Memorial Day Boat Races

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

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

Back Yard Mechanics

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

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

Let It Snow

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

Early driving lesson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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!!!

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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
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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

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

(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

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

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

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

Christmas in Boston

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

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

Trick or Treat

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

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

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

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

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

TRICK OR TREAT