shrieks and shivers that ensue, followed by pleas of, “Say it again, Mom. Say it again.”
One night, late for work at Ocean Spray Cranberry Company, she is browbeaten into yet another telling of the awful tale. She says, “There was a dark, dark town, and in the dark, dark town THERE WAS A GHOST!” After everyone recovers from the trauma of this premature ejaculation, they respond with indignation. The unfairness of it all! She had cheated. Say it again and say it right. As Gwendolyn remarks in The Importance of Being Ernest, “The suspense is unbearable. I hope it will last.”

And when the nights come early after daylight savings ends, the six Blauss children and various friends and relatives turn out all the lights upstairs and play Dark Town, a hide-and-seek game in which no one can see anyone in the almost pitch black three bedrooms and a bath, and people hide under beds in bath tubs, and in laundry hampers, waiting either to be caught or to scare the shit out of the person “IT.” Heart failure and hilarity. One night Dad comes up and hides in the bathtub. At an opportune moment he reaches out and grabs the unsuspecting Wes in the dark. Wes is terrified of the dark for years thereafter.

(we are mostly high school & middle school ages)

Our Favorite Books

2007-02-13T11:07:00.000-05:00

Reading was always encouraged. Unfortunately, many of our favorite books were imaginary.

"Ten yards to the Outhouse" by Willy Makit (illustrated by Betty Wont)
"Yellow River" by I.P. Freely
"Antlers in the Treetops" by Whogoosed DaMoose

Aunkie's Farm

2007-02-13T10:18:00.000-05:00

The announcement that "we are going to Aunkie's" always brought excitement to the family.

Aunkie [Ruth Annis Stoddard, Grammy’s sister, Nenna’s aunt] and Uncle Fred owned a dairy farm in Bowdoin Maine. It was a long ride in our old station wagon, but we kept it interesting by playing the “candid camera” game. Wes would sit in the back window with an 8mm movie camera. We would wave and make faces and act strange to following or passing cars, then flash a sign that said “Smile, you’re on candid camera” (a popular TV show in the 60’s, maybe the original “reality” show) and watch how people reacted to it. There was of course the Volkswagen game – everyone picked a color and counted how many they spotted along the way, first one to 21 wins. Yellows (very rare) were worth 7 points – all others 1. Last option, the alphabet game – first to spot all letters in order (no sharing letters – find your own, and you had to point out the word on the sign/license plate as proof) wins.

Eventually we would turn into the long driveway that led past the cow barn on the left and up to the house. There was a hay barn where we crawled through the bales and rearranged them to make paths, tunnels, and forts. There was electric wire fencing around the pasture behind the house, cow patties in the field, woods and water behind the pasture. Red Dust the horse roamed the pasture. He was an imposingly large stud from Oklahoma who occasionally would charge little kids who annoyed and provoked him. Aunkie and Fred never had children, but did take in a “ward of the state” who seemed to enjoy having similar aged visitors to show around and get to share some of the daily work load. In the morning I would be sent out with a woven straw basket to gather eggs, finding the ones in the coop and on the ground. The hens weren’t too particular where they layed the eggs, but the rooster was particular as to who was allowed in (and it wasn’t little kids!) so you had to be quick. It was well worth the effort when Aunkie and Mom cooked up a delicious smelling breakfast of eggs & bacon & pancakes. We kids didn’t actually get up before dawn to help with the morning milking (Dad, being an old Peaceful Meadows Farm hand pitched in), but at some point in time we did get a chance to try hand-milking a cow if we were brave enough.

After a number of years and a barn fire, Aunkie and uncle Fred had a brainstorm idea – sell the farm, but keep the land across the street and build a camp ground. We got to get a sneak preview on one visit – bulldozers were bulling (dozing doesn’t sound right) along clearing the area where the man-made pond would be. The engineers knew that there were springs to fill the pond, but badly underestimated how fast. The trees to the south end never did get cleared out in time, as the bulldozers almost didn’t get out in time! Aunkie and Fred downsized to a mobile home, but built a recreation hall, a boat house & snack bar, grassy camp sites, docks and a diving board. Across the pond were three A-framed chalets for rent. Stoddards Campground was in business. This was more exciting than camping at “The Pond”, what with all of the facilities to amuse us. We could canoe around the trees at the end of the pond, fish, dive, climb on the old farming equipment that was scattered around the property, buy candy bars, watch the square dancers at night (Aunkie and Fred were avid square dancers and hosted dances in the rec hall).

