THE EARLY YEARS
Chapter 1
News
It was late spring in 1965, and I had just turned ten years old, when my father came home from work at his advertising agency and asked us to gather around the dining room table (normally reserved for formality) for some very exciting, “Big News!” He raised his voice at least two octaves higher to underscore its apparent importance. (Ever notice how big news commands center stage while small news is relegated to mere happenstance?) We hung on his words.
“Kids. Mom and I want to tell you that there’s been a change in our plans for this summer. We’ve made a family decision. (We did?) You kids won’t be going back to day camp this summer after all. I know you guys liked it, but we’re doing something else as a family instead. Something really terrific!”
So this news was shocking. My sister and I shot our dad simultaneous stink-eyes and long, pouty, pitifully distressed faces.
“Ok, so… how’s this sound…” he continued. “We’re renting a house down Cape Cod for a month. That’s right, a month—uninterrupted! Four whole weeks together! It’s supposed to be a great place. Your Uncle and Aunt have a cottage there. There’s plenty of fun things to do for kids too. (Oh, is that the part we agreed to?) A beach. A pool. Wait, you’ll see; you guys are gonna love it. How’s that sound? Groovy and Out of Sight, right? Or do you hippie kids prefer radical?” (Ok, Dad, stop, this is getting weird.)
My mom interjected. “It’s a small cottage in a cute little beach community. You can walk to the ocean. Isn’t that exciting? We know you’ll love it, and we’ll get to spend lots and lots of family time together! Sounds wonderful, right?! Even better than camp, I promise.”
Oh, for joy, I thought. Now let me get this straight; my buddies are all spending their summers playing baseball and swimming at some fun camp, a couple of them even going to sleep-away camps, while I’ll be stuck someplace named after a stupid fish with my sister (That part wasn’t bad.) and my parents (That part most definitely was!) for how many weeks?
Great. Just flippin’ groovy. The “Big News” (I swore on the spot to forever hate big news) meant my summer was officially ruined before it even began.
How wrong I was...
The rest of the Spring flew by and so the day arrived. “D day” my sister and I called it—Dad’s day. There was no avoiding it. We packed Dad’s light blue Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 station wagon, complete with its ever-so-fashionable simulated wood-paneled siding, to the hilt with every semi-portable possession known to man, with even more worldly possessions strapped to the roof, and with the slam of a door and the rolling of our eyes (“They’re going to stick like that kids!” Sure Mom.), just like that, like it or not (We didn’t.), we were off.
After about an hour on the road, Alison and I both attempted to fake sick and return home. Our strategy failed. (“Ha. Good try, kids. Sorry, didn’t work.”) Shortly thereafter we traversed the Bourne Bridge. A big, scary-looking narrow thing. Dad, ever the tour guide, pointed out the Cape Cod Canal below, and apparently, we were now in Cape Cod. Wicked. Pissah. Then, instead of heading down Route 28 with the rest of the traffic, my father cut sharply to the right, passed The State Police Barracks, then continued swerving through a series of narrow, winding, and twisting roads that looked like they were going nowhere. The rollercoaster ride haven already served to make me nauseous, and judging from the look on Alison’s slightly green face, her as well.
Ok, deep breaths…
Out of my window on my right, I spied The Aptucxet Trading Post & Museum (“Founded by The Pilgrims in 1627”), then The Grey Gables Market on my left. Just beyond the market, we continued over a set of railroad tracks, following the bend on the road, when suddenly we lurched into a driveway of crushed seashells, many of which were slippery with fresh seagull poop. Looking up, I saw what could only be described as an utterly dilapidated, homely, practically-falling-down summer cottage imposter. It looked horrible. Miserable! Terrible! Condemnable! Alison and I were in shock! What the hell?!
The cottage looked smaller than tiny. I’m talking minuscule. A large patch of thorny weeds pretended to be a front lawn. The house was actually crooked, with its foundation sinking unevenly into slimy soot. The sun-faded cape shingles looked embarrassed by the cracked yellow window shades drawn tightly on every window. In essence, it looked like hell on Earth. Not any place on Earth, mind you. Right here. My father enthusiastically announced we would be spending our “fantastic four-week vacation” here, prompting my sister to erupt into a series of great, gulping sobs, her face suddenly awash in tears.
A moment later, my dad, not known to be the funniest guy, broke out laughing, shoved the wagon into reverse, blowing out seashells left and right as he backed out, and totally amused by his own antics bellowed: “Just kidding, kids! Don’t worry, this isn’t it. Our cottage is another mile up the road, and it’s MUCH nicer! Haaa! Look at you guys! Got ya both, didn’t I?”
Guess what, Dad? Not funny. Not flippin’ funny at all.
Fortunately, the rest of the trip would be a straight-out fantasy. Details forever cemented in my mind. Images jumping in and out of my subconscious, at will, as vivid today as they were a lifetime ago, meticulously recording my indoctrination to Mashnee Island. This was my maiden voyage, and I was intently studying it all.
As we drove farther down the winding road, its thick brush tickling the sides of my dad’s car and somewhat obscuring our view, the world suddenly snapped open. We emerged to a spectacular view of utterly unexpected, absolute beauty. In front of us lay a long, curved causeway sandwiched between white sandy beaches that flowed into the blue-green ocean. Motorboats and sailboats bobbed on small whitecaps on either side of the causeway. My dad, being a navy guy, pointed out the Massachusetts Maritime Academy just offshore at the Cape Cod Canal’s mouth.
