Click on the headline to link to a May Day website that links to the various May Day traditions in history.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
For those of a certain age, who came of age during the Cold War, the images of May Day evokes pictures of the latest display of Soviet weaponry and of elite military units marching in step in Red Square in Moscow before some glowering delegation from the Communist Party Politburo. Such pictures gave the usually information-starved and speculation-crazy Western Sovietologists plenty of ammunition for figuring out who was “in” and who was “out” in the internal party regime. At least until the next public display on the November 7th anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution when the search for the elusive “musical chairs” would start all over again. For others, more historically- oriented, perhaps, May Day evokes the struggle for the eight hour work day and the Chicago Haymarket martyrs. Those with a more recent interest may evoke the continuing struggle for the recognition of immigrant rights. Now all of these are worthy, if highly political, views of May Day and I certainly have no quarrel with those evocations. However, just for the few minutes that it takes to write this entry I wish to evoke another, more ancient, more pagan, vision of May Day that, strangely, may dovetail with the motives behind those more political expressions put forth on this day.
I, of course, refer to the ancient roots of the holiday or rather the pre-Christian religious significance of the day as a day of renewal and of homage to the virtues of spring. Especially for those whose heritage stems from the British Isles. Under normal circumstances I would not necessarily be in a mood to reflect on this aspect of the day but a couple of things have set me to thinking about it. The first, as a result of having recently read a number of 19th century American writer Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Puritan-etched short stories, including “The May Pole Of Merry Mount” got me thinking about that May Day pagan scenario and also about how deeply, even now, the formal Puritan ethic that frowned on such celebrations is embedded in our common cultural experiences. The second had to do with childhood reflections of our kid's version of May basket, May Day.
As to the first, whatever the “official” line is on the Puritan history here in America and in England as laid down by the likes of Professors Perry Miller and Hugh Trevor-Roper, to name a couple that come mind, I am privy to a “secret” history of the doings of the old Puritan stock. While Hawthorne’s Puritans, as he sternly portrayed them, are no friends to the fun-loving that is rather more his hang up and his way to make a quick dollar on that saga from punishment fetishists. The real “skinny” on the Puritans here and back in the old country is that they were not adverse to a little “good times”, just not in excess.
How is one to otherwise make sense of that little ménage of Pricilla and John Alden and Myles Standish? Or the real story about Tommy Wollaston’s wood fetish? Or Governor’ Winthrop’s private dope stash that he tried to pass off as tobacco (and which in any case he did not inhale). And to complete the story on the other side of the ocean, how about arch-Puritan poet and revolutionary John Milton’s open endorsement of concubinage, including, and I “reveal” this here for the first time, his own bevy of "ladies". “A Paradise within Thee, Happier Far”, indeed. For a long time the poem "Paradise Lost" was a book with seven seals. Now it all fits. And I should not fail to mention the other well-known arch-Puritan Oliver Cromwell whose well-hidden drinking problem ( he called his "tea", wink-wink) goes a long way to explaining those rash outbursts when Parliament was in session. Rump, indeed.
Okay, I am sure that the reader has had enough of my 'insight' into the rough stuff of the seamy edges of history. I will reprieve you with a final few thoughts about my own childhood relationship to this other May Day. Of course, I am something of a “homer” on this one, at least on the pre and post-Puritan English traditions since I grew up frequently passing the site of the Merry Mount May Pole (now on land used as a cemetery) at Mount Wollaston, which is a part of Quincy the town where I grew up. I knew this story as part of the Quincy town history from very early on. I am not sure whether it was through a teacher or by the local city historian, Edward Rowe Snow, but I knew all about old Tommy Wollaston and his crowd of "wild boys and girls". Sounded like fun, and it was.
On kid time May Day , as I recall, we were given little May crepe paper-lined baskets with a chocolate treat in it from one or another source, and in at least one year we danced around the Puritan-forbidden May Pole. I guess, even then, I had a secret desire that old Tommy should have won. Call me a pagan but that is the truth. But also note this, to kind of put this little “fluff” piece in perspective. Isn’t, in the final analysis, either the old pagan ritual or the newer May Pole festivity emblematic of the kind of thing that those of us who are trying to create “a newer world” aiming for. To make the world and its pleasures a common thing, for everyone. I think that I am on to something here. May Day greetings from this space.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
***The “Shame” Culture Of Poverty- Down In The Base Of Society Life Ain’t Pretty
Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for the late Irish-American writer and my muse on this post, Frank McCourt.
Commentary
Recently in reviewing Frank McCourt’s memoir of his childhood in Ireland, “Angela’s Ashes”, I noted that McCourt’s story was my story. I went on to explain that although time, geography, family composition and other factors were different the story he tells of the impoverished circumstances of his growing up “shanty” in Limerick, Ireland, taking all proportions into consideration, was amazingly similar to those I faced growing up “shanty” in a Boston, Massachusetts suburb a generation later. The commonality? I would argue that down at the base of modern industrial society, down at that place where the working poor meets what Karl Marx called the lumpen proletariat the sheer fact of scarcity drives life very close to the bone. Poverty hurts, and hurts in more ways than are apparent to the eye. No Dorothea Lange photograph can find that place.
I also mentioned in that McCourt review that the dreams that came out of his Limerick childhood neighborhood, such as they were, were small dreams. I immediately picked up on his references to what constituted “respectability” in that milieu- getting off the “dole” and getting a low-level governmental civil service job that after thirty some years would turn into a state pension in order to comfort oneself and one’s love ones in old age. That, my friends, is a small dream by anybody’s standard but I am sure that any reader who grew up in a working poor home in America in the last couple of generations knows from where I speak. I can hear my mother’s voice urging me on to such a course as I have just described. Escaping that fate was a near thing though. The crushing out of big dreams for the working poor may not be the final indictment of the capitalist system down at the base but it certainly will do for starters.
In the recent past one of the unintended consequences of trying to recount my roots through contacting members of my high school class has been the release of a flood of memories from those bleak days of childhood that I had placed (or thought I had) way, way on the back burner of my brain. A couple of year ago I did a series of stories, “Tales From The ‘Hood'”, on some of those earlier recalled incidents. Frank McCourt’s recounting of some of the incidents of his bedraggled upbringing brought other incidents back to me. In “Angela’s Ashes” he mentioned how he had to wear the same shirt through thick and thin. As nightwear, school wear, every wear. I remember my own scanty wardrobe and recounted in one of those stories in the series, “A Coming Of Age Story”, about ripping up the bottoms of a pair of precious pants for a square dance demonstration in order to ‘impress’ a girl that I was smitten with in elementary school. I caught holy hell for that (and missed my big chance with the youthful “femme fatale” as well-oh memory).
I have related elsewhere in discussing my high school experiences in that series, that I did a couple of years ago at the request of one of my high school classmates, that one of the hardships of high school was (and is) the need , recognized or not, to be “in”. One of the ways to be “in”, at least for a guy in my post-World War II generation, the “Generation of ‘68”, and the first generation to have some disposable income in hand was to have cool clothes, a cool car, and a cool girlfriend. “Cool”, you get it, right? Therefore the way to be the dreaded “out” is….well, you know that answer. One way not to be cool is to wear hand-me-downs from an older brother. Or to wear oddly colored or designed clothes. This is where not having enough of life’s goods hurts. Being doled out a couple of new sets of duds a year was not enough to break my social isolation from the “cool guys”. I remember the routine-new clothes for the start of the school year and then at Easter. Cheap stuff too, from some Wal-Mart-type store of the day.
All of this may be silly, in fact is silly in the great scale of things. But those drummed-in small dreams, that non-existent access to those always scarce “cool” items, those missed opportunities by not being ‘right’ added up. All of this created a ‘world’ where crime, petty and large, seemed respectable as an alternative (a course that my own brothers followed), where the closeness of neighbors is suffocating and where the vaunted “neighborhood community” is more like something out of “the night of the long knives”. If, as Thomas Hobbes postulated in his political works, especially "Levithan", in the 17th century, life is “nasty, short and brutish” then those factors are magnified many times over down at the base.
Contrary to Hobbes, however, the way forward is through more social solidarity, not more guards at the doors of the rich. All of this by way of saying in the 21st century we need more social solidarity not less more than ever. As I stated once in a commentary titled, “Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?” (See archives March 2009), one of the only virtues of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks among the working poor is that I am personally inured to the vicissitudes of the gyrations of the world capitalist economy. Hard times growing up were the only times. But many of my brothers and sisters are not so inured. For them I fight for the social solidarity of the future. In that future we may not be able to eliminate shame as an emotion but we can put a very big dent in the class-driven aspect of it.
Commentary
Recently in reviewing Frank McCourt’s memoir of his childhood in Ireland, “Angela’s Ashes”, I noted that McCourt’s story was my story. I went on to explain that although time, geography, family composition and other factors were different the story he tells of the impoverished circumstances of his growing up “shanty” in Limerick, Ireland, taking all proportions into consideration, was amazingly similar to those I faced growing up “shanty” in a Boston, Massachusetts suburb a generation later. The commonality? I would argue that down at the base of modern industrial society, down at that place where the working poor meets what Karl Marx called the lumpen proletariat the sheer fact of scarcity drives life very close to the bone. Poverty hurts, and hurts in more ways than are apparent to the eye. No Dorothea Lange photograph can find that place.