One summers day cousin Tommy, Laurie and I went boating across the pond. After exploring around the A-frames we decided to race back to the boat. Laurie and I were 1st and 2nd and started to push off. Tom took a running jump off the dock, but didn’t quite make it (well, one foot made the boat, just not enough to make it into the boat - he made the water just fine). We gleefully rowed away from our swearing crying cousin – who, left in his despair, went into hiding. Hours later when grownups realized he was nowhere to be found, the search party was organized. Eventually he was discovered – back on the right side of the pond, hiding in a hay wagon, still ticked off and Laurie and I.

In the winter we were allowed to try the snowmobiles in the woods across the pond. I wasn’t quite big enough yet to drive one, so I only got to ride on the back with cousin Skip.Later, when Uncle Fred passed away, Aunkie sold the campground to friends (Earl & Barbie) and moved across the pond into a new trailer. Occasionally some of us would visit - but we were older, she was older, the camp wasn’t ours to have the run of. Escalating insurance costs closed the campground, but the memories and the dream to someday own one remain.

http://maps.yahoo.com/index.php#mvt=h&q1=bar-b%20circle,%20Bowdoin,%20Me,%20us&trf=0&lon=-69.939255&lat=44.026859&mag=2&env=F

On the map, the farm house is at the end of Rocky Ridge Lane. The campground was where is now labeled Stoddard Pond Road, Hains Drive and Bar-B circle (on the west shore). Aunkies trailer was in the field across the pond, the A-frames in the woods just south of her trailer (on the east shore)

Ruth Stoddard is now buried on Deer Island.

Dinosaurs at the Island (by Wes)

2007-02-13T08:49:00.000-05:00

When Wes’s short, wiry best friend John White suggests they play Dinosaur Tag along the jungly island path, they agree, but with great reservations. Off he lopes, up the trail ahead of them, to seek a hiding place in the grape vines and sumac. They are to count to a hundred and follow. They count to a hundred and don’t budge. He’s gonna ambush them, they agree, victims of the obvious. That is after all the main idea of the game. Minutes go by. They take a tentative step or two, then retreat to the sanctuary of the mowed clearing. They can’t very well walk right into the reach of the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. Eventually he comes down the path. “What’re you guys doing?” he demands. “Aren’t you coming?”
“We’re too scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Scared of the dinosaur.”
“I’m the dinosaur.”
“I know. But you’ll jump out at us and growl.”
“Well, yeah, that’s what the game’s about, right?”
“We’ll get scared.” (Wes would admit to this. Laurie never confesses to being scared; she is fearless, except in his company, when, by sibling osmosis, he can infect her with his hideous imaginings.)
A long pause follows, while the three of them try to conjure up an alternative. It’s John who finally proposes a solution.
“I’ll be a wounded dinosaur, so I can’t run fast.”
“OK, and you have to make a lot of noise so we know where you are.”
“And you have to lie in the path so we can see you.”
“But what about the hiding?”
“You can’t.”
So John, grateful to be spending part of his summer vacation with friends at the beach, away from tedious Hanson, relents. Back up the trail he lopes. Wes and Laurie count to one hundred and follow. His pathetic growls reach their ears before they even turn the bend. The sight of him, lying on his side in the middle of the path, clutching his belly as Mesozoic moans emerge from his mouth, greets them with ample warning. No semblance of surprise here, yet still the suspense is horrible. A cruel suspicion mocks them. What if he isn’t really wounded? What if he’s only feigning agony? Laurie and Wes approach, oh, so tentatively. He wallows in mock pain. This tiny tyrannosaurus is no match for the two of them, but they leap back anyway to avoid his flailing fingers. Foolhardy Laurie, however, must creep closer. In a moment he’s on his feet. He lunges to tag them. They shriek and flee. John is swift, but panic makes them faster. They race screaming back down to the clearing. He follows. He looks at them, awed by his ability to instill fear.
“All right,” he says, thinking hard. “I’ll be a dead dinosaur.”
“No, no, maybe we’ll go climb grape vines instead and play monkeys.”

Monkeys aren’t as scary as dinosaurs, quick or dead.

