In the fall, when apples were a-plenty, my Dad and I would gather all kinds from around the neighborhood. We used bushel baskets to gather up the apples. I would fill ‘em, and Dad would carry them to the old Chevy and stack them where the back seat had been removed.
Back home, stems and leaves were removed, rotten ones discarded, then washed down. Now, out came the apple press and crusher. We washed it down with water and bleach. It was set up in the garage and fastened down. A blue and white enamel pot was fitted with a topping of cheesecloth and slid under the press. The baskets were set atop each other beside the press.
Dad would crank the handle, I would stand on a wooden box and toss in the apples. Ground-up apples spewed out into a slatted barrel-like cage that contained the mash. When the cage was full, it would be topped with a wooden head. A screw was turned to press the mash. After a few turns, out of the tray would come a clear golden juice.
Then, back off the screw, clean out the cage and do it again and again until the apples were gone. I would have a drinking glass close by, to hold under the stream until full. Oh, how good that was.
Next step was to bottle this golden juice. Dad had a dipper that he dipped in the pot, then he poured the juice into a cheesecloth-covered funnel that was stuck into glass gallon jugs that we had scavenged from the dump. These jugs had been washed, scalded, and bleached days before -- that was my job. Mom would bring scalded corks out to us, steaming, and in they would go. That would take all of a Saturday.
Sunday morning, Dad would haul a six-foot table from the cellar and drag it to the side of Summer Street. The table was made from an old Singer sewing machine base and a shed door. Then out came a green ice cream chair with a splintery wood seat. This was my stand!
We filled the table with gallons and half gallons of fresh apple juice. A sign went up, “Fresh Apple Juice.” A gallon was 50 cents, plus a five cent jug deposit. Half gallon was 35 cents plus deposit.
One day I sold ten gallons. Wow, $5! I got 10% -- 50 cents. That would buy 10 candy bars or 10 Cokes or even a movie trip!
There was a customer that refused to pay the deposit and didn't return the jugs they had promised to. They never got another jug of juice either.
How sweet it was -- for about 3 or 4 days. It got tangy in about week or so. It was a good thing for corks. We would often find them popped out onto the porch floor as the juice fermented.
Dad would fill a small wood cask with apple juice and leave it in the cellar for about a year, we then had apple cider vinegar. I am now using a vinegar I made in 1975.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Roadside Stands
There were many roadside stands throughout Marshfield, and Seaview had its share. Most were vegetable or strawberry stands.
Before World War II, there was a stand on Summer Street across from the north end of Station Street. It was owned by Ollie & Anna Nourse. In the spring, many kinds of flowers were for sale, followed by early cherries and peaches. Then vegetables of all kinds. All grown on their property. You also could get a dozen eggs.
If that stand existed today, you would be taking your life in your hands stopping there! There was no off-street parking on their side, however you could park in a small space on the north end of the Seaview Garage and walk across Summer Street.
Further up Summer Street, about as far as Seaview extended, was Bob & Agnes Dow's stand. This was mostly a vegetable stand. Agnes did make some baked goods.
The most unforgettable stand was Agnes & Bill Bonney's, at the south end of Station Street at Summer Street. It was a 2x4 structure with lift-up front and sides. From the earliest flower to the latest, bunches would adorn the shelves as well as around the stand. Most were 15 cents; glads were 25 cents. The Bonneys had the most beautiful arrangements.
However flowers were not the big draw. It was Mrs. Bonney's baking. She filled the shelves with pies, cakes, cookies, and other sorts of pastries. Cakes were her best seller, specially decorated for any occasion. Mrs. Bonney would put a little extra decoration on a cake for her favorite customers -- the ones known to leave a tip.
On a Friday or Saturday afternoon during the summer, there was hardly a spot to park. Locals were arriving home after work, and summer people for the weekend. They would want her wonderful goods, rather than bake or cook. Mrs. Bonney's cooking was probably better than theirs anyway. On a Saturday, the pastries were gone by 1 p.m. Late Saturday afternoon, a line would form at the side porch door awaiting the baked beans, frankfurts and brown bread, along with any pastry left. Mrs. Bonney would have a new batch of goods for Sunday morning.