I also mentioned in that McCourt review that the dreams that came out of his Limerick childhood neighborhood, such as they were, were small dreams. I immediately picked up on his references to what constituted “respectability” in that milieu- getting off the “dole” and getting a low-level governmental civil service job that after thirty some years would turn into a state pension in order to comfort oneself and one’s love ones in old age. That, my friends, is a small dream by anybody’s standard but I am sure that any reader who grew up in a working poor home in America in the last couple of generations knows from where I speak. I can hear my mother’s voice urging me on to such a course as I have just described. Escaping that fate was a near thing though. The crushing out of big dreams for the working poor may not be the final indictment of the capitalist system down at the base but it certainly will do for starters.
In the recent past one of the unintended consequences of trying to recount my roots through contacting members of my high school class has been the release of a flood of memories from those bleak days of childhood that I had placed (or thought I had) way, way on the back burner of my brain. A couple of year ago I did a series of stories, “Tales From The ‘Hood'”, on some of those earlier recalled incidents. Frank McCourt’s recounting of some of the incidents of his bedraggled upbringing brought other incidents back to me. In “Angela’s Ashes” he mentioned how he had to wear the same shirt through thick and thin. As nightwear, school wear, every wear. I remember my own scanty wardrobe and recounted in one of those stories in the series, “A Coming Of Age Story”, about ripping up the bottoms of a pair of precious pants for a square dance demonstration in order to ‘impress’ a girl that I was smitten with in elementary school. I caught holy hell for that (and missed my big chance with the youthful “femme fatale” as well-oh memory).
I have related elsewhere in discussing my high school experiences in that series, that I did a couple of years ago at the request of one of my high school classmates, that one of the hardships of high school was (and is) the need , recognized or not, to be “in”. One of the ways to be “in”, at least for a guy in my post-World War II generation, the “Generation of ‘68”, and the first generation to have some disposable income in hand was to have cool clothes, a cool car, and a cool girlfriend. “Cool”, you get it, right? Therefore the way to be the dreaded “out” is….well, you know that answer. One way not to be cool is to wear hand-me-downs from an older brother. Or to wear oddly colored or designed clothes. This is where not having enough of life’s goods hurts. Being doled out a couple of new sets of duds a year was not enough to break my social isolation from the “cool guys”. I remember the routine-new clothes for the start of the school year and then at Easter. Cheap stuff too, from some Wal-Mart-type store of the day.
All of this may be silly, in fact is silly in the great scale of things. But those drummed-in small dreams, that non-existent access to those always scarce “cool” items, those missed opportunities by not being ‘right’ added up. All of this created a ‘world’ where crime, petty and large, seemed respectable as an alternative (a course that my own brothers followed), where the closeness of neighbors is suffocating and where the vaunted “neighborhood community” is more like something out of “the night of the long knives”. If, as Thomas Hobbes postulated in his political works, especially "Levithan", in the 17th century, life is “nasty, short and brutish” then those factors are magnified many times over down at the base.
Contrary to Hobbes, however, the way forward is through more social solidarity, not more guards at the doors of the rich. All of this by way of saying in the 21st century we need more social solidarity not less more than ever. As I stated once in a commentary titled, “Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?” (See archives March 2009), one of the only virtues of growing up on the wrong side of the tracks among the working poor is that I am personally inured to the vicissitudes of the gyrations of the world capitalist economy. Hard times growing up were the only times. But many of my brothers and sisters are not so inured. For them I fight for the social solidarity of the future. In that future we may not be able to eliminate shame as an emotion but we can put a very big dent in the class-driven aspect of it.
***A Bit Of The Odd Manner- Irish Style- The Childhood Saga of Frank McCourt- In Honor Of Easter 1916
Click On Title To Link To An NPR Story On The Passing Of Author Frank McCourt On July 20, 2009
Book Review
Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir Of Childhood, Frank McCourt, Flamingo, London, 1997
Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes is probably the easiest review that I have had to write since I have been doing such reviews in this space. Why? Frank McCourt’s book of childhood memoirs is my story. No, not in the details of his life’s story, or mine. But rather in how being Irish, being poor, and being uprooted affects your childhood, and later times as well. And those traumas, for good or evil, cross generational lines. McCourt, we are told as his story unfolds, was born in America of immigrants of the diaspora after Irish independence who, for one reason or another, returned to the old country in defeat in the 1930’s. As McCourt notes right at the beginning, that fact in itself provides a rather ironic twist if one is familiar with Irish history (at least until very recently). He is, in any case, thus a child of the Great Depression and World War II, the generation of my parents, as it was refracted through Ireland during that period. I, on the other hand, am a child of the 1960’s, the “Generation of ‘68” here in America born of the dreaded Irish Catholic-English Protestant combination- and raised in an Irish Catholic enclave. Nevertheless the pages of this memoir are filled to the brim with the results of the emotional (and sometimes physical scars) of being “shanty” Irish in this world that hit home, and hit home hard, to this reader.
That said, we do not share the terrible effect that “the drink” had on creating his dysfunctional family with his father’s, Malachy McCourt, crazed need for the alcohol cure to drown his sorrows and his bitterness and the fact that his great moment in life was his bit for “the cause” (of Irish independence). A familiar story in the Irish community here and in the old country but my father seldom drank, although he too was constantly out of work and shared with Frank’s father that same bitterness about his fate. He was uneducated, lacking in skills and prospects and as a “hillbilly” Protestant Southerner from coal country down in Kentucky was thus, an ‘outsider’ in the Boston milieu like Frank’s father had been in Limerick. That is the commonality that caught my eye (and sometimes my throat) as I read of Frank’s youthful trials, tribulations and adventures. McCourt’s ability to tap into that “mystical” something is what makes this a fine read, whether you are Irish or not.
Throughout the book McCourt’s woe-begotten but fatally prideful father is constantly referred to in the Irishtown working class poor ghetto of Limerick (and elsewhere, as well, but the heart of the story is told from there) as having an "odd manner". This reflects a certain clannishness against those from the North of Ireland (Dare I say it, the area then known as Ulster) and a sneaking suspicion amount that crowd of some alien (meaning English Protestant) heritage. As the book progresses that odd trait is transferred (by heredity?) to Frank in his various wanderings, enterprise and desires. What joins us together then is that "odd manner" that gets repeatedly invoked throughout the book. Frank survived to tell the tale. As did I. But in both cases it appears to have been a near thing.
There is more that unites us. The shame culture, not an exclusive Irish Catholic property but very strong nevertheless, drilled in by the clannishness, the closeness of neighbors, the Catholic religion and by the bloody outsiders- usually but not always Protestants of some sort (as least for blame purposes- you know, the eight hundred years of British tyranny, although very real to be sure). All driven by not having nearly enough of this world’s goods. Every time I read a passage about the lack of food, the quality of the food, the conditions of the various tenements that the McCourt family lived in, the lack of adequate and clean clothing I cringed at the thoughts from my own childhood. Or the various times when the family was seriously down and out and his mother, the beloved Angela of the title, had to beg charity of one form or another from some institution that existed mainly to berate the poor. I can remember own my mother’s plaintive cry when my brothers and I misbehaved that the next step was the county poor farm.
And how about the false pride and skewed order of priorities? Frank’s father was a flat out drunk and was totally irresponsible. From a child's perspective, however, he is still your dad and must be given the respect accordingly, especially against the viciousness of the outside world. But life’s disappointments for the father also get reflected in the expectations for the son. The dreams are smaller. Here, the horizons are pretty small when a governmental job with its security just above the “dole” is the touchstone of respectability. Sean O’Casey was able to make enduring plays from the slums of Dublin out of this material. And Frank McCourt enduring literature. Thanks, brother.
Note: The movie version of “Angela’s Ashes” pretty fairly reflects the intentions of Frank McCourt in his childhood memoirs and follows the book accordingly, without the usual dramatic embellishments of that medium. The story line is so strong it needs no such “touch-ups”. Particularly compelling is the very visual sense of utter poverty down at the base of Irish society in Frank McCourt’s childhood.
The two songs below are constantly being sung by Frank McCourt's father when he is "on the drink" to give a little musical flavor to this entry.
"Roddy McCorly"
O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There's ne'er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today; ray
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
"Kevin Barry"
In MOUNT JOY jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the 'cause of liberty
Just a lad of eighteen summers
Yet no true man can deny
As he walked to death that morning
He proudly held his head up high
Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
The British laws may crush the Irish
But cannot keep their spirits down
Just before he faced the hangman
In his dreary prison cell
The British soldiers tortured Barry
Just because he would not tell
The name of all his brave companions
And other things they wished to know
Turn informer or we'll kill you
Kevin Barry answered no
Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
Whose cruel laws may crush the Irish
But CANNOT KEEP their spirits down
Book Review
Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir Of Childhood, Frank McCourt, Flamingo, London, 1997
Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes is probably the easiest review that I have had to write since I have been doing such reviews in this space. Why? Frank McCourt’s book of childhood memoirs is my story. No, not in the details of his life’s story, or mine. But rather in how being Irish, being poor, and being uprooted affects your childhood, and later times as well. And those traumas, for good or evil, cross generational lines. McCourt, we are told as his story unfolds, was born in America of immigrants of the diaspora after Irish independence who, for one reason or another, returned to the old country in defeat in the 1930’s. As McCourt notes right at the beginning, that fact in itself provides a rather ironic twist if one is familiar with Irish history (at least until very recently). He is, in any case, thus a child of the Great Depression and World War II, the generation of my parents, as it was refracted through Ireland during that period. I, on the other hand, am a child of the 1960’s, the “Generation of ‘68” here in America born of the dreaded Irish Catholic-English Protestant combination- and raised in an Irish Catholic enclave. Nevertheless the pages of this memoir are filled to the brim with the results of the emotional (and sometimes physical scars) of being “shanty” Irish in this world that hit home, and hit home hard, to this reader.