(Wes is in grade 7, Laurie 5th, and John 8th at the time. )

My Music (part 2)

2007-02-13T08:29:00.000-05:00

Saturday night sittin' home alone
disconnect the phone, Put those records on.
Up in my room, tryin' to find the chords
learning all the words To all my favorite songs.
I love to hear those voices talk in rhymes.
I know I've played this one a hundred times,
And I know the songs will end too soon,
When I'm listenin' to the music in my room
Up In my bed by the radio
Kept it turned so low listenin' in the dark
Closing my eyes, whispering along
Waiting for the song that always hit the mark
I counted two's and four's instead of sheep
I sailed across the Mersey in my sleep
And I knew the songs would end too soon
When I listened to the music in my room
(Music in my Room by Cheryl Wheeler)

My personal breakout was the summer of 1970 after freshman year of high-school when, following 2nd cousin Dave Gurneys advise, I got hired at Camp Kiwanee as a kitchen hand. We shared a cabin on the south end of camp with the other kitchen crew teens. Dave brought his guitar and amp, so I got to bring the Les Paul. Dave was a year older and a better player than I, and he taught me how to play bar chords along with most of the White Album – and we could play LOUD. Through High School, I would get to jam with Dave and his brother John and friends and started to learn about finger picking. Dave taught me the Beatles “Blackbird”. But it was at home in my bedroom with a record player and all of the accumulated black vinyl discs that I really immersed myself. For literally hours on end I would play records over and over, with guitar in hand, listening and copying and imitating and learning. Having never taken lessons, there was a lot of pure discovery involved. Although scales were widely known by others, I had to stumble across them for myself. I learned to hammer on and pull off and bend strings and slide up frets. I discovered I had a knack for discerning the individual notes and could even tell the hand position on the neck. Accurately copying picking patterns was a challenge I greatly enjoyed – especially when I was successful. I wore out record player needles on CSNY’s 4 Way Street, Manansas double album, Stephan Stills solo albums, James Gang Rides Again, Loggins and Messina Live, Allman Brothers Eat A Peach and Jessica, Traffic’s Low Spark Of High Healed Boys, Marshal Tucker’s Searching For A Rainbow, the Eagles Desporado and of course every Beatles from Meet the Beatles to the White Album.

These are my favorite set of changes
already good for a couple of songs
thought I might play them one more time and over again
If your still listening I hope you remember
the kid with the big white guitar
And all those sad stories to tell
(My Favorite Changes by Stephan Stills)

I enjoyed unusual chord formations and tonal expressions and would try to “invent” chords. I started to try my hand at writing my own songs while I was in high-school. Sometimes I started with words and put music to them, but equally as often I would find a chord change I liked and tried to build a song around it. Despite all of my copying, I was developing my own playing style as well – my own being a blend of Stephan Stills, James Taylor, and the Kinks Dave Davies or Neil Young. My writing style was mostly sad/wistfull lyrics with country/folk-rock flavored music. There was still lots of musical interaction with Laurie, Marly, and Eric and this caused us all to learn the songs that the others were favoring. Eric was into southern rock – Skynyrd, ZZ Top, The Band and most lead guitar dominated songs. Marlene developed a fondness for America, JT, and multilayered acoustic guitars and counterpoint vocals. Laurie seemed to like whatever we already knew but willingly would learn any new song we presented to her. I feel that this was the point in time where I (and probably each of us) came into my own. Learning new music was no longer a joint communal effort but a solo adventure, although we always came back to share what we had learned with the others. Being competitive, we each wanted to show somebody else what we had learned – and we were always willing to learn from the others as if not doing so would cause you to fall behind, so learning, sharing, teaching and being taught was a constant cycle towards improvement and a mechanism for bonding. Whatever differences we might have as siblings, sharing music could (and probably still does) prompt us to put them aside and pull together.

Now deep in the heart of a lonely kid,
suffering so much for what he did
They gave this plowboy his fortune and fame
and since that day he ain’t been the same
See the man with the stage fright
just standing up there took him all his might
But he got caught in the spotlight
and when he gets to the end
he wants to start all over again
(Stage Fright by The Band)

So senior year of high-school 1972/73 I got together with friends Mark & David Tanner and “Touch of Blue” was formed. Mark (a junior) played piano (with sheet music only) and had a Robert Goulette type Broadway Stage voice. David (a sophomore) was a violin player, which by default made him our bass player. Junior Steve Makein (or at times, his younger brother Brian) was the drummer. At various times we were joined by Lisa Tanner singing (Mark’s twin sister), Ray (a junior saxophone player), Maureen and Dianne (guitarists and singers). We played a few dances for Indian Head Jr High School and Sacred Heart High. One Indian Head dance we recruited extra horn players from the high school band and added some Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears songs to the repertoire. Flutist Cheri Grono became my first official girlfriend in the process.