As we continued our trek, we first passed Hog Island, a small island with rough terrain just off the beaten path (also known as the place where I would lose my virginity). Then, just beyond that was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen in my life, introduced by a simple hand-crafted wooden sign proclaiming: ”Welcome to Mashnee Village.” Ahead was an island that could be most fittingly described as enchanted! Little did I realize, although I’d carry all of my summers on this magical little isle in my heart forever, one summer in particular, would be the greatest of them all.
As we approached Mashnee, we were greeted by an overzealous speed bump, which sent our collective heads on a suicide mission toward the roof and landed our kidneys somewhere in our throats as the wagon first bottomed out, then bounced skyward. Hopefully, Dad would remember never to do that again. Ever!
Before us lay a row of brightly painted, hand-decorated tin mailboxes clustered tightly together like a flock of seagulls in search of a singular clam. Once we drew closer to the island itself, my eyes scanned the water’s edge, alighting on what looked like a large activity center accented by a baseball diamond. We later learned the field had been nicknamed “bad-hop field,” where you either learned to have great hands and fast-reflexes or risked the indignity of permanently cracked facial features and dubious name-calling from the big kids.
As Dad navigated the narrow roads looking for our cottage, Alison and I paid close attention to our surroundings. The activity center we passed included a large, cedar-colored clubhouse, a tumultuous playground, and what we would learn was an in-ground saltwater swimming pool with its bottom painted ocean blue. In the distance, we could hear the summertime sounds of children playing and people laughing. Lots of them. There was a pretty-looking beach complemented by a boat dock painted sunshine yellow. Like I said, this place looked magical. (Although at the time I’d probably have said, “Far out,” or “Outta sight!” or perhaps even “Un-real!” since I was already beginning to sense its mystical lure.)
Chapter 2
Crunch
The island’s slender roads consisted of rough pavement, with an assortment of knobbly, misshapen stones haphazardly embedded into the sun-faded blacktop. The composition made for an uneven, but not overly harsh car or bike ride around the short, narrow streets of Mashnee. However, some mislaid pieces remained just sharp enough to occasionally rip bare feet, which in my case, would result in my Aunt Janet, a longtime summer resident of the island and the hippest aunt ever, and repairer of many a stubbed toe, tagging me with the inglorious nickname, “floppy toes.”
We rode the streets looking at the house numbers until we spotted our destination at 14 Clipper Road. The street was right near the ocean. It was a quaint, traditional-looking Cape Cod cottage with faded gray shingles, with bright yellow shutters, and a matching front door, which appeared to have been recently painted. The lawn was small but adequate, with a large rock near its center. There were some colorful flowers planted around the base. The driveway consisted of crushed seashells, which jumped and crackled like Cap’n Crunch under the weight of my dad’s overstocked wagon.
The place certainly looked a million, zillion times better than that first trainwreck, that was for sure! Maybe even, dare I say, inviting? There would be no stink-eyes this time; now this was more like it. Alison and I were up and out of our seats in a flash, racing wildly toward the front door.
“I’m older so I get to pick my room first,” she crowed.
“No way, I got to the door first, so it’s my pick, right, Dad?” I yelled back, just as my parents exited the car.
“No fighting, kids; you’re sharing a bedroom anyway!” Dad yelled over his shoulder. Naturally we thought he was kidding (again).
As we entered the cottage, everything about it shouted quaint and inviting. The house featured knotty-pine paneling everywhere, including a small living room with fireplace, and a linoleum-floored kitchen with an off-kilter wooden table that seated four.
Down a short hallway there were, in fact, only two bedrooms, not the three my sister and I had expected the cottage to have, which meant, much to our chagrin, we’d have to share a room after all. Ugh. Not cool.
Out back was a small yard filled with freshly mown weeds, doing their best to impersonate real grass. The yard offered a small flagstone patio for gatherings, complete with a charcoal barbeque grill, and a generous collection of lightweight aluminum folding lawn chairs. There were also matching chaise lounges, their waterproof plastic webbing in an assortment of bright summer colors. You could see through to the neighboring yards but weren’t on top of each other.
To my (almost uncontrollable) excitement, I immediately spied a plastic wiffle ball bat along with three wiffle balls, two slightly dented and lying on the ground, with a third ball resting precariously on the roof’s edge. I would of course claim these newly discovered treasures as my personal possessions.
Built into the back of the house was a separate door leading into a cramped refuse room, occupied by several metal garbage cans painted a bilious green. This room was most notable for the unmistakable stench of nasty odors left over from prior cottage inhabitants.
Also noteworthy was the very low slope to the back roof of the cottage, making it very easy (and irresistible) to climb. In years to come, my ability to climb and dismount Mashnee’s single-story cottage rooftops with extraordinary dexterity and unmatched speed would be my claim-to-fame.
I would come to know there was almost always a breeze on Mashnee, less on the lower island, which is ten feet above sea level, but much more so on the Captains Row upper-side of the island. There you could attain a lofty perch by accessing steep, wobbly staircases which led to a stretch overlooking traitorous boulders and the open sea below. I remember as kids we joked that it would be the perfect place to hide a body. It just looked ominous.