That said, we do not share the terrible effect that “the drink” had on creating his dysfunctional family with his father’s, Malachy McCourt, crazed need for the alcohol cure to drown his sorrows and his bitterness and the fact that his great moment in life was his bit for “the cause” (of Irish independence). A familiar story in the Irish community here and in the old country but my father seldom drank, although he too was constantly out of work and shared with Frank’s father that same bitterness about his fate. He was uneducated, lacking in skills and prospects and as a “hillbilly” Protestant Southerner from coal country down in Kentucky was thus, an ‘outsider’ in the Boston milieu like Frank’s father had been in Limerick. That is the commonality that caught my eye (and sometimes my throat) as I read of Frank’s youthful trials, tribulations and adventures. McCourt’s ability to tap into that “mystical” something is what makes this a fine read, whether you are Irish or not.
Throughout the book McCourt’s woe-begotten but fatally prideful father is constantly referred to in the Irishtown working class poor ghetto of Limerick (and elsewhere, as well, but the heart of the story is told from there) as having an "odd manner". This reflects a certain clannishness against those from the North of Ireland (Dare I say it, the area then known as Ulster) and a sneaking suspicion amount that crowd of some alien (meaning English Protestant) heritage. As the book progresses that odd trait is transferred (by heredity?) to Frank in his various wanderings, enterprise and desires. What joins us together then is that "odd manner" that gets repeatedly invoked throughout the book. Frank survived to tell the tale. As did I. But in both cases it appears to have been a near thing.
There is more that unites us. The shame culture, not an exclusive Irish Catholic property but very strong nevertheless, drilled in by the clannishness, the closeness of neighbors, the Catholic religion and by the bloody outsiders- usually but not always Protestants of some sort (as least for blame purposes- you know, the eight hundred years of British tyranny, although very real to be sure). All driven by not having nearly enough of this world’s goods. Every time I read a passage about the lack of food, the quality of the food, the conditions of the various tenements that the McCourt family lived in, the lack of adequate and clean clothing I cringed at the thoughts from my own childhood. Or the various times when the family was seriously down and out and his mother, the beloved Angela of the title, had to beg charity of one form or another from some institution that existed mainly to berate the poor. I can remember own my mother’s plaintive cry when my brothers and I misbehaved that the next step was the county poor farm.
And how about the false pride and skewed order of priorities? Frank’s father was a flat out drunk and was totally irresponsible. From a child's perspective, however, he is still your dad and must be given the respect accordingly, especially against the viciousness of the outside world. But life’s disappointments for the father also get reflected in the expectations for the son. The dreams are smaller. Here, the horizons are pretty small when a governmental job with its security just above the “dole” is the touchstone of respectability. Sean O’Casey was able to make enduring plays from the slums of Dublin out of this material. And Frank McCourt enduring literature. Thanks, brother.
Note: The movie version of “Angela’s Ashes” pretty fairly reflects the intentions of Frank McCourt in his childhood memoirs and follows the book accordingly, without the usual dramatic embellishments of that medium. The story line is so strong it needs no such “touch-ups”. Particularly compelling is the very visual sense of utter poverty down at the base of Irish society in Frank McCourt’s childhood.
The two songs below are constantly being sung by Frank McCourt's father when he is "on the drink" to give a little musical flavor to this entry.
"Roddy McCorly"
O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There's ne'er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today; ray
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
"Kevin Barry"
In MOUNT JOY jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the 'cause of liberty
Just a lad of eighteen summers
Yet no true man can deny
As he walked to death that morning
He proudly held his head up high
Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
The British laws may crush the Irish
But cannot keep their spirits down
Just before he faced the hangman
In his dreary prison cell
The British soldiers tortured Barry
Just because he would not tell
The name of all his brave companions
And other things they wished to know
Turn informer or we'll kill you
Kevin Barry answered no
Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
Whose cruel laws may crush the Irish
But CANNOT KEEP their spirits down
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
***The Smells, Ah, The Smells Of Childhood- Ida's Bakery Over on Sagamore Street, For Arlene, Class Of 1965
Click on the headline to link to a Website devoted to oatmeal bread recipes. Hey, I never said I wasn't quirky on some of these links.
Al Johnson, Class of 1964,comment:
The Smells, Ah, The Smells Of Childhood- Ida's Bakery Over on Sagamore Street, For Arlene, Class Of 1965
There are many smells, sounds, tastes on the memory trail in search of the old days in North Quincy. Of course one cannot dismiss that invigorating smell of the salt air blowing in from Quincy Bay when the wind was up. And that never to be forgotten slightly oily, sulfuric smell at low tide down at Wollaston Beach, the time of the clam diggers and their accomplices trying to eke a living or a feeding out of that slimy mass. Or the smell of marsh weeds from up at the disfavored Squantum end of the beach. Or the sound of the ocean on those days when the usually tepid splashing against the shoreline turned around and became a real ocean and acted to calm a man’s (or kid’s) nerves in the frustrating struggle to understand a world not of one’s own making.
I know I do not have to stop very long to tell this crowd, the crowd that will read this piece, about the tastes of that HoJo’s ice cream back in the days. Or those char-broiled hot dogs and hamburgers from your back yard barbecue pit or the ones down at the beach. But the smell that I am smelling today is closer to home, as a result of a fellow classmate’s bringing this to my attention. (Although if the truth be known I was already on the verge of “exploring" the subject). Ida’ Bakery over on Sagamore Street, the next street over from my grandparents’ house on Young Street across from the Welcome Young Field.
You, if you are of a certain age and neighborhood, remember Ida’s, right? She ran a bakery out of her living room in the 1950s and early 1960s (beyond that period I do not know). Now I do not remember all the particulars about her, about her operation, about what she made but I remember the smells of fresh oatmeal bread. Or of those Lenten hot cross buns. Or of the 1001 other simple baked goods that put my mother, my grandmother, your mother, your grandmother in the shade. And that is at least half the point. You went over to Ida’s to get high on those calorie-loaded goodies. And in those days that was okay. Believe me it’s was okay. I swear I will never forget those glass-enclosed delights but I need a little help here. I do not remember much about the woman, her life, where she was from, or any of that. If you do, let me know. This I do know- in this time of frenzied interest in all things culinary Ida's simple recipes and her kid-maddening bakery smell still hold a place of honor.
Al Johnson, Class of 1964,comment:
The Smells, Ah, The Smells Of Childhood- Ida's Bakery Over on Sagamore Street, For Arlene, Class Of 1965
There are many smells, sounds, tastes on the memory trail in search of the old days in North Quincy. Of course one cannot dismiss that invigorating smell of the salt air blowing in from Quincy Bay when the wind was up. And that never to be forgotten slightly oily, sulfuric smell at low tide down at Wollaston Beach, the time of the clam diggers and their accomplices trying to eke a living or a feeding out of that slimy mass. Or the smell of marsh weeds from up at the disfavored Squantum end of the beach. Or the sound of the ocean on those days when the usually tepid splashing against the shoreline turned around and became a real ocean and acted to calm a man’s (or kid’s) nerves in the frustrating struggle to understand a world not of one’s own making.
I know I do not have to stop very long to tell this crowd, the crowd that will read this piece, about the tastes of that HoJo’s ice cream back in the days. Or those char-broiled hot dogs and hamburgers from your back yard barbecue pit or the ones down at the beach. But the smell that I am smelling today is closer to home, as a result of a fellow classmate’s bringing this to my attention. (Although if the truth be known I was already on the verge of “exploring" the subject). Ida’ Bakery over on Sagamore Street, the next street over from my grandparents’ house on Young Street across from the Welcome Young Field.
You, if you are of a certain age and neighborhood, remember Ida’s, right? She ran a bakery out of her living room in the 1950s and early 1960s (beyond that period I do not know). Now I do not remember all the particulars about her, about her operation, about what she made but I remember the smells of fresh oatmeal bread. Or of those Lenten hot cross buns. Or of the 1001 other simple baked goods that put my mother, my grandmother, your mother, your grandmother in the shade. And that is at least half the point. You went over to Ida’s to get high on those calorie-loaded goodies. And in those days that was okay. Believe me it’s was okay. I swear I will never forget those glass-enclosed delights but I need a little help here. I do not remember much about the woman, her life, where she was from, or any of that. If you do, let me know. This I do know- in this time of frenzied interest in all things culinary Ida's simple recipes and her kid-maddening bakery smell still hold a place of honor.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
***The Face Of Old Irish Working Class North Quincy- Another Moment In History -In Honor Of Kenny, Class Of 1958
Another Moment In History- A Guest Post, Of Sorts
Kenny Kelly, Class of 1958?, comment:
A word. I, Kenneth Francis Xavier Kelly, at work they call me Kenny , although my friends call me “FX”, am a map of Ireland, or at least I used to be when I was younger and had a full head of wavy red hair, freckles instead of a whiskey and beer chaser-driven mass of very high proof wrinkles, and my own, rather than store-bought, rattlers, teeth I mean. For work, ya I’m still rolling the barrels uphill, I, well, let’s just say I do a little of this and a little of that. I am also the map of North Quincy, from the Class of 1958 at the old high school, or at least I should have been, except for, well, let’s leave that as at a little of this and that, for now, as well. I’ll tell you that story another time, if you want to hear it.