Summer Street was once the main route to Humarock from the Boston area, however those that came in from Route 3 would also find Bonney's wonderful goods.
We would never visit with Mrs. Bonney during her busy summer months, but an off-season visit was a treat. Brownies and a glass of milk were always on my priority list. Most families in the neighborhood were as poor as church mice, but were always generous with a cup of tea or coffee, and a home cooked treat.
Before World War II, there was a stand on Summer Street across from the north end of Station Street. It was owned by Ollie & Anna Nourse. In the spring, many kinds of flowers were for sale, followed by early cherries and peaches. Then vegetables of all kinds. All grown on their property. You also could get a dozen eggs.
If that stand existed today, you would be taking your life in your hands stopping there! There was no off-street parking on their side, however you could park in a small space on the north end of the Seaview Garage and walk across Summer Street.
Further up Summer Street, about as far as Seaview extended, was Bob & Agnes Dow's stand. This was mostly a vegetable stand. Agnes did make some baked goods.
The most unforgettable stand was Agnes & Bill Bonney's, at the south end of Station Street at Summer Street. It was a 2x4 structure with lift-up front and sides. From the earliest flower to the latest, bunches would adorn the shelves as well as around the stand. Most were 15 cents; glads were 25 cents. The Bonneys had the most beautiful arrangements.
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| Glads were one of Mrs. Bonney's favorites. |
On a Friday or Saturday afternoon during the summer, there was hardly a spot to park. Locals were arriving home after work, and summer people for the weekend. They would want her wonderful goods, rather than bake or cook. Mrs. Bonney's cooking was probably better than theirs anyway. On a Saturday, the pastries were gone by 1 p.m. Late Saturday afternoon, a line would form at the side porch door awaiting the baked beans, frankfurts and brown bread, along with any pastry left. Mrs. Bonney would have a new batch of goods for Sunday morning.
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| Notice the cuts in the frankfurt, the old fashion way. |
We would never visit with Mrs. Bonney during her busy summer months, but an off-season visit was a treat. Brownies and a glass of milk were always on my priority list. Most families in the neighborhood were as poor as church mice, but were always generous with a cup of tea or coffee, and a home cooked treat.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Prohibition & Rum Running in Humarock
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| River look-outs, making sure the coast is clear. |
For nearly 14 years, 1919 to 1933, our country was dry! It really wasn't, but selling alcohol was illegal. It didn't take long for the “swamp Yankees” to turn to “rum running.”
Illegal contraband liquor was a profitable enterprise for the water people. Boat motors were quickly converted over to more powerful and faster ones, and the insides of vessels were gutted for more space. A schoolmate, Alfred A., told me that his stepfather’s lobster boat was a “rum runner.” It had a big motor in it, and was quite narrow for a lobster boat.
Safe unloading areas were located. Bays, harbors, rivers, creeks, and other landing spots were found. Humarock was one of these safe places -- or at least more safe than other harbors. Federal funding was weak and the revenuers had to spread themselves thin.
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| This was an ideal drop off spot, just off the South River. |
On a good night, a row out to the “Mother Ship” and back, took most of the darkened hours, depending on the weather. On occasion, unfavorable weather would delay the boatmen’s return. Daylight would give them away, so they would row up into a remote creek, cover their dory with marsh grass, and hunker down for the day with nothing to eat or drink! Or nothing to eat! Up to 20 cases could be safely stacked in the dories, however greed and poor judgment sent many boats floundering and losing their contraband. Some of this contraband would find its way to shore, where scavengers would find liquid gold!
Lookouts were needed to warn the boatmen of any danger that may come about. Lookout posts were stationed from the Sea Street Bridge to Fourth Cliff.