We are riding on a railroad
singing someone else’s songs
Forever standing at the cross roads,
step aside or move along
(Riding on a Railroad by James Taylor)

Summer of 1973 after graduation, I hiked with Laurie from Harrisburg Pa to the Conn/Mass state line via the Appalachian Trail. She had learned and taught me all about packing light, but I still decided to bring along a guitar for the 400 mile trip. Mom’s Yamaha was offered and accepted and, with only a green garbage bag for protection, it rode strapped to my backpack and survived (mostly, technically it did get home in one piece) run-ins with trees and bad weather. It was played almost every night for our 4-week adventure, and was a good conversation starter with other hikers - impressed that anyone would willing carry the extra weight, but grateful for the unusual (for AT hikers) distraction and unexpected entertainment. With writing in log books or reading others entries, or occasionally playing cards, singing was the primary evening entertainment and I had lots of time to improve my finger picking. Mellow more than rock was the favored mood of the trail music, so James Taylor and CSN reigned. It resulted in a significant advancement of my playing style and ability.

Dear Mister Fantasy play us a tune,
Something to make us all happy.
Do anything, take us out of this gloom.
Sing a song, play guitar, make it snappy.
You are the one who can make us all laugh.
Doing this, you break down in tears.
Please don't be sad. If it was a straight life you had,
We wouldn’t have known you all these years
(Dear Mister Fantasy by Traffic)

Breakups and falling outs and moving ons ended the band after a couple of very fun and educational years. Jimmy Willis opened a small music shop in a storefront on the corner of Main & Phillips St. This is where I had my first encounters with the local country music community. Luke Weatherfield was a Berkley grad who taught there (he later founded the Mass Country Music Awards Association), and Arthur Foley (a local version of Chet Atkins) and a young Brockton lad named Deane Sampson (famous for having a wooden leg, tho at the time I didn’t know it) hung out there on Saturday mornings and jammed. Arthur would demonstrate, Deane would imitate, and I would watch in awe. Later I got a call from Steve who was drumming in an old-time country band. The bass player was leaving for a new band and Steve thought I should audition. Although this seemed ludicrous to me – having never attempted to play a bass before and not really knowing much country – I went, I sat in for a set, and got offered the job. So with Chuck Stevens as the band leader, I became an Echo Mountain Boy along with Steve Makein and (coincidently) Deane Sampson. Many times Arthur would appear at our gig and sit in for a set. Chuck could play every song in the world in the key of E, with A & B or a surprise F# the only other chords in his vocabulary. Chuck’s feeling for beats per measure was shaky at best. I theorize that by the end of any song, we had played the correct total number of beats, but you simply couldn’t predict which measure would get too many, too few or the proper amount. Most importantly what I learned was to listen to not so much the song, but the singer and the other musicians. This is where you would find the necessary clues to predetermine what the next chord change might be or if the beat of the song was about to change. If Chuck was short of breath, get ready to jump the chord early – if he had a good breath, hang on a bit longer. Together Steve and I got very adept at this skill. On a song I had never heard before, I could tell by listening to Deane’s (and later Mike Roberts) choice of scale progressions if the chord change was about to lead from the E to an A or to a B. Playing the bass was fun enough but I still preferred to play “Guitar”. Jam sessions filled the void. Playing with Eric and Jimmy Borgazani and Dana Colly and Brian Makein’s band-mates were terrific opportunities for musical experimentation. Jimmy went to Berkley School of Music and was into Steely Dan and chord inversions. Dana got a pickup for his Bari Sax and played Jimi Hendricks and Traffic through my Wah-Wah pedal. Eric was playing lots of lead guitar and quite well. Brians guitarist was unbelievable fast but played only original music and for the life of him couldn’t jam on Sweet Home Alabama. I had learned a lot of techniques by simply watching Deane, Arthur and Mike, and had a pretty good country feel to my playing. Musically, it was a wide range to be home on and I felt that although I wasn’t the most technically proficient player around, I could play any style with anybody well enough to fit in and contribute. In my mind, this meant that although I wasn’t a great guitar player, I was a good musician. I cling to that belief to this day.

God knows that I love my music
Ain't no one gonna change my tune
Don't ya know that I love my music
Ain't never gonna change my tune
(My Music by Loggins and Messina)

My Music (part 1)

2007-02-12T16:09:00.000-05:00

The first thing I remember, I was lying in my bed
I couldn’t’ve been no more than one or two
And I remember there’s a radio, coming from the room next door
My mother laughed the way some ladies’ do
Well it’s late in the evening, and the music’s seeping through
(Late in the Evening by Paul Simon)