Let’s also put it that I grew up, rough and tumble, mostly rough, on the hard drinking-father-sometimes-working, and the plumbing-or-something-don’t-work- and-you-can’t- get- the-tight-fisted-landlord-to- fix-anything-for-love-nor- money walk up triple decker just barely working class, mean streets around Sagamore and Prospect Streets in Atlantic. You know, those streets right over by the Welcome Young Field, by Harold’s Variety (you knew Harold’s, with the always active pin-ball machine, and much else), and the Red Feather (excuse me, Sagamore Grille) bar room. Now I have your attention, right?
But first let me explain how I wound up as a “guest” on this “tales of north quincy” blog. Seems like Al, that’s the half-baked, manager of this blog, linked up some story, some weepy cock and bull story, about the Irishness of the old town, “A Moment In History… As March 17th Approaches” to the “North Quincy Graduates Facebook” page and my daughter, Clara, Class of 1978 (and she actually graduated), saw it and recognized the names Radley, O’Brian and Welcome Young Field and asked me to read it. I did and sent Al an e-mail. (Or Clara did, after I told her what to write. I’m not much of hand at this hi-tech stuff, if you want to know the truth)
I don’t know what he did with that e-mail, and to be truthful again, I don’t really care, but in that e-mail I told him something that he didn’t know, or rather two things. The first was that I “knew” him, or rather knew his grandmother Anna Radley because her sister, Bernice, and my grandmother, Mary, also an O’Brien but with an “e”, who both lived in Southie (South Boston, in those days the Irish Mecca, for the heathens or Protestants that might read this) were as thick as thieves. When I was just a teenager myself I used to drive his grandmother over to her sister’s in Southie so that the three of them, and maybe some other ladies joined them for all I know, could go to one of the Broadway bars (don’t ask me to name which one, I don’t remember) that admitted ladies in those days and have themselves a drunk. And smoke cigarettes, unfiltered ones no less, which his grandfather, Dan Radley, refused to allow in the house over on Young Street.
I know, I know this is not the way that Irish grandmothers are supposed to act, in public or private. And somebody, if I know my old North Quincy, and my North Quincy Irish, is going say why am I airing that “dirty linen” in public that Al talked in his story about Frank O’Brian (that I gave the title of above) and what am I doing taking potshots as the blessed memories of those sainted ladies. That is where my second thing comes in to set the record straight – Al, and I told him so in that e-mail (or Clara did) with no beating around the bush, is to me just another one of those misty-eyed, half breed March 17th Irish that are the our curse and who go on and on about the eight hundred years of English tyranny like they lived it, actually lived each day of it.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am as patriotic as the next Irishman in tipping my hat to our Fenian dead, and the boys of ’16, and the lads on the right side in 1922, and the lads fighting in the North now but Al’s got the North Quincy Irish weepy, blessed “old sod” thing all wrong. No doubt about it. So, if you can believe this, he challenged me, to tell the real story. And I am here as his “guest” to straighten him out, and maybe you too. Sure, he is helping me write this thing. I already told you I’m a low-tech guy. Jesus, do you think I could write stuff like that half- baked son of an expletive with his silly, weepy half-Irish arse goings on? I will tell you this though right now if I read this thing and it doesn’t sound right, fists are gonna be swinging, old as I am. But let’s get this thing moving for God’s sake.
Let me tell you about the shabeen, I mean, The Red Feather, that bar room on Sagamore Street. That’s the one I know, and I am just using that as an example. There were plenty of others in old North Quincy, maybe not as many as in Southie, but plenty. If you seriously want to talk about the “Irishness” of North Quincy that is the place, the community cultural institution if you will, to start. Many a boy, including this boy, got his first drink, legal or illegal, at that, or another like it, watering hole. Hell, the “real” reason they built that softball field at Welcome Young was so the guys, players and spectators alike, had an excuse to stop in for a few (well, maybe more than a few) after a tough battle on base paths. That’s the light-hearted part of the story, in a way. What went on when the “old man”, anybody’s “old man”, got home at the, sometimes, wee hours is not so light-hearted.
See, that is really where the straightening out job on our boy Al needs to be done. Sure, a lot of Irish fathers didn’t get drunk all the time. A lot of Irish fathers didn’t beat on their wives all the time. A lot of Irish fathers didn’t physically beat their kids for no reason. (I never heard of any sexual abuse, but that was a book sealed with seven seals then.) And a lot of Irish wives didn’t just let their husbands beat on them just because they were the meal ticket. And a lot of Irish wives didn’t make excuses for dear old dad (or pray) when the paycheck didn’t show up and the creditors were beating down the door. And a lot of Irish wives didn’t let those Irish fathers beat on their kids. And a lot of Irish mothers didn’t tell their kids not to “air the dirty linen in public.” But, don’t let anyone fool you, and maybe I am touching on things too close to home, my home or yours, but that formed part of the scene, the Irish scene.
And, maybe, because down at the Atlantic end of North Quincy the whole place was so desperately lower working class other ethnic groups, like the Italians, also had those same pathologies. (I am letting Al use that word, although I still don’t really know what it means, but it seemed right when he told me what it meant). Figure it out, plenty of fathers (and it was mainly fathers only in those days who worked, when they could) with not much education and dead-end jobs, plenty of triple decker no space, no air, no privacy rented housing and plenty of dead time. Ya, sure, I felt the “Irishness” of the place sometimes (mainly with the back of the hand), I won’t say I didn’t but when Al starts running on and on about the “old sod” just remember what I told you. I’ll tell you all the truth, won’t you take my word from me.
Kenny Kelly, Class of 1958?, comment:
A word. I, Kenneth Francis Xavier Kelly, at work they call me Kenny , although my friends call me “FX”, am a map of Ireland, or at least I used to be when I was younger and had a full head of wavy red hair, freckles instead of a whiskey and beer chaser-driven mass of very high proof wrinkles, and my own, rather than store-bought, rattlers, teeth I mean. For work, ya I’m still rolling the barrels uphill, I, well, let’s just say I do a little of this and a little of that. I am also the map of North Quincy, from the Class of 1958 at the old high school, or at least I should have been, except for, well, let’s leave that as at a little of this and that, for now, as well. I’ll tell you that story another time, if you want to hear it.
Let’s also put it that I grew up, rough and tumble, mostly rough, on the hard drinking-father-sometimes-working, and the plumbing-or-something-don’t-work- and-you-can’t- get- the-tight-fisted-landlord-to- fix-anything-for-love-nor- money walk up triple decker just barely working class, mean streets around Sagamore and Prospect Streets in Atlantic. You know, those streets right over by the Welcome Young Field, by Harold’s Variety (you knew Harold’s, with the always active pin-ball machine, and much else), and the Red Feather (excuse me, Sagamore Grille) bar room. Now I have your attention, right?
But first let me explain how I wound up as a “guest” on this “tales of north quincy” blog. Seems like Al, that’s the half-baked, manager of this blog, linked up some story, some weepy cock and bull story, about the Irishness of the old town, “A Moment In History… As March 17th Approaches” to the “North Quincy Graduates Facebook” page and my daughter, Clara, Class of 1978 (and she actually graduated), saw it and recognized the names Radley, O’Brian and Welcome Young Field and asked me to read it. I did and sent Al an e-mail. (Or Clara did, after I told her what to write. I’m not much of hand at this hi-tech stuff, if you want to know the truth)
I don’t know what he did with that e-mail, and to be truthful again, I don’t really care, but in that e-mail I told him something that he didn’t know, or rather two things. The first was that I “knew” him, or rather knew his grandmother Anna Radley because her sister, Bernice, and my grandmother, Mary, also an O’Brien but with an “e”, who both lived in Southie (South Boston, in those days the Irish Mecca, for the heathens or Protestants that might read this) were as thick as thieves. When I was just a teenager myself I used to drive his grandmother over to her sister’s in Southie so that the three of them, and maybe some other ladies joined them for all I know, could go to one of the Broadway bars (don’t ask me to name which one, I don’t remember) that admitted ladies in those days and have themselves a drunk. And smoke cigarettes, unfiltered ones no less, which his grandfather, Dan Radley, refused to allow in the house over on Young Street.
I know, I know this is not the way that Irish grandmothers are supposed to act, in public or private. And somebody, if I know my old North Quincy, and my North Quincy Irish, is going say why am I airing that “dirty linen” in public that Al talked in his story about Frank O’Brian (that I gave the title of above) and what am I doing taking potshots as the blessed memories of those sainted ladies. That is where my second thing comes in to set the record straight – Al, and I told him so in that e-mail (or Clara did) with no beating around the bush, is to me just another one of those misty-eyed, half breed March 17th Irish that are the our curse and who go on and on about the eight hundred years of English tyranny like they lived it, actually lived each day of it.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am as patriotic as the next Irishman in tipping my hat to our Fenian dead, and the boys of ’16, and the lads on the right side in 1922, and the lads fighting in the North now but Al’s got the North Quincy Irish weepy, blessed “old sod” thing all wrong. No doubt about it. So, if you can believe this, he challenged me, to tell the real story. And I am here as his “guest” to straighten him out, and maybe you too. Sure, he is helping me write this thing. I already told you I’m a low-tech guy. Jesus, do you think I could write stuff like that half- baked son of an expletive with his silly, weepy half-Irish arse goings on? I will tell you this though right now if I read this thing and it doesn’t sound right, fists are gonna be swinging, old as I am. But let’s get this thing moving for God’s sake.