The lookout on the bridge was a well known local that had a non-drinking reputation, and liked to fish. His gear was a tin bucket, bait, a sharp knife, a hand line, a flashlight and cigarettes. Time on was 9 or 10 pm; off was daylight, rain or not. If the boats were out, you were on. Over would go the line, baited or not. Sometimes this lookout was joined by a friend -- his line would go over with a bottle of hooch tied on the end. This was to be retrieved periodically.
The hooch was unloaded at various locations. The cases were picked up by Chevy 6-cylinder panel trucks. Chevys were quieter than the Ford Model A’s. Canvas snap-on signs were attached to each side with a local milk company logo.
I was told, by the same reliable source, that only once, during this guard’s time on the bridge, did he have to call off a landing.
One night, just before midnight, a big black Packard with four men inside, strangers, stopped on the bridge and asked where so-and-so's cottage was. The fisherman gave them directions, and off they went. The fisherman/guard flashed a signal to the lookout on the point down river, and the signal was passed on to the cliff.
That night’s truck was turned around and left. No one else ever reported seeing the car or the men. No one saw them leave; no one reported using so-and-so’s cottage. However, this was a subject not discussed, and questions were unthinkable.
My late friend Phil, a Seaview native, told me the following. It seems that Charlie, Phil's father, took a walk to Pine Island. While coming back, just off the walkway, he saw a newly tracked path in the marsh grass. Off he went to investigate. He found something that was covered over with marsh grass. A case of 11 bottles of hooch!
Even though Charlie was a teetotaler, he was not going to leave this find. He covered it back up and waited until dark. Charlie made his way back through the cedar grove to the edge of the marsh, found the case of hooch, then made it home without being seen, he hoped! He stashed the case in the cellar, where his wife would not find it, as she was death against alcohol.
Within a few days, word reached Charlie, that Wally, a heavy drinker, was on a killing rage. It seems that someone stole his property from The Island. He was telling everyone in Seaview that if he found out who stole his property, he was going to kill them!
You see, the property was never Wally's. He probably found it stashed in one of the creeks by a boatman. Charlie never uttered a word. Some of Charlie's friends enjoyed a holiday gift!
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| Chevrolet panel truck, much like the trucks used to deliver illegal liquor to the speakeasies. |
Ray Freden, Seaview resident, 60 years.
Monday, February 21, 2011
A Seaview Kid Goes Shopping
In the 40s, Marshfield did not offer much but basic shopping. The A&P, First National, Wherrity's drug store and soda fountain, Feinberg's clothing store, a general store here and there.
There were traveling vendors -- Hathaway's Bakery Bread, a black and white Chevy panel truck, Smitty was the breadman. There were drawers that would roll out to get the donuts and pastries. The White Brothers milk truck would stop at our house. Herby delivered the milk bottles with the bulb in the top where the cream would settle, a cardboard disc pressed into the top. There was a meat vendor and a fish vendor but I can't remember them by name.
A short drive to Scituate gave my folks much more to choose from. A much larger A&P, an Italian delicatessen. My Mom would buy a wedge of parmesan cheese that would be shredded on our pasta dinner. A 5&10 that I couldn't get enough of. Welch's Hardware Store, where my Dad always had to get something. My Dad & I would get our hair cut at Larry's Barber Shop. We would stop at the Quincy Gas Station at the beginning of Front Street to get a dollar’s worth of gas -- I think gas was under 15 cents a gallon -- that would take the old Chevy and Dad to the Greenbush Train Station all week.
Other shopping trips would be to Rockland, Brockton or Quincy. The Rockland trips were to the Thom McAn shoe store and to Woolworth’s 5&10 cent store, to buy baby chickens. Yes, chickens -- the baby chicks would be in a long high box on the counter with lightbulbs hanging down to keep the chicks warm. Dad would have to lift me up to pick out the most lively ones. I remember some were dyed pink. There was no way to tell which were hens or roosters. Dad always wanted 6 to 8 hens and 4 roosters. The roosters were for the holidays. Many times we got more roosters than hens, so therefore, more holidays.