As most things in a child’s life, it all starts with Mom & Dad. Dad was a simple hobby guitarist – as was his father before him. Dad knew all sorts of inappropriate lyrics (aka: made up) to all sorts of ditties. Mom played both piano and guitar extremely well – evidently she was a natural who’s childhood piano instructor told Grammy to stop wasting money on lessons because Edna was not reading the music, but was in fact playing much more (aka: better) than was written (I don’t know when or how she picked up the guitar – maybe I should ask her someday). Grandfather Wesley died long before my time so I have no idea how proficient he may have been. Grammy was known as an aspiring artist (after retiring she rented an apartment in Rockland Maine and studied at the Farnsworth museum) but she also tried her hand at music after retiring and took flute lessons for a year. After she passed away I got her flute, learned a few songs, passed it on to my Mary in 4th grade, eventually passed it on to my Nikki who plays it to this day. As early as I can remember, listening to and playing music was a natural part of everyday life. To this day I can clearly remember Mom playing “Sentimental Journey”, “Navajo Trail”, “When the Moon Comes Over The Mountain” and other such selections. Dad played “A Peanut Was Sittin” and “When the Moon Comes Over The Outhouse”.

Saturday night and my Pappy’s up late picking with my uncle Bill
The neighbors don’t mind ‘cause they’re havin a time sippin’ off’a Pappy’s still
Ol’ brother Dan got a fiddle in his hand, Mamma’s on the mandolin
When the music is right and the band gets tight you aughta see them pick and grin
Ol’ sheriff Brown who never comes around knockin on the old front door
As a matter of fact you can find him out back pickin on his old banjo
2nd cousin Jack sneaks up from the back tryin to get to sister Sue
well she throws him on the ground without a’turnin around because she knows a lot of Ju Jitzsu
(Listen to a Country Song by Loggins and Messina)

Our house possessed a piano, an organ, a guitar, a Ukulele, and an accordion. All children (family and friends) were welcome to test out any of the instruments (although you were always reminded “Not too heavy on the piano”). Somewhere around the mid-sixties we acquired an electric Les Paul Junior and an amplifier. While Mom preferred the sweat melodies and harmonies of the classic pop singers of the 40’s & 50’s (think Lennon Sisters or Andy Williams) Dad took a liking to the raw roots sounds of the 50’s and 60’s. 30 Phillips Street was always a place where friends, relatives and neighbors simply dropped in for an unannounced but always welcomed visit. Often sing-alongs would occur. But during the early/mid 60’s the Friday Night Hootananny was a planned event. Dad was the senior member, while Pete, Sonny, and Billy – younger than Dad but older than my older brother Wes – would show up with guitars and record albums in hand, ready to play. Pete was the hotshot who went on to play in local bands – after recovering from a car accident in which he destroyed our amp (he had borrowed it) and nearly killed himself. He was the local 18 year old rebel legend to us much younger ones, and was at least partially responsible for my thinking that playing in a band was feasible. Another was the discovery that Mr.Urann’s grandsons were in a REAL band (The Esquires - I still have the 45 record to prove it, and they were played on the radio for about one month) and rehearsed two houses over. But we were young and had no public place to play – until Wes came through.

Rooster hits the washboard and people just got to smile,
Blinky, thumps the gut bass and solos for a while.
Poorboy twangs the rhythm out on his kalamazoo.
Willy goes into a dance and doubles on kazoo.
(Down on the Corner by Creedence Clearwater Revival)

Wes – although able to strum a guitar and play piano - was artistic and theatrical but also with limited opportunity to express it. So where opportunity didn’t exist, he created it – and so began the Blauss Family Back Yard Carnival. There were games and skits and Mary-Lou Hannigan brought her horse and gave rides, and we got to be a band and play for a paid (25 cents admission) audience. So middle-schoolers Laurie on acoustic, cousin Tom on drum (singular, not plural) and I on the Les Paul Jr – which was a problem standing on damp ground with an electric guitar (a sheet of plywood solved that problem) – played our three Beatles songs to polite applause. This happened for 2 or 3 summers, and Marlene and Eric probably got their chance in the spotlight along the way.

I live in a silver mine and I call it beggar’s tomb;
I got me a violin and I beg you call the tune,
Anybody’s choice, I can hear your voice.
Wo, oh, what I want to know, how does the song go?
(Uncle John’s Band by the Grateful Dead)