Let me tell you about the shabeen, I mean, The Red Feather, that bar room on Sagamore Street. That’s the one I know, and I am just using that as an example. There were plenty of others in old North Quincy, maybe not as many as in Southie, but plenty. If you seriously want to talk about the “Irishness” of North Quincy that is the place, the community cultural institution if you will, to start. Many a boy, including this boy, got his first drink, legal or illegal, at that, or another like it, watering hole. Hell, the “real” reason they built that softball field at Welcome Young was so the guys, players and spectators alike, had an excuse to stop in for a few (well, maybe more than a few) after a tough battle on base paths. That’s the light-hearted part of the story, in a way. What went on when the “old man”, anybody’s “old man”, got home at the, sometimes, wee hours is not so light-hearted.
See, that is really where the straightening out job on our boy Al needs to be done. Sure, a lot of Irish fathers didn’t get drunk all the time. A lot of Irish fathers didn’t beat on their wives all the time. A lot of Irish fathers didn’t physically beat their kids for no reason. (I never heard of any sexual abuse, but that was a book sealed with seven seals then.) And a lot of Irish wives didn’t just let their husbands beat on them just because they were the meal ticket. And a lot of Irish wives didn’t make excuses for dear old dad (or pray) when the paycheck didn’t show up and the creditors were beating down the door. And a lot of Irish wives didn’t let those Irish fathers beat on their kids. And a lot of Irish mothers didn’t tell their kids not to “air the dirty linen in public.” But, don’t let anyone fool you, and maybe I am touching on things too close to home, my home or yours, but that formed part of the scene, the Irish scene.
And, maybe, because down at the Atlantic end of North Quincy the whole place was so desperately lower working class other ethnic groups, like the Italians, also had those same pathologies. (I am letting Al use that word, although I still don’t really know what it means, but it seemed right when he told me what it meant). Figure it out, plenty of fathers (and it was mainly fathers only in those days who worked, when they could) with not much education and dead-end jobs, plenty of triple decker no space, no air, no privacy rented housing and plenty of dead time. Ya, sure, I felt the “Irishness” of the place sometimes (mainly with the back of the hand), I won’t say I didn’t but when Al starts running on and on about the “old sod” just remember what I told you. I’ll tell you all the truth, won’t you take my word from me.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
***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.
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.
Friday, March 26, 2010
***Daydream Visions Of Wollaston Beach, Circa 1964- In Honor Of Elizabeth Silva (nee Drury), Class Of 1964
Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for Howard Johnson's Ice Cream Shop, a fixture on Wollaston Beach for many years, to set the mood for this commentary.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
I have been dedicating my posts to various people. When I first wrote this post in 2008 I had not one in particular in mind but when I recently rewrote it I did have Elizabeth in mind. I did not know her at school , and do not know her now, but I felt her presence very strongly when I was rewriting this thing. So here it is.
Originally posted July 2008 on Classmates. Revised and updated March 2010
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Snug Harbor Elementary School. Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in Germantown where I came of age surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of desperate, high stakes battles fought off shrouded, mist-covered coasts by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. And agile enough to keep it. Almost from my first wobbly, halting first baby steps down at “the projects” I have been physically drawn to the sea, a seductive, foam-flecked siren call that has never left me. Moreover, ever since this writer was a toddler his imagination has been driven by the sea as well. Not so much of pirates and prizes but of the power of nature, for good or evil.
Of course, we know that anyone with even a passing attachment to Quincy has to have an almost instinctual love of the sea; and a fear of its furies when old Mother Nature turns her back on us. Yes, the endless sea, our homeland the sea, the mother we never knew, the sea... But, enough of those imaginings. If being determines consciousness, and if you love the ocean, then it does not hurt to have been brought up in Quincy with its ready access to the bay and water on three sides. That said, the focal point for any experience with the ocean in Quincy centers, naturally, around its longest stretch of beach, Wollaston Beach.
For those of us of a certain age, including this writer, one cannot discuss Wollaston Beach properly without reference to such spots such as Howard Johnson's famous landmark ice cream stand (now a woe begotten clam shack of no repute). For those who are clueless as to what I speak of, or have only heard about it in mythological terms from older relatives, or worst, have written it off as just another ice cream joint I have provided a link to a “Wikipedia” entry for the establishment. That should impress you of the younger set, I am sure. Know this: many a hot, muggy, sultry, sweaty summer evening was spent in line impatiently, and perhaps, on occasion, beyond impatience, waiting for one of those 27 (or was it 28?) flavors to cool off with. In those days the prize went to cherry vanilla in a sugar cone (backup: frozen pudding). I will not bore the reader with superlative terms and “they don’t make them like they use to”, especially for those who only know “HoJo’s” from the later, pale imitation franchise days out on some forsaken highway, but at that moment I was in very heaven.
Nor can one forget those stumbling, fumbling, fierce childish efforts, bare-footed against all motherly caution about the dreaded jellyfish, pail and shovel in hand, to dig for seemingly non-existent clams down toward the Merrymount end of the beach at the, in those days, just slightly oil-slicked, sulfuric low tide. Or the smell of charcoal-flavored hot dogs on those occasional family barbecues (when one in a series of old jalopies that my father drove worked well enough to get us there) at the then just recently constructed old Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine) that were some of the too few times when my family acted as a family. Or the memory of roasted, really burnt, sticky marshmallows sticking to the roof of my mouth.
But those thoughts and smells are not the only ones that interest me today. No trip down memory lane would be complete without at least a passing reference to high school Wollaston Beach. The sea brings out many emotions: humankind's struggle against nature, some Zen notions of oneness with the universe, the calming effect of the thundering waves, thoughts of immortality, and so on. But it also brings out the primordial longings for companionship. And no one longs for companionship more than teenagers. So the draw of the ocean is not just in its cosmic appeal but hormonal, as well. Mind you, however, we are not discussing here the nighttime Wollaston Beach, the time of "parking" and the "submarine races". Our thoughts are now pure as the driven snow. We will save that discussion for another time when kids and grand kids are not around. Here we will confine ourselves to the day time beach.
Virtually from the day school we got out of school for the summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that beach but the section directly between the Squantum and Wollaston Yacht Clubs. Now was situating myself in that spot done so that I could watch all the fine boats at anchor? Or was this the best swimming location on the beach? Hell no, this is where we heard (and here I include my old running pal and classmate, Bill Cadger) all the "babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of "Beach Blanket Bingo" or some such teenage beach film. (For those who are again clueless this was a ‘boy meets girl’ saga like “Avatar”, except on the beach...and on Earth.)
Well, for those who expected a movie-like happy ending to this piece, you know, where I meet a youthful "Ms. Right" to the strains of "Sea of Love", forget it. (That is the original “Sea of Love”, by the way, not the one used in the movie of the same name sung by Tom Waits at the end, and a cover that you should listen to on “YouTube”.) I will keep the gory details short, though. As fate would have it there may have been "babes" aplenty down there but not for this lad. I don't know about you but I was just too socially awkward (read, tongue-tied) to get up the nerve to talk to girls (female readers substitute boys here). And on reflection, if the truth were to be known, I would not have known what to do about it in any case. No job, no money and, most importantly, no car for a date to watch one of those legendary "submarine races" that we have all agreed that we will not discuss here. But we can hardly fault the sea for that, right?
*****
Below, unedited, is the traffic from the North Quincy School Classmates site in response to the above post
Replies 11 messages
(2) Wollaston Beach
Bernadette Gil 1985 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 22 2008 11:00pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
I grew up close to Wollaston Beach...I used to ride my bike there, runaway there... was a great bike path, I love it as a kid. I used to hang out with friends from school, had some great jelly fish fights there..Ahhh my friend and her boy fell asleep on the beach divider with his hand on her stomach, how was she going to explain that one to mom and dad? I Lived in Wollaston in the 70's to the early 80 and then moved to North Quincy. I love the views and the clam shack the ice cream all the clam diggers... the pond on the way from Marlboro Street , jumping the fence trying to catch the bull frogs going to the swamp cemetary swinging from the willow tree I think... I live in California and have a son thats 7 around the age I would ride my bike the freedom the safeness I had skate boarding around loosing track of time, I haven't been back since my 10 year reunion I miss it, my friends, but then again I'm older with responsibilities maybe some day again I will take my son and show him Wollaston beach and throw a few jelly fish his way??