Brockton was a favorite city for my folks to shop. Both parents were born and brought up there. Sears and Roebuck was the first stop. To park in the rear, you would drive through an opening between two buildings with a large structure above, a rather unusual entrance that intrigued me. This store always had plenty of bikes for me to drool over.
After my folks finished shopping, there was always a stop at the Swedish Bakery on the corner. I will never forget the smell of the freshly baked goods. My Mom would have to buy two loaves of Swedish rye, one for the ride home and one for home. Also a package of knackebrod, a Swedish crisp bread. It came in a paper package glued up on the bottom, so we always opened it from the bottom. Out came a thin, round, greyish brown, cracker-like bread with a hole in the center. It could be broken into pieces easily. I have not seen this round version for years. Now it’s Wasabrod -- Wasa crisp bread -- now cut rectangular. How dull. My Dad said the hole in the middle was to hang it on a pole in the old bakeries. You could buy as many pieces as you wished and the baker would wrap it with brown paper off a large roll, then he would tie it with string. The last Swedish bakery I remember was in Hanover. I do miss that smell and tearing that round loaf of rye open, and eating it dry-raw.
by Ray Freden
Marshfield resident 70 years, Seaview resident 60 years.
There were traveling vendors -- Hathaway's Bakery Bread, a black and white Chevy panel truck, Smitty was the breadman. There were drawers that would roll out to get the donuts and pastries. The White Brothers milk truck would stop at our house. Herby delivered the milk bottles with the bulb in the top where the cream would settle, a cardboard disc pressed into the top. There was a meat vendor and a fish vendor but I can't remember them by name.
A short drive to Scituate gave my folks much more to choose from. A much larger A&P, an Italian delicatessen. My Mom would buy a wedge of parmesan cheese that would be shredded on our pasta dinner. A 5&10 that I couldn't get enough of. Welch's Hardware Store, where my Dad always had to get something. My Dad & I would get our hair cut at Larry's Barber Shop. We would stop at the Quincy Gas Station at the beginning of Front Street to get a dollar’s worth of gas -- I think gas was under 15 cents a gallon -- that would take the old Chevy and Dad to the Greenbush Train Station all week.
Other shopping trips would be to Rockland, Brockton or Quincy. The Rockland trips were to the Thom McAn shoe store and to Woolworth’s 5&10 cent store, to buy baby chickens. Yes, chickens -- the baby chicks would be in a long high box on the counter with lightbulbs hanging down to keep the chicks warm. Dad would have to lift me up to pick out the most lively ones. I remember some were dyed pink. There was no way to tell which were hens or roosters. Dad always wanted 6 to 8 hens and 4 roosters. The roosters were for the holidays. Many times we got more roosters than hens, so therefore, more holidays.
Brockton was a favorite city for my folks to shop. Both parents were born and brought up there. Sears and Roebuck was the first stop. To park in the rear, you would drive through an opening between two buildings with a large structure above, a rather unusual entrance that intrigued me. This store always had plenty of bikes for me to drool over.
After my folks finished shopping, there was always a stop at the Swedish Bakery on the corner. I will never forget the smell of the freshly baked goods. My Mom would have to buy two loaves of Swedish rye, one for the ride home and one for home. Also a package of knackebrod, a Swedish crisp bread. It came in a paper package glued up on the bottom, so we always opened it from the bottom. Out came a thin, round, greyish brown, cracker-like bread with a hole in the center. It could be broken into pieces easily. I have not seen this round version for years. Now it’s Wasabrod -- Wasa crisp bread -- now cut rectangular. How dull. My Dad said the hole in the middle was to hang it on a pole in the old bakeries. You could buy as many pieces as you wished and the baker would wrap it with brown paper off a large roll, then he would tie it with string. The last Swedish bakery I remember was in Hanover. I do miss that smell and tearing that round loaf of rye open, and eating it dry-raw.
by Ray Freden
Marshfield resident 70 years, Seaview resident 60 years.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Hatches Boat Yard
As a kid from Seaview, I have always been fascinated by Humarock. From as early as I can remember, about 1939, until 1954 when I broke away from my year-around visits, finding other places of interest. However I always have to take a drive up to the Cliff when I'm in the area.