Eric (and maybe David after him) briefly played trumpet at school, I started to learn some lead guitar, Marlene learned bass guitar – then Eric (who had already displayed fondness for being non-mainstream and a talent for imitating famous lead guitar riffs and tones) discovered Bluegrass and banjo and mandolin, showing an ability to quickly learn whatever instrument was put in his hands. At one birthday party, Wes decided to impress us by playing “Happy Birthday” on the violin (he had been taking lessons for a year). After scratching his way through, Eric (unimpressed) chided Wes for having wasted his money. Wes (the eldest sibling), not appreciating getting razzed by Eric (the 5th sibling down in the pecking order) made the challenge “I suppose you could do better?” Eric took the violin in his hands for the first time, went upstairs, and five minutes later came down and played “Happy Birthday” – not perfectly, but well enough to discourage Wes and amuse the rest of us no-end. Music was a family affair - but with me, the predominant nucleus was Laurie, Marlene, and cousin Tommy Tobin. With this many performers, variety and balance had to be reached so harmony parts and multiple guitar pieces had to be discerned, dissected, imitated and assigned. Mom being a harmony perfectionist must have helped us out here and although I don’t specifically recall her coaching us, she often times would sing along with songs we learned. She could pick them up quickly, and could invent harmonies where they didn’t actually exist on the recordings. We learned from listening to records – 78’s, 45’s, LP’s. Birthday money was often spent on obtaining a favorite hit song on a 45rpm record (one song per side and only $1 or so). As we got older and had babysitting money to burn, we bought entire albums. Beatles, Monkees, Paul Revere and the Raiders, and WRKO AM dominated our 60’s listening. James Taylor, Crosby-Stills-Nash-Young, America, Simon & Garfunkle, ZZ Top, Dan Fogelberg, and WBCN FM took us through the 70’s. To this day, these comprise the bulk of our combined repertoires, and to this day members of the Blauss/Tobin clan can sit down, recall and play these songs at will – subconsciously and instinctively knowing who will take which part as it goes along.

There are places I remember all my life 'though some have changed
some forever, not for better. Some are gone and some remain
(In My Life by The Beatles)

The Island

2007-02-12T15:30:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time Erastus Everson owned a large tract along the north shore of the Green Harbor River in Marshfield. Legend has it (and as you will discover, there are many family legends) that this was awarded to him for his Civil War efforts. Supposedly, land grants were a common way to reward deserving soldiers. So this tract also included a 2 acre island in the river, which got passed down through the generations – eventually to my mother. For a large, young family with no money – this chunk of sumac, poison ivy and bramble covered, mosquito, tick and sand-flea infested, mud surrounded sand flat was a God-send. This was our family summer retreat – complete with a two room/one porch cottage and an outhouse (that’s it – no bridge, no fresh water, no toilet, no electricity) and all of the adventure that the older, braver siblings and Dad could invent.

The ride from Hanson was about 1/2 hour. Packing to go, especially the first time of the year, was a feat in itself trying to squeeze supplies into the station wagon. Once they even forgot to squeeze ME in – although a mile up Rt 27 when my mother took the head count and came up one short, they turned around and got me. Getting from land to the Island was its own adventure. First the boat would come off of the roof racks and slide down the tops of the sumac and ragosa rose bushes on the side of the dike. Dad would put two kids and the lawn mower, gas can, and whatever else would fit and start rowing. The rest of the family would start dragging all the other supplies down to waters edge. The first passage would unload and send the boat back with one of us kids taking over the designated rower duties. Dad would take the plywood off the windows and the other child would start mowing – new sumac and briar sprouts were always attempting to reclaim the lawn area. Out of two acres, there was maybe a 30ft x 30ft lawn in front of the 20ft x 20ft cottage (not counting the 4ft x 20ft screened front porch). Especially on the year’s first trip (but somewhat on each) we would pray that the local hoodlums hadn’t inflicted too much damage between visits. After a couple more crossings, Mom with one or two youngsters would circle the car around to park it at the power line transfer station off Allan Street, fill up jugs of drinking water at the Halperns house (I have no idea how we knew these people?) and walk down the muddy path which led to the Dexter’s hunting shanty and rivers edge beyond the back end of the island. After a little gossip with the Dexter’s (Mom) and playing in the Duck Blind (us kids), the boat would arrive and off we would go - eagerly hoping that all of those who got to go first, had at least finished unpacking everything so we could get right into playing.

Chores consisted of mowing, chopping down sumacs, making dead sumac piles off the back side of the island (which looked like enormous beaver dens and were tricky but fun to walk out on top of and bounce on – today’s moonwalks are for wimps), clearing longer and wider paths to each end of the island, digging new outhouse holes, picking blackberries, catching fish for chowder, etc…

Outdoor games included boat races around the island, river whiffleball (the dock was home plate, the bases were boats and rafts and you had to swim around the bases), Dinosaur (where the bravest of brave would hide somewhere down the back path, in the thicket and be a dinosaur, and the considerably less brave would timidly try to find him – once Wes’ friend had to volunteer to be a WOUNDED Dinosaur), and our favorite (thank you dad who invented and/or taught us all of the greatest games) HEADHUNTER! Bearing a striking resemblance to hide-&-seek or kick-the-can, a headhunter (or two) would count to 30 and then try to capture all the other natives. They would get put into his giant cooking pot (the hammock) until they were ready to eat (or were freed by another native who could sneak in and set them loose). This was played in full regalia – no shoes, no shirts (girls over ten were allowed tops), spears that looked suspiciously like brooms or rakes, and yelling (always an abundance of yelling – there was not a single other dwelling in site).