Bernadette
North Quincy High 85
(3) Memories Of Wollaston
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:31am PST
In reply to Bernadette Gil 1985
Bernedette- Thanks for reply. The glint of silver off the Long Island Bridge when the sun hit it at a certain time. The early morning winter sun coming up over the horizon on the bay. The Boston skyline at dusk (pre-Marina Bay times). Well, we could go on and on with our memories but the one thing that caught my eye in your reply was the word escape. In one sense I was using Wollaston Beach as a metaphor for that idea in my story. I do not know about you and your family but, to be kind, I had a very rocky time growing up and certainly by the time I got to high school I was in desperate need of a sanctuary. It is no accident that I (and my old running mate Bill Cadger) spent a fair amount of time there.
I went back to Wollaston last year (2007) while they were doing some reconstruction and cleaning the place up. I wrote about that in a commentary entitled "Do You Know Wollaston Beach?" that I posted on this site but then deleted. My original idea was to draw a comparison between the old hazy, happy memories of Wollaston in our youth and looking at it with today's older eyes. Somehow it just didn't fit right as a discussion item with the things I am trying to write on this site. If you would kindly reply to this message I will place it as a reply to some of what you have mentioned in your message about 'coming home'. By the way the jellyfish are still there in all their glory and please, take mother's advice, do not step on them they might be poisonous.
Finally, I will not let you off the hook. Yes, I know as well as you, that this is a family-friendly site but how did your friend explain away her 'sleeping' on the old wall to mom and dad? Regards, Al Johnson
(4) Wollaston beach . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 10:34am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
While writing the track reply, I realized what you meant about exceeding the site's character limit. I had to chop out some of my message.
I don't have an awful lot to say about the beach, since I lived in a few other places while growing up. I do remember walking along the old sea wall and jumping across the openings trying to grab the rail to avoid falling. I once caught the rail, but hit the edge of the concrete wall with my shin. It hurt, but I didn't think it was broken.
Once a friend ran into a guy at the, and for some reason began to "exchange words." They were about to go at each other, but the lifeguard told them to take their dispute elsewhere. They went across the street to the grass in front of a stand where clams and other goodies were sold. The friend proceeded to tear the other guy apart. It didn't last that long. The friend was 5'-7" tall and the other guy 6'-3". I heard that some years later they ran into each other again and had a big laugh about the whole thing. Kids do grow up.
When I visited Massachusetts with my wife and two kids in 1983, my brother took us through some of the "old haunts," and we roamed the beach a bit. They got a kick out of a pair of horseshoe crabs skittering along the edge of the low tide line. I also went back there in 2007 and took a few walks along the beach. I did miss the old candle pin bowling alley, which appears to have been replaced by condos as was the old Quincy Grammar School where I went through 1st grade (Miss Gray) and most of 2nd grade (Miss Lindberg).
Oh, yeah. I believe the Squantum Elementary School on Huckins Avenue is still in operation. I read that there's a boundary somewhere in North Quincy and that kids who live east of the line go to Squantum School and those west of that line go to Parker Elementary on Billings Road. What is now North Quincy High School included grades 7 through 12 till 1958 or 1959. So, even though I lived in 3 or 4 places, I was able to attend all 6 years at the same school.
Overall, most memories of Wollaston Beach are pretty good.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
(5) Do You Know Wollaston Beach?
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 12:51pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
This entry started as a discussion comment in this space but I deleted it because it did not fit in with what I was trying to evoke in these pages. It does serve as a decent reply though for Bernedette's 1985 and Craig's 1957 comments. Al Johnson
*****
Okay, in the above entry ( Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?) this writer got all misty-eyed about the old days at Wollaston Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at HoJo's, the vagaries of clam digging in the flats and about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs. And I did not fail to mention the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. But enough of magical realism. 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.
Last year as part of the trip down the memory lane that I have been endlessly writing about in this space I walked the length of Wollaston Beach from the Squantum Causeway to the bridge at Adams Shore. At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, redo 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 are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten 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 is still there as are the inevitable 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 to the shore-when a man craved the roar of the ocean-and the annoying gear-grinding noise 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 and the Wollaston of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were things to conquer and now. The lesson to be learned- beware the perils of memory lane. But don't 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. That seems about right.
(6) On Our 'Code Of Honor'
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:42am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- I am very interested in having you fill out this story about the fight between your friend and the other guy down a Wollaston Beach. I do not need to know the gory details nor what happened years later. What I am looking for is your take on the whole incident meant at the time. This was hardly an unusual event at the time (or now for that matter), right?
I am trying to put together an entry based on our working class 'code of honor'- male version- at the time before women's liberation and other social phenomena helped to expand our sense of the world and how we should act in it. Even 'loner' types like myself would not back down on certain 'turf' issues (girls, walking on the street, who you 'hung' with, where your locker was, etc.) and took a beating rather than concede the point. Enough for now but give this some thought. Regards Al
(7) Fight . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 28 2008 09:09am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
The scuffle between a friend of mine and a much bigger guy at Wollaston beach was not really "earth shaking." It started a couple days before when the friend and I were walking along one of the streets leading to the beach, Bayfield Road, perhaps. The "other guy" passed by in a car with some of his friends, including a couple girls. That guy yelled some insult at my friend in reference to his "eye-wear." He probably was trying to impress the girls by showing them he could insult anyone and all could get a good laugh out of it. Of course, my friend yelled something equally offensive at those in the passing car, which kept going. The "incident" appeared to have terminated.
A few days later the friend and I crossed the road to the beach near one of the yacht clubs and there was the guy who had yelled the insulting remarks. Apparently, he thought he could continue the verbal abuse without suffering the consequences, because he yelled something similar again. My friend went after the kid, but was informed by the lifeguard that they better take their "dispute" elsewhere. They went across the road to a grassy area and, encouraged by a small crowd that was gathering around them, proceeded to "get it on." My friend was usually a fairly pacific person, but when "pushed," he was like a cornered wolverine that would take on anybody or anything. The scuffle didn't last long, and the bigger kid got the worst of it. That time was the end of the dispute. Apparently nobody was seriously hurt, but maybe some had a bit more respect for the smaller kids after that. Some years later the two met, and remembering the incident, shared a good laugh over the whole thing.
Then as now, I saw no esoteric meaning to the "battle." It didn't seem like the medieval days when one would "defend his honor" or that of a "damsel in distress." It was just an exchange of words that developed into a short round of what may be referred to these days as "ultimate fighting" where no rules are observed. I had a couple scuffles in elementary school and my son did in middle school, but we more-or-less outgrew such things. Sadly, nowadays those "scuffles" can become more deadly and end with somebody paying the "ultimate price." Are we reverting to the "Dark Ages." I hope not.
Anyway, enough said of a "juvenile incident."
Craig NQHS 1957
(8) "Code of Honor"
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 03 2008 11:31am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig, thanks for story. It gives me an angle for a story that I will write about our youthful sense of 'honor'. This story, especially about impressing the girls, etc. really says something about that code. Regards, Al
(9) Day and Night At Wollaston Beach
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 02 2008 06:21am PST
In reply to Bernadette Gil 1985
I mentioned in my original entry in this space that all of us would talk about daytime Wollaston (although once the kids are out of sight-the nighttime is the right time- can come into play). I hope that at some point Bernadette Gil will expand on her comment about her girlfriend down at the day time beach and the incident alluded in her comment about her falling asleep. Ms. Gil is more than capable of telling her own version of the story (she has related it to me and I got a real kick out of it). The only point I want to make here is that some of these day time remembrances are as funny as what might have happened at night. Funny now, that is. Regards, Al
(10) Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?
Robin Menz 1978 (view profile)
Posted: Aug 15 2008 04:35pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Totally agree that growing up on Wollaston beach was an experience. So natural at the time, but looking back I now see how fortunate I was. I don’t remember the HoJo’s but I do remember the 19 cent hotdogs sold on the beach that was a few blocks from my house. What a treat for the neighborhood kids to get together and go get a dog.
As far the beach was concerned as kids, we followed the tides. Some parent would parade a group us kids and watch over us. Generally for two hours before high tide, and two hours after, and they always had snacks and drinks in tow…just gotta love the moms for that! Swim, dig in the sand, play catch in the water and when finally tired, lay on a towel and listen to wrko or wmex on the transitor radio.
Once I hit teenage years, I choose not to venture near the beach. I think my parents knew about the cosmic and hormonal appeal as well as primordial longings going on there. I was taught at a young age, the beach is not a good place at night. I totally thank them for instilling this and letting Wollaston beach be filled with wonderful childhood memories. With that said, I am thrilled at the revitalization, and hope this generation of children will have a chance to create memories that they can cherished forever.
(11) Back In The Days
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 18 2008 02:49pm PST
In reply to Robin Menz 1978
Robin-Very nicely told memories. That is the thing that I was trying to evoke in writing this particular commentary. A few points.
*The reason for the boxes in your entry is that when you transfer from a word processor to the message space the apostrophes and quotation marks turn into some Serbo-Croatian dialect in the process. It happens to me all the time. You have to change them in the space
* Do you, or anyone else, know when HoJo's left the Wollaston Beach site?
* Did you mean 19 dollars for a hot dog? You put 19 cents but that can't be right. Nothing ever cost 19 cents.