One fall day my Dad piled me into the old Chevy and off to Hatches Boat yard -- I can't remember why. We arrived and Dad parked in front of the shed-like building. We got out and went up a few stairs, through a side door and into the front room. There was a large desk and chair, and some stuff hanging on the wall.
The men and Leon Hatch were in the back room -- but let me describe the building and area.
The area is on the west side of Central Ave, Humarock -- across from Seaview Ave. and the north end of Shore Drive.
The largest building ran with its gables east and west, with large sliding doors on the east side -- they seemed boarded tight, with no ramp or entrance.
The entrance door was on the left side, with maybe 3 steps.
There was a smaller, shed-like building, attached on the left (south side), with two doors. If any boatbuilding was going on, it was in there. There was room to park in front of these doors.
The foundation on the north and west was made of field stones, of which some are still visible today.
Dories were stacked on one another on the south side. On the north side there were tracks that ran from near the street to below the low water line. A cradle with wheels sat on the tracks, and a winch was at the head of the tracks.
There were dories pulled up on the north beach, maybe ten of them. Leon rented out boats to fishermen and hunters.
The building was shingled and silver grey and in poor condition outside. There were two brick chimneys, one in the shed-like building, and one in the west room of the main building.
My Dad and I walked through the front room, knocked, and went into the back room. Oh wow! Four men were sitting around a table, playing cards; a bottle of whiskey sat in the middle. You could hardly see across the room, the cigar and pipe smoke was so thick. The back (west) window was open, so I headed that way.
My Dad was talking to Leon. The others greeted my Dad with a, “Hi Bill.” My Dad worked for Charlie Clark (Clarks Store) from 1927 to 1934, as a clerk and real estate agent, so he was no stranger to the Humarock people.
As I peered out the window, the river was full of ducks and geese! They were acting strange, not moving about as I had seen in Keene's Pond. I asked the man closest to the window about them. He said they were decoys.
“What’s a decoy?” I asked.
He explained they were made of wood, and the ducks thought they were real.
It was coming together now -- guns leaning against the walls, gun shells on the shelf. I was fascinated, I was excited, I wanted to see the ducks come in and land beside the wood ones. No one in our family hunted, so I knew nothing about guns and hunting.
I paid no attention to what my Dad and Leon were talking about. I just kept looking out that window at those decoys. As I turned from the window, I accidentally kicked a gun that was leaning close to the window. It went crashing to the floor. Well all hell broke loose. One man hollered at my Dad to get that G--D--- kid out of here!
Well, I was on the way on my own! Through the door to the front room, out the door, and down the steps into the old Chevy, down on the floor bawling my head off!
Dad was close behind and into the Chevy. Off we left to home. Dad assured me it was an accident and not to worry any longer.
A stop at “Steads,” a bottle of Ballantine Ale and a cigar for Dad, and a candy bar for me. All was well.
The many times that I have passed Hatches, I so remember that day. I never set foot in that building again!
I was recently approached by the current owner of the Hatches Boat Yard property, to see if I knew of any pictures of the building. I do not. However I sketched the building as I remember it.
If anyone has a photo of “Hatches,” he would love a copy.
One fall day my Dad piled me into the old Chevy and off to Hatches Boat yard -- I can't remember why. We arrived and Dad parked in front of the shed-like building. We got out and went up a few stairs, through a side door and into the front room. There was a large desk and chair, and some stuff hanging on the wall.
The men and Leon Hatch were in the back room -- but let me describe the building and area.
The area is on the west side of Central Ave, Humarock -- across from Seaview Ave. and the north end of Shore Drive.
The largest building ran with its gables east and west, with large sliding doors on the east side -- they seemed boarded tight, with no ramp or entrance.
