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

Ladies & Gentlemen, step right up and prepare to be amazed…

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

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

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

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

[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. ]
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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

* 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

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.

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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…”

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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

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the end.

No more monkeys jumping on the bed

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

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

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

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....

.... 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

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

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.