* You realize, of course, that this is an all class site and therefore members of generations X, Y or Z may not be familiar with the term transistor radio. For their benefit, that was a little battery-powered gizmo that allowed you to listen to music, the 'devil's music', rock 'n' roll without your parents going nuts. And no, sorry, you could not download. Yes, I know, the Stone Age. Regards, Al Johnson
(12) The Nighttime Is The Right Time....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 21 2008 08:08am PST
In reply to Robin Menz 1978
...to be with the one you love. Yes, that classic Ray Charles tune (covered by many, including a steamy tribute version by The Rolling Stones in their 2005 Fenway Park Concert) is a good lead in to what I want to mention here. Most of the comments on this entry have concerned day time Wollaston Beach but I have been thinking that it is time to open up to the night time episodes. Here are my reasons:
• Hey, it is entirely possible that some of our fellow alumni never went to Wollaston Beach during the day. They might have a legitimate grip against us for that. Remember we are using this cyberspace so that everyone has their "15 minutes of fame".
• The heck with protecting the kids and grandkids. They know this stuff already. Let's face it, as well, no self-respecting member of the hip-hop/iPod/Sidekick generations (or younger) would dream of reading this far down into the entry. Ugh!
• Frankly, there is only so far we can go with the day time Wollaston Beach. While there have been some nice comments there is only so far you can go with jellyfish, 19 cent hot dogs, teenage romantic longings and getting sand kicked in your face. We need to spice this up. In short, sex, or the hint of it, sells.
These are all good and sufficient reasons but, as usual, my real reason for arguing inclusion here is personal curiosity. I have been waiting some forty-four years to ask this simple question. Why, while we were driving down the boulevard on those cold October nights, let's say, were most of the cars all fogged up? What were their defrosters not working? Come on, please, tell me.
Al Johnson, Class Of 1964, comment:
I have been dedicating my posts to various people. When I first wrote this post in 2008 I had not one in particular in mind but when I recently rewrote it I did have Elizabeth in mind. I did not know her at school , and do not know her now, but I felt her presence very strongly when I was rewriting this thing. So here it is.
Originally posted July 2008 on Classmates. Revised and updated March 2010
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Snug Harbor Elementary School. Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in Germantown where I came of age surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of desperate, high stakes battles fought off shrouded, mist-covered coasts by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. And agile enough to keep it. Almost from my first wobbly, halting first baby steps down at “the projects” I have been physically drawn to the sea, a seductive, foam-flecked siren call that has never left me. Moreover, ever since this writer was a toddler his imagination has been driven by the sea as well. Not so much of pirates and prizes but of the power of nature, for good or evil.
Of course, we know that anyone with even a passing attachment to Quincy has to have an almost instinctual love of the sea; and a fear of its furies when old Mother Nature turns her back on us. Yes, the endless sea, our homeland the sea, the mother we never knew, the sea... But, enough of those imaginings. If being determines consciousness, and if you love the ocean, then it does not hurt to have been brought up in Quincy with its ready access to the bay and water on three sides. That said, the focal point for any experience with the ocean in Quincy centers, naturally, around its longest stretch of beach, Wollaston Beach.
For those of us of a certain age, including this writer, one cannot discuss Wollaston Beach properly without reference to such spots such as Howard Johnson's famous landmark ice cream stand (now a woe begotten clam shack of no repute). For those who are clueless as to what I speak of, or have only heard about it in mythological terms from older relatives, or worst, have written it off as just another ice cream joint I have provided a link to a “Wikipedia” entry for the establishment. That should impress you of the younger set, I am sure. Know this: many a hot, muggy, sultry, sweaty summer evening was spent in line impatiently, and perhaps, on occasion, beyond impatience, waiting for one of those 27 (or was it 28?) flavors to cool off with. In those days the prize went to cherry vanilla in a sugar cone (backup: frozen pudding). I will not bore the reader with superlative terms and “they don’t make them like they use to”, especially for those who only know “HoJo’s” from the later, pale imitation franchise days out on some forsaken highway, but at that moment I was in very heaven.
Nor can one forget those stumbling, fumbling, fierce childish efforts, bare-footed against all motherly caution about the dreaded jellyfish, pail and shovel in hand, to dig for seemingly non-existent clams down toward the Merrymount end of the beach at the, in those days, just slightly oil-slicked, sulfuric low tide. Or the smell of charcoal-flavored hot dogs on those occasional family barbecues (when one in a series of old jalopies that my father drove worked well enough to get us there) at the then just recently constructed old Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine) that were some of the too few times when my family acted as a family. Or the memory of roasted, really burnt, sticky marshmallows sticking to the roof of my mouth.
But those thoughts and smells are not the only ones that interest me today. No trip down memory lane would be complete without at least a passing reference to high school Wollaston Beach. The sea brings out many emotions: humankind's struggle against nature, some Zen notions of oneness with the universe, the calming effect of the thundering waves, thoughts of immortality, and so on. But it also brings out the primordial longings for companionship. And no one longs for companionship more than teenagers. So the draw of the ocean is not just in its cosmic appeal but hormonal, as well. Mind you, however, we are not discussing here the nighttime Wollaston Beach, the time of "parking" and the "submarine races". Our thoughts are now pure as the driven snow. We will save that discussion for another time when kids and grand kids are not around. Here we will confine ourselves to the day time beach.
Virtually from the day school we got out of school for the summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that beach but the section directly between the Squantum and Wollaston Yacht Clubs. Now was situating myself in that spot done so that I could watch all the fine boats at anchor? Or was this the best swimming location on the beach? Hell no, this is where we heard (and here I include my old running pal and classmate, Bill Cadger) all the "babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of "Beach Blanket Bingo" or some such teenage beach film. (For those who are again clueless this was a ‘boy meets girl’ saga like “Avatar”, except on the beach...and on Earth.)
Well, for those who expected a movie-like happy ending to this piece, you know, where I meet a youthful "Ms. Right" to the strains of "Sea of Love", forget it. (That is the original “Sea of Love”, by the way, not the one used in the movie of the same name sung by Tom Waits at the end, and a cover that you should listen to on “YouTube”.) I will keep the gory details short, though. As fate would have it there may have been "babes" aplenty down there but not for this lad. I don't know about you but I was just too socially awkward (read, tongue-tied) to get up the nerve to talk to girls (female readers substitute boys here). And on reflection, if the truth were to be known, I would not have known what to do about it in any case. No job, no money and, most importantly, no car for a date to watch one of those legendary "submarine races" that we have all agreed that we will not discuss here. But we can hardly fault the sea for that, right?
*****
Below, unedited, is the traffic from the North Quincy School Classmates site in response to the above post
Replies 11 messages
(2) Wollaston Beach
Bernadette Gil 1985 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 22 2008 11:00pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
I grew up close to Wollaston Beach...I used to ride my bike there, runaway there... was a great bike path, I love it as a kid. I used to hang out with friends from school, had some great jelly fish fights there..Ahhh my friend and her boy fell asleep on the beach divider with his hand on her stomach, how was she going to explain that one to mom and dad? I Lived in Wollaston in the 70's to the early 80 and then moved to North Quincy. I love the views and the clam shack the ice cream all the clam diggers... the pond on the way from Marlboro Street , jumping the fence trying to catch the bull frogs going to the swamp cemetary swinging from the willow tree I think... I live in California and have a son thats 7 around the age I would ride my bike the freedom the safeness I had skate boarding around loosing track of time, I haven't been back since my 10 year reunion I miss it, my friends, but then again I'm older with responsibilities maybe some day again I will take my son and show him Wollaston beach and throw a few jelly fish his way??
Bernadette
North Quincy High 85
(3) Memories Of Wollaston
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:31am PST
In reply to Bernadette Gil 1985
Bernedette- Thanks for reply. The glint of silver off the Long Island Bridge when the sun hit it at a certain time. The early morning winter sun coming up over the horizon on the bay. The Boston skyline at dusk (pre-Marina Bay times). Well, we could go on and on with our memories but the one thing that caught my eye in your reply was the word escape. In one sense I was using Wollaston Beach as a metaphor for that idea in my story. I do not know about you and your family but, to be kind, I had a very rocky time growing up and certainly by the time I got to high school I was in desperate need of a sanctuary. It is no accident that I (and my old running mate Bill Cadger) spent a fair amount of time there.
I went back to Wollaston last year (2007) while they were doing some reconstruction and cleaning the place up. I wrote about that in a commentary entitled "Do You Know Wollaston Beach?" that I posted on this site but then deleted. My original idea was to draw a comparison between the old hazy, happy memories of Wollaston in our youth and looking at it with today's older eyes. Somehow it just didn't fit right as a discussion item with the things I am trying to write on this site. If you would kindly reply to this message I will place it as a reply to some of what you have mentioned in your message about 'coming home'. By the way the jellyfish are still there in all their glory and please, take mother's advice, do not step on them they might be poisonous.
Finally, I will not let you off the hook. Yes, I know as well as you, that this is a family-friendly site but how did your friend explain away her 'sleeping' on the old wall to mom and dad? Regards, Al Johnson
(4) Wollaston beach . . .
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 23 2008 10:34am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
While writing the track reply, I realized what you meant about exceeding the site's character limit. I had to chop out some of my message.
I don't have an awful lot to say about the beach, since I lived in a few other places while growing up. I do remember walking along the old sea wall and jumping across the openings trying to grab the rail to avoid falling. I once caught the rail, but hit the edge of the concrete wall with my shin. It hurt, but I didn't think it was broken.