The entrance door was on the left side, with maybe 3 steps.
There was a smaller, shed-like building, attached on the left (south side), with two doors. If any boatbuilding was going on, it was in there. There was room to park in front of these doors.
The foundation on the north and west was made of field stones, of which some are still visible today.
Dories were stacked on one another on the south side. On the north side there were tracks that ran from near the street to below the low water line. A cradle with wheels sat on the tracks, and a winch was at the head of the tracks.
There were dories pulled up on the north beach, maybe ten of them. Leon rented out boats to fishermen and hunters.
The building was shingled and silver grey and in poor condition outside. There were two brick chimneys, one in the shed-like building, and one in the west room of the main building.
My Dad and I walked through the front room, knocked, and went into the back room. Oh wow! Four men were sitting around a table, playing cards; a bottle of whiskey sat in the middle. You could hardly see across the room, the cigar and pipe smoke was so thick. The back (west) window was open, so I headed that way.
My Dad was talking to Leon. The others greeted my Dad with a, “Hi Bill.” My Dad worked for Charlie Clark (Clarks Store) from 1927 to 1934, as a clerk and real estate agent, so he was no stranger to the Humarock people.
As I peered out the window, the river was full of ducks and geese! They were acting strange, not moving about as I had seen in Keene's Pond. I asked the man closest to the window about them. He said they were decoys.
“What’s a decoy?” I asked.
He explained they were made of wood, and the ducks thought they were real.
It was coming together now -- guns leaning against the walls, gun shells on the shelf. I was fascinated, I was excited, I wanted to see the ducks come in and land beside the wood ones. No one in our family hunted, so I knew nothing about guns and hunting.
I paid no attention to what my Dad and Leon were talking about. I just kept looking out that window at those decoys. As I turned from the window, I accidentally kicked a gun that was leaning close to the window. It went crashing to the floor. Well all hell broke loose. One man hollered at my Dad to get that G--D--- kid out of here!
Well, I was on the way on my own! Through the door to the front room, out the door, and down the steps into the old Chevy, down on the floor bawling my head off!
Dad was close behind and into the Chevy. Off we left to home. Dad assured me it was an accident and not to worry any longer.
A stop at “Steads,” a bottle of Ballantine Ale and a cigar for Dad, and a candy bar for me. All was well.
The many times that I have passed Hatches, I so remember that day. I never set foot in that building again!
I was recently approached by the current owner of the Hatches Boat Yard property, to see if I knew of any pictures of the building. I do not. However I sketched the building as I remember it.
If anyone has a photo of “Hatches,” he would love a copy.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Learning to Drive on Central Ave. in Humarock
It must have been 1940. I was coming up to 6 years old. On Saturdays, late afternoon, Dad would drive his old Chevy to Steads store to get a bottle of Ballantine Ale and a cigar. I would beg him to drive to Fourth Cliff. We would drive over the hump in the old wooden bridge, pass Dick Smith’s garage, and make a left on Central Ave. Stopping near the Humarock Lodge, I would climb into his lap so I could steer and shift.
Dad taught me how to shift the 3-on-the-floor. Dad would operate the clutch and gas; I would steer & shift.
“Okay, into first,” he would say. Away we went.
“Okay, into second.” We went faster!
“Okay, into third'.” We were flying! Maybe 30 miles an hour past Hatches boat yard.
We turned at the base of Fourth Cliff and returned to the Lodge. I would take my place in the passenger side, then urge my Dad to go fast over the hump in the bridge -- which he did. All the wheels flew into the air! Or at least that’s what I thought. No, we didn't tell Mom 'til years later.
During the war years, there were fewer trips to the Cliff because of travel restrictions. Dad worked for the Boston Record American Newspaper and had a news reporter pass, so we were let through the barricade, and no, he wasn't a reporter. Dad did not allow me to drive in Humarock during those times.
