***Busted Visions Of Wollaston Beach- For Diana N., Class Of 1964

Click on the title to link to a Wikipedia entry for Wollaston Beach, including a picture for those who have moved away from the area. Damn, thanks Internet technology on this one.

Originally posted July 2008. Revised and updated March 2010.

Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:

Okay, okay in an earlier entry ( "Daydream Visions Of Wollaston Beach")in this space this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at Wollaston Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end. And, further, I did not fail to mention the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. That, my friends, is shorthand for "parking" and "submarine races" this we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around. But today I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that posting. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Wollaston in the clear bright light of day, warts and all.

Last year (2007) as part of the trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about in this space I walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Wollaston Beach from the Squantum Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts")to the bridge at Adams Shore (and the entrance to dreaded Quincy High territory). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Wollaston Beach in my youth.

Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Wollaston and Squantum Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" in much the same condition and with that same rutted parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get in at what age, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean. What I noticed were things like the odd smell of low tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic. Things, frankly, that I was oblivious to back in the days.

There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Wollaston as describe in "Visions" and the Wollaston of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.

.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.