Once a friend ran into a guy at the, and for some reason began to "exchange words." They were about to go at each other, but the lifeguard told them to take their dispute elsewhere. They went across the street to the grass in front of a stand where clams and other goodies were sold. The friend proceeded to tear the other guy apart. It didn't last that long. The friend was 5'-7" tall and the other guy 6'-3". I heard that some years later they ran into each other again and had a big laugh about the whole thing. Kids do grow up.
When I visited Massachusetts with my wife and two kids in 1983, my brother took us through some of the "old haunts," and we roamed the beach a bit. They got a kick out of a pair of horseshoe crabs skittering along the edge of the low tide line. I also went back there in 2007 and took a few walks along the beach. I did miss the old candle pin bowling alley, which appears to have been replaced by condos as was the old Quincy Grammar School where I went through 1st grade (Miss Gray) and most of 2nd grade (Miss Lindberg).
Oh, yeah. I believe the Squantum Elementary School on Huckins Avenue is still in operation. I read that there's a boundary somewhere in North Quincy and that kids who live east of the line go to Squantum School and those west of that line go to Parker Elementary on Billings Road. What is now North Quincy High School included grades 7 through 12 till 1958 or 1959. So, even though I lived in 3 or 4 places, I was able to attend all 6 years at the same school.
Overall, most memories of Wollaston Beach are pretty good.
Craig S. Warren
NQHS 1957
(5) Do You Know Wollaston Beach?
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 23 2008 12:51pm PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
This entry started as a discussion comment in this space but I deleted it because it did not fit in with what I was trying to evoke in these pages. It does serve as a decent reply though for Bernedette's 1985 and Craig's 1957 comments. Al Johnson
*****
Okay, in the above entry ( Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?) this writer got all misty-eyed about the old days at Wollaston Beach. I went on and on about things like the various flavors of ice cream at HoJo's, the vagaries of clam digging in the flats and about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs. And I did not fail to mention the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. But enough of magical realism. 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.
Last year as part of the trip down the memory lane that I have been endlessly writing about in this space I walked the length of Wollaston Beach from the Squantum Causeway to the bridge at Adams Shore. At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, redo 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 are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten 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 is still there as are the inevitable 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 to the shore-when a man craved the roar of the ocean-and the annoying gear-grinding noise 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 and the Wollaston of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were things to conquer and now. The lesson to be learned- beware the perils of memory lane. But don't 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. That seems about right.
(6) On Our 'Code Of Honor'
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Jul 26 2008 05:42am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig- I am very interested in having you fill out this story about the fight between your friend and the other guy down a Wollaston Beach. I do not need to know the gory details nor what happened years later. What I am looking for is your take on the whole incident meant at the time. This was hardly an unusual event at the time (or now for that matter), right?
I am trying to put together an entry based on our working class 'code of honor'- male version- at the time before women's liberation and other social phenomena helped to expand our sense of the world and how we should act in it. Even 'loner' types like myself would not back down on certain 'turf' issues (girls, walking on the street, who you 'hung' with, where your locker was, etc.) and took a beating rather than concede the point. Enough for now but give this some thought. Regards Al
(7) Fight . . . ?
Craig Warren 1957 (view profile)
Posted: Jul 28 2008 09:09am PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Alfred;
The scuffle between a friend of mine and a much bigger guy at Wollaston beach was not really "earth shaking." It started a couple days before when the friend and I were walking along one of the streets leading to the beach, Bayfield Road, perhaps. The "other guy" passed by in a car with some of his friends, including a couple girls. That guy yelled some insult at my friend in reference to his "eye-wear." He probably was trying to impress the girls by showing them he could insult anyone and all could get a good laugh out of it. Of course, my friend yelled something equally offensive at those in the passing car, which kept going. The "incident" appeared to have terminated.
A few days later the friend and I crossed the road to the beach near one of the yacht clubs and there was the guy who had yelled the insulting remarks. Apparently, he thought he could continue the verbal abuse without suffering the consequences, because he yelled something similar again. My friend went after the kid, but was informed by the lifeguard that they better take their "dispute" elsewhere. They went across the road to a grassy area and, encouraged by a small crowd that was gathering around them, proceeded to "get it on." My friend was usually a fairly pacific person, but when "pushed," he was like a cornered wolverine that would take on anybody or anything. The scuffle didn't last long, and the bigger kid got the worst of it. That time was the end of the dispute. Apparently nobody was seriously hurt, but maybe some had a bit more respect for the smaller kids after that. Some years later the two met, and remembering the incident, shared a good laugh over the whole thing.
Then as now, I saw no esoteric meaning to the "battle." It didn't seem like the medieval days when one would "defend his honor" or that of a "damsel in distress." It was just an exchange of words that developed into a short round of what may be referred to these days as "ultimate fighting" where no rules are observed. I had a couple scuffles in elementary school and my son did in middle school, but we more-or-less outgrew such things. Sadly, nowadays those "scuffles" can become more deadly and end with somebody paying the "ultimate price." Are we reverting to the "Dark Ages." I hope not.
Anyway, enough said of a "juvenile incident."
Craig NQHS 1957
(8) "Code of Honor"
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 03 2008 11:31am PST
In reply to Craig Warren 1957
Craig, thanks for story. It gives me an angle for a story that I will write about our youthful sense of 'honor'. This story, especially about impressing the girls, etc. really says something about that code. Regards, Al
(9) Day and Night At Wollaston Beach
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 02 2008 06:21am PST
In reply to Bernadette Gil 1985
I mentioned in my original entry in this space that all of us would talk about daytime Wollaston (although once the kids are out of sight-the nighttime is the right time- can come into play). I hope that at some point Bernadette Gil will expand on her comment about her girlfriend down at the day time beach and the incident alluded in her comment about her falling asleep. Ms. Gil is more than capable of telling her own version of the story (she has related it to me and I got a real kick out of it). The only point I want to make here is that some of these day time remembrances are as funny as what might have happened at night. Funny now, that is. Regards, Al
(10) Anyone Remember Wollaston Beach?
Robin Menz 1978 (view profile)
Posted: Aug 15 2008 04:35pm PST
In reply to Alfred Johnson 1964
Totally agree that growing up on Wollaston beach was an experience. So natural at the time, but looking back I now see how fortunate I was. I don’t remember the HoJo’s but I do remember the 19 cent hotdogs sold on the beach that was a few blocks from my house. What a treat for the neighborhood kids to get together and go get a dog.
As far the beach was concerned as kids, we followed the tides. Some parent would parade a group us kids and watch over us. Generally for two hours before high tide, and two hours after, and they always had snacks and drinks in tow…just gotta love the moms for that! Swim, dig in the sand, play catch in the water and when finally tired, lay on a towel and listen to wrko or wmex on the transitor radio.
Once I hit teenage years, I choose not to venture near the beach. I think my parents knew about the cosmic and hormonal appeal as well as primordial longings going on there. I was taught at a young age, the beach is not a good place at night. I totally thank them for instilling this and letting Wollaston beach be filled with wonderful childhood memories. With that said, I am thrilled at the revitalization, and hope this generation of children will have a chance to create memories that they can cherished forever.
(11) Back In The Days
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 18 2008 02:49pm PST
In reply to Robin Menz 1978
Robin-Very nicely told memories. That is the thing that I was trying to evoke in writing this particular commentary. A few points.
*The reason for the boxes in your entry is that when you transfer from a word processor to the message space the apostrophes and quotation marks turn into some Serbo-Croatian dialect in the process. It happens to me all the time. You have to change them in the space
* Do you, or anyone else, know when HoJo's left the Wollaston Beach site?
* Did you mean 19 dollars for a hot dog? You put 19 cents but that can't be right. Nothing ever cost 19 cents.
* You realize, of course, that this is an all class site and therefore members of generations X, Y or Z may not be familiar with the term transistor radio. For their benefit, that was a little battery-powered gizmo that allowed you to listen to music, the 'devil's music', rock 'n' roll without your parents going nuts. And no, sorry, you could not download. Yes, I know, the Stone Age. Regards, Al Johnson
(12) The Nighttime Is The Right Time....
Alfred Johnson 1964
Posted: Aug 21 2008 08:08am PST
In reply to Robin Menz 1978
...to be with the one you love. Yes, that classic Ray Charles tune (covered by many, including a steamy tribute version by The Rolling Stones in their 2005 Fenway Park Concert) is a good lead in to what I want to mention here. Most of the comments on this entry have concerned day time Wollaston Beach but I have been thinking that it is time to open up to the night time episodes. Here are my reasons:
• Hey, it is entirely possible that some of our fellow alumni never went to Wollaston Beach during the day. They might have a legitimate grip against us for that. Remember we are using this cyberspace so that everyone has their "15 minutes of fame".
• The heck with protecting the kids and grandkids. They know this stuff already. Let's face it, as well, no self-respecting member of the hip-hop/iPod/Sidekick generations (or younger) would dream of reading this far down into the entry. Ugh!
• Frankly, there is only so far we can go with the day time Wollaston Beach. While there have been some nice comments there is only so far you can go with jellyfish, 19 cent hot dogs, teenage romantic longings and getting sand kicked in your face. We need to spice this up. In short, sex, or the hint of it, sells.
These are all good and sufficient reasons but, as usual, my real reason for arguing inclusion here is personal curiosity. I have been waiting some forty-four years to ask this simple question. Why, while we were driving down the boulevard on those cold October nights, let's say, were most of the cars all fogged up? What were their defrosters not working? Come on, please, tell me.
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