Evening games consisted mostly of Hearts (I can still remember Laurie’s tantrum after we all ganged up on her and caused her first ever loss at Hearts), Bug-Your-Neighbor (a double-deck card game that later evolved into Uno) and board games. Lighting was by hurricane lamps, there was a gas cook stove (we would tow a large propane tank across the river – I could never figure out why that big metal cylinder would float), and a bear keg full of water for washing dishes. The outhouse was a two-holer, complete with a star & moon carved into the upper Dutch door, 10 yards down a side path (you always tried to make sure your last trip was before dark). Sing-alongs were nightly events and we were often visited by relatives and family friends. There was a special car-horn code to be beeped from atop the dyke when somebody came to visit. There would be a mad scramble to see who would get to the boat first (provided they were strong enough and reliable enough rowers) and have the honor of rowing across to pick up Grammy or the Tobins or Doyles or Howlands. On weekend nights, we would sit on the roof to better hear the bands that played at “The Webster House” restaurant. With us, everything could turn into a competition – swimming, rowing, mowing, Hearts, tag, sumac pile jumping, or who could get the furthest through the briar bushes to a place that no human had ever tread before (despite the fact that at one time the place had been thoroughly cleared for sheep grazing).

Early on when the Dike opening allowed the tide in, we would see who could row the furthest into the current, or who could jump in from the highest on the dike (only feasible at high tide), who could catch the most sea worms, eels, horseshoe crabs, flounder, who could shine an apple the brightest, who could cut the longest unbroken apple peel strand (jack-knives were once a common possession for a young child) or who could peel the largest unbroken patch of skin off of dad’s blistered sunburned back. Day trips varied from rowing far upstream, going swimming at Brant Rock Beach (thinking back, this probably also doubled as bath-time), buying fudge and salt water taffy at Estes’ Candy kitchen, or my favorite – on Sunday morning going with Dad to the donut shop in Ocean Bluff.

Sleeping quarters were three bunk beds in the back room for the kids, a daybed/couch in the front room/kitchen for parents, and two cots on the porch for visitors. I loved it when I got to sleep on the porch – more precisely, waking up there in the morning sunshine, cool ocean breeze, chirping birds, and the distant occasional hum of cars on the dyke road. Then dad built the Bunk House – an 8ft wide x 12ft deep x 4ft tall screen house with sleeping bags – down the back path, almost out of site from the cottage. With overhanging fruitless grape vines, bushes and sumac branches scraping at the roof this was not a place for the faint of heart to sleep (especially if it was windy or rainy) – but filled with siblings and cousins, even sleeping was an adventure! ===================================

The installation of tide gates in the dike pretty much ruined the river. The cottage long ago was burned down by vandals, but used to be right in the center of the island (the front was towards the dyke, the back was towards the power lines/upstream).
Maybe someday soon, the river will be restored to some of its former glory, which might just make it a destination for future descendants to enjoy.

This is my sister Laurie’s recent work towards reclaiming the river as a tidal basin / estuary habitat / salt marsh. Of particular interest are the affidavits near the bottom of the page, where various family members recall some island memories back to the 1940’s.

http://web.whrsd.org/faculty/bianchi_laurie/River%20Project/2004Research/2004Investigation.htm

here is a cool rotating 360 degree view from on top of the dike. It's hard to tell there is an island in the river from this, but even many current locals are unaware of it as well
http://www.marshfield.net/cgi-bin/pano1.pl?image=pano-gh139.jpg