After the war, I could drive without sitting in Dad’s lap, so off to Humarock for a drive out to the Cliff, or south Humarock to Carl Moreheart's parking lot next to Rexhame Beach.
Dad taught me how to shift the 3-on-the-floor. Dad would operate the clutch and gas; I would steer & shift.
“Okay, into first,” he would say. Away we went.
“Okay, into second.” We went faster!
“Okay, into third'.” We were flying! Maybe 30 miles an hour past Hatches boat yard.
We turned at the base of Fourth Cliff and returned to the Lodge. I would take my place in the passenger side, then urge my Dad to go fast over the hump in the bridge -- which he did. All the wheels flew into the air! Or at least that’s what I thought. No, we didn't tell Mom 'til years later.
During the war years, there were fewer trips to the Cliff because of travel restrictions. Dad worked for the Boston Record American Newspaper and had a news reporter pass, so we were let through the barricade, and no, he wasn't a reporter. Dad did not allow me to drive in Humarock during those times.
After the war, I could drive without sitting in Dad’s lap, so off to Humarock for a drive out to the Cliff, or south Humarock to Carl Moreheart's parking lot next to Rexhame Beach.
Some Memories of Going to Humarock
From a very early age, I remember my Mom pulling my wagon to Humarock from our home in Seaview, to visit with her sister Margie. My Dad attached a box onto the wagon and I fit inside. It was a long bumpy ride. The roads were not paved as smooth as they are today (later in my youth, I was always frustrated trying to roller skate on the rough Seaview streets).
As we came over the knoll on Sea Street, Humarock came into view with the old wooden bridge to cross. During one of these trips across the bridge, my wagon wheel slipped down in between the boards, and my Mom couldn't pull it out. She had me get out and we tugged at it -- to no avail. I was pretty scared and in tears. My Mom took hold of me and across the bridge we went, leaving my wagon behind. She knew where help would be.
Into the Humarock Garage we went, to ask her friend Dick Smith, the owner, for help. He said, “Sure, Ruthie.” He came out with a pry bar and off we went back to the wagon. One pry and out it came. My wagon was saved!
Mr. Smith told my Mom not to use the wagon, with its narrow wheels, on the sidewalk -- to use the roadway instead, because the boards went the other way and so the wheels would not get stuck.
Mr. Smith, Mom, & I in my wagon were now off the sidewalk and on our way to visit with my aunt Marge. I don't remember any of the visit, but I do remember the trip back across the bridge. We now were in the roadway, past the hump, and almost off, when a car came along and the driver hollered at us to get off the roadway and onto the sidewalk! My Mom hollered back at him and told him to go-somewhere! There was quite a bit of talk -- about that person -- at the supper table that night with Mom & Dad. Mom knew who the driver was that hollered at us, but she never told Dad.
As we came over the knoll on Sea Street, Humarock came into view with the old wooden bridge to cross. During one of these trips across the bridge, my wagon wheel slipped down in between the boards, and my Mom couldn't pull it out. She had me get out and we tugged at it -- to no avail. I was pretty scared and in tears. My Mom took hold of me and across the bridge we went, leaving my wagon behind. She knew where help would be.
Into the Humarock Garage we went, to ask her friend Dick Smith, the owner, for help. He said, “Sure, Ruthie.” He came out with a pry bar and off we went back to the wagon. One pry and out it came. My wagon was saved!
Mr. Smith told my Mom not to use the wagon, with its narrow wheels, on the sidewalk -- to use the roadway instead, because the boards went the other way and so the wheels would not get stuck.
Mr. Smith, Mom, & I in my wagon were now off the sidewalk and on our way to visit with my aunt Marge. I don't remember any of the visit, but I do remember the trip back across the bridge. We now were in the roadway, past the hump, and almost off, when a car came along and the driver hollered at us to get off the roadway and onto the sidewalk! My Mom hollered back at him and told him to go-somewhere! There was quite a bit of talk -- about that person -- at the supper table that night with Mom & Dad. Mom knew who the driver was that hollered at us, but she never told Dad.
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