From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Times Ain’t Now Like They Used To Be

The summer of 1962 was a good time to run the beach, run the beach at Olde Saco up in my old growing up home town in cold water Maine. At least my old friend Sam Grady and his running companion, Rene (Rennie) Dubois thought so. See, as he was telling me a few weeks ago at the beginning of July when I ran into him at Bob’s Big Breakfast Diner over in Scarborough, the idea was to build up your leg muscles and wind by slugging your way through the dunes, or sand piles. Sam said it was all the rage then, especially after everybody found out that was the way the Australian world record-holder at the mile Herb Elliott trained. So naturally every Podunk kid, from slow-mo Josh Breslin (for a minute as a runner) to fast guys like Sam and Rennie, who lived within fifty miles of the ocean, was running the sand that year.

Well that was Sam’s cover story, and maybe crazed runner Rennie (who would go on to win the state schoolboy mile championship a couple of years later) only a few years out of Cape Gaspe or someplace like that in Quebec, bought that story but I remember it very differently, very differently indeed as I informed a certain blushing sixty-something man when I “refreshed” his memory at the diner. See 1962 and sixteen, and ocean, even a cold water Maine ocean, meant if only in July and part of August, girls, local girls from around Olde Saco and, better, girls from up in the old country up in Quebec who used to flock to Old Orchard a few miles away in those days.

So sure Sam and Rennie would dutifully run miles in the sand piles in the early morning at the deserted Squaw Rock end of Olde Saco Beach, and maybe go home, depending on the tide, to shower and rest. But Sam (and usually Rennie, yes, I recall he was usually tagging along when I would see them later in the day) would inevitably be stationed (and I use that word choice consciously) just to the left of the jetty at the other end of Olde Saco Beach. And why was Sam (and Rennie) stationed in that exact spot. Have you been paying attention? That is where the girls were, okay.

Some were hot, the girls that is, some not, some from around town, some from the old country like I said but there were plenty of them. So naturally, naturally in 1962 anyway, every guy with any hopes at all in doing anything but dawdle away the summer drew a beeline to that location. Now get this straight everybody in the know, which meant every teen-age guy or girl, knew that you went to the left side of the jetty not the right. The right was for touristas and noisy families that everybody that counted, meaning naturally every self-respecting teenager, was hiding away from. And that left of the jetty sacred locale only extended maybe two hundred yards because then you would have more touristas and townies too poor to go to York, Kennebunkport, or someplace like that for a real beach vacation. But those two hundred yards or so was hallowed ground recognized by tourista and townie alike. So there we were (yes, in the interest of full disclosure as befits the times we live in I was “stationed” there too).

But back to Sam (mainly). Now despite his unusual interest in running his butt off in some sand dunes for no known rational reason except some strange cultish kicks that I could never figure out he was a good-looking guy (as was dark-haired Rennie who also had the cachet of being able to speak the French patois which was a dying language then in Olde Saco but got revived with the summer F-C invasion and gave him a jump on all the old country F-C girls). And good-looking guys, tanned, sixteen, 1962 , ocean sprayed, were drawing the frails (localism, teen localism for girls, women, okay) like crazy even if they didn’t know the patois, maybe especially if they didn’t know the patois.

Here though, is where our little story turns sad, teenage sad which meant at the time eternally sad although in the great scheme of things meant, well, meant merely a passing heartache or two. With emphasis on the passing part. Sam only had eyes for Lily LeBlanc, one of his female classmates at Olde Saco High, that summer. Actually let’s back up and make it had only eyes for her since about eighth grade. So his “vigil” down at that left side of the jetty was not about mulling over the merits of cute winsome brunettes in two- piece bikinis from Old Orchard or blondes, thin, no bosom blondes also cute from Three Rivers or Ile de Orleans up in Quebec or an off-hand sunburned Irish redhead from Portland like the rest of us but about making himself visibly present when one Lily LeBlanc and her girlfriends spread their blankets at their designated spot about one hundred yards to the left of the jetty.

Sam had two problems though, actually now that I think about it maybe three. First, Lily LeBlanc was “hot,” tall, thin, but with a nice shape and great legs (like most F-C girls) and so every guy from about fourteen to forty was eyeing her, and more from what I heard. So for a long time her “dance card” was full and so despite his occasional pleading for a date since about eighth grade she turned him down politely, but turned him down cold (most F-C girls were polite but had this funny habit of turning down guys cold as I well knew). Nada, no go, hit the road, brother but politely said just like their Gallic Catholic novena praying mothers taught them, damn it.

Secondly, just then, just that summer of 1962, Lily was enthralled by Pierre Jacques and his ’59 Chevy and so she was not in the “market” for good-looking guys with no cars, no hopes of getting cars, and in Sam’s case no great desire to get a car, although like everyone else, guy or gal, she probably took a few calculated peeks if something came strolling by. Lily could be seen when not preening herself at the Olde Saco jetty just for the heck of it could be seen riding very close to Pierre, already out of high school and working in one of his father’s diners in town (the one on Main Street not the one over on Atlantic Avenue that was strictly for touristas and blue-haired ladies) up and down Main Street (really U.S. Route 1 but everybody around called it Main Street, and it was), most summer nights. Sorry, Brother Sam, sorry.

Thirdly, and now that I think about it more this might have had more substance than I thought back in those days when I thought I was the only one who thought Sam was weird to be running in shorts in all weathers and under all conditions including that sand dune stunt. Right after Fourth of July that summer of 1962 Sam, desperate to talk to Lily down at the jetty and maybe turn things around, walked up to her to make his big play. And make it in front of that bevy of girlfriends. Like I said Sam was desperate. Here is what he said, or what he told me and Rennie he said a couple of days later when he related his sad tale to us and I quote- “I walked up to Lily and told her I had been running down at the Squaw Rock end of the beach the past few weeks in order to be ready to win the state championship in cross-country up in Auburn in the fall and that I hoped she would be there to see me win. She responded with-Oh, does Olde Saco have a cross-country team? But the way she said it was like if the school did have one it placed well below the science club or chess club. Strictly squaresville. ”

Crestfallen, Sam, not known for blushing, retreated. But intrepid like almost every other teenager otherwise there would be far fewer of them surviving
Sam returned to the jetty to maintain his now lonely and silent vigil although maybe a little farther away from the LeBlanc entourage a couple of days later. While there one member of that entourage, Sissy LaCroix, hesitantly headed in Sam’s direction. Now everybody liked Sissy, she had personality plus and although she was not as “hot” as Lily she was no throw-back either (localism-teenage localism). Somehow Sam thought she was bringing some barbed remark from Lily. Instead she said this, “Sam, I’ll go see you try to win the cross-country championship although I don’t know much about such things. Maybe you could tell me some more.” Right then and there he explained what the thing was about. And the rest was history. No, Sam didn’t win the state championship that year, he was third, but one Sissy LaCroix was on that golf course up in Auburn when he received his medal and they were together for the rest of their high school days.

[Sam and I after swapping some more lies at Bob’s Diner decided to go over to the jetty to see what this generation of Olde Saco and old country teenagers were doing to while away the summer teenage life. We went about one o’clock the height of teen beach time in the old days. When we got there to our dismay there was not one teenage blanket within a half mile of the jetty, on either side. Yes, times right now ain’t like they used to be. –JLB]