Skating at Urann's Pond

2007-02-07T15:10:00.000-05:00

When we were very little we would put our skates on in the kitchen, walk out the back door, cross the yard and the parking lot and up over the dike to “Urann’s pond” (later we learned to tie our own laces and that walking on tar wasn't good for the blades). On land owned by Ocean Spray founder/president Marcus Urann, it was a man-made dammed square of water with two drainage rivers flowing into it. The outlet actually went underground, under the parking lot, under the Ocean Spray building and into the Cedar Swamp. There were two islands – one a 15 foot diameter mini-mountain, one about 50 feet round and flat and wooded with paths on it.Occasionally the Park Street/Foster Ave bullies would commandeer the main pond, so we would stick to the river section. The river was a 6 foot wide by 100 foot long drainage trench connecting the swampy wetland woods to the pond. Connected to that were patches of standing water with trees and brush pushing through. It was a great and tricky place to play tag on ice – with snapping branches and exposed roots to take you down, but it was better agility/reflex training than any drill ever devised by any hockey coach. Although I didn’t play any organized hockey until I was seventeen, I made the “A” team because I could skate as strongly as anyone. The try-out drills didn’t expose the fact that I had a lot to learn about real hockey. I never was a scorer, but with my wingspan and having learned some good pond hockey tricks (boy could I poke check while skating backwards) a defenseman I was.Often the littlest kids were assigned to “Uncle Mac’s Pond”. According to legend passed down to us by my father, this large puddle of discolored water and dead vegetation was created when Uncle Mac had to pee really bad one day long ago. At approximately 10 feet wide, 20 feet long, 4 inches deep (he must have had a HUGE bladder) and just three steps from the river (separated by a sort of earthen berm) it was a nicely contained and safe place for the double-runner crowd.We learned how to tell if the ice was safe enough to skate on - not that thin ice would necessarily stop us. Mom had made the mistake of passing down her own childhood story of “tiddling the ice” – the art of skating across ice so thin that waves would form under it while you skated. The ice surface would rise and fall as you moved across, rippling ahead and behind, but going too slow meant too much weight concentrated on ice that couldn't actually support it (and a predictable result would follow). The shallow river by the small island froze first, so you could get a head start and cross the short distance to the small island on ice only 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick (totally NOT “safe” ice). Getting back was tricky, but only knee deep to a 6 foot tall teenager (trust me – knee deep). Braver souls (mostly sister Laurie and cousin Billy) could bypass the small island and get to the big island so long as they moved fast enough. From that island, they could cross the bridge and walk back around the pond on dry land. One day, with blades freshly sharpened, Laurie and I got unusually courageous, bypassed the little island and instead of angling towards the big island, headed straight for the far shore. Every push-off of each skate blade cut little slices into the ice, leaving puddles all the way across. The wake caused under the ice made little water spouts to shoot out, and started to break up the ice along the edges. Because slowing down was not an option, it was full speed ahead and dive head first onto the shore – not graceful, but totally exhilarating!Skating during the day was fun and this is where we learned how to play pond hockey, but the real fun was when we would have a night-time “Skating Party”. My parents would have us gather up branches from the woods, and they would bring the newspaper and matches. The big island had a large boulder that jutted into the water (or ice in this case) and the fire would be built on the ice in front of the rock. The melt-water puddle that formed around the fire would prevent it from accidentally spreading, and the fire was always large enough so you didn’t have to stand too close to get warm. Old cranberry crates made good chairs - and later we discovered good firewood (the warehouse beside the pond was stacked to the ceiling with empty crates, and a broken window was an open invitation to borrow the boxes). Mom would bring hot chocolate and snacks, Dad taught us “Crack-the-Whip”, and we would skate long after dark. The moon and the fire gave enough light to skate easily around the main pond, but skating around the islands (especially the big island) took a little more bravery. As we got older, we would organize the skating parties ourselves. Cousins and neighbors and school friends would be called, and responsibilities would be assigned (snacks, drinks, firewood, etc...). Occasionally the skating consisted solely of crossing the ice to sit beside the bonfire for hours, and to occasionally disappear into the shadows when nature called (so much better to be a guy in 20 degree weather and snow suits). On the rare occasion when everybody bailed out early or just didn’t show up, I liked to skate alone under the stars. Being one of eight siblings, I enjoyed the sense of independence and solitude.We grew up as our own little pack of brothers & sisters & cousins, having the run of the neighborhood, inventing grand adventures - often unsupervised but never more than 1/4 mile from the house, known by name by nearly every grownup in Hanson, and never once feeling unsafe. Along the way I intend on telling many more “When I was a boy living at Nenna’s house” stories. I love passing along these stories, and I occasionally long for the good old days, and I would never let my own kids be so wild and free – although I often wish they could be. I know it’s because times have changed and the world is a more dangerous place, but sometimes I fear that the real truth is simply that I got old. Hopefully my stories won’t.http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=30+phillips+st,+Hanson,+Ma&ie=UTF8&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;z=19&ll=42.043801,-70.87902&spn=0.000954,0.002666&t=k&om=1