Added to that, always, heard off in the distance, were the serene and gentle sound of ocean buoys clanging blissfully in the bay. Also in the distance were the sounds of ships heading toward the canal and the fleeing buzz of small outboards as they headed back to the safety of Phinney’s Harbor, after spending a long day on the water.
These sounds were routinely augmented by the steady laughter and occasional raised voices of the island’s (often joyfully inebriated) inhabitants, partying late into the night in their cozy, dimly lit backyards. In concert, the sounds provided a perfectly orchestrated soundtrack to my childhood and all that was Mashnee.
If I close my eyes and concentrate,
I can still hear the voices.
Calling
Me
Back.
Chapter 6
Stuck
Whatever time I returned to the cottage, typically with scratched knees, stubbed toes, sweaty brow, and huge smile was fine. Within reason, the plus or minus being around two hours. Otherwise, nobody seemed to care (or notice? or be home?), as long as you were home for dinner, you were fine. Many were the days when I left home to go run and go boating or to The Club or play ball at 7:00 – 8:00 in the morning, and not reappear home until two seconds before dinner was served.
It was a different world back then. If you were late or among the missing, there’d be no APB issued, no AMBER Alert, no call for social services’ intervention or child therapy, and certainly, unless they were dragging your dead body, no hysterical calls to 911! Ha, and somehow, we lived!
Now, if you were in fact late for dinner, it was a different story altogether. All hell would break loose and believe me, you wanted nothing to do with that, as was found out the hard way on multiple occasions.
I quickly learned the clock ran a bit differently on the island. Slower. In fact, “Mashnee Time,” was no time at all. No worries. Just take it as it comes.
The tightly bound community lived free and easy, evidenced by the unlocked doors, half-opened windows, pulled-up shades, and bikes, trikes, and assorted sporting equipment scattered unattended on many front lawns. Kids of all ages, shapes, and sizes, flocked about, reminiscent of geese gathered into perfect formation, instinctively grouped into two vociferous flocks: older (cool) and younger (not as, but trying). Both groups were in search of everything that makes summer, summer, with not a worry in the world!
That night my family gathered together (bringing our own lawn chairs, sticks, marshmallows along with an ample supply of bug spray) and headed to my aunt and uncle’s house for a barbecue supper. They were just three streets over, on Rope Walk. Their friendly looking little cottage had a weathered gray ship-lap siding exterior, framed with cobalt blue shutters and a large, screened-in back porch.
We were warmly welcomed at the door with big hugs and wet kisses from my very hip Aunt Janet (No, those aren’t okra growing in her garden!). She ushered us through the house and into their backyard, where we were greeted by the tantalizing aroma of food grilling. Our dinner consisted of the best hamburgers, hot dogs, three different salads, stuffed zucchini, watermelon spears, and the best corn on the cob I’d ever tasted! My mother said it was the “sea air” making me extra hungry. Later that night it would also make me sleepy.
The next several days were a wonderful blur of nonstop activity and freedom. So much so that I started actually feeling bad for my “poor suckers” Seekonk friends, who had to endure the dogmatic rigors of summer camp, while we followed no schedule at all. Over those days I met other new friends, mostly through my cousins Lauren and Laura, but Dereck also introduced me to some kids he knew. There were always kids around, willing to play pinball games at The Club, or ping-pong, or tag football, or baseball or whatever. Our circle of compardes was quickly growing, as was my fondness for the island.
Near the end of that week the cape was hit by a wicked thunder storm. Rain came down in sheets, with intermittent flashes of lightning streaking across the sky. The Mashnee roads were flooded and everything was closed.
We were basically stuck at home with our parents, looking for any opportunity to escape, when my sister asked me to come with her a few streets over, to meet up with our cousins, who were at their neighbor, Mary Ellen Kramer’s house. As much as hanging out with four girls didn’t exactly thrill me (Remember I was ten.), my options were zero, so reluctantly, I tagged along.
After running out of the typical mundane card games, Mary Ellen went into her bedroom and reappeared carrying a large metal box held together by a heavy metallic clasp. To my absolute horror, the box contained a seemingly endless collection of Barbie dolls. Perhaps one Ken, I don’t remember.
About that same time, Dereck, Jack Jr., and the twins, Ernie and Steve Shifter, were finishing their respective lunches of ham and cheese sandwiches, accompanied by large glasses of milk. Also sitting at their kitchen table was their (annoying) little sister, Emily.
Mrs. Shifter, her first name was Jill, was always polite and helpful, but extremely shy and mild mannered. Mr. Shifter, (Jack Sr.) their tough, ex-marine, hulk of a father, worked for the Brockton, MA Postal Service. Mr. Shifter took no shit, and all four boys knew it. He kept them strictly in line and heavy-handedly dictated not only what they did, but the way they did it; everything really, right down to the way they dressed. Who were they to argue?
Anyway, all four Shifter boys decided they would brave the rain and asked if they could run over to my cottage on Clipper Road to see if I wanted to go play ping pong at The Club, soaked or not. Mrs. Shifter was fine with the idea.
When the Shifter boys got to the cottage my mother answered the door and ushered them in the direction of Mary Ellen Kramer’s house on Rope Walk. My mom was certain I’d welcome the boys’ company.
“Now have a fun day, boys; you sure look awfully soaked!” she called as the soggy band headed through backyards.
Back at Mary Ellen’s, I was sitting on the couch, reluctantly trying to contort Barbie and Ken dolls into unnaturally suggestive positions, when there was a knock at the door. My heart nearly jumped from my chest! Before I could even move, let alone disguise my activities, Mrs. Kramer shot out of the kitchen like a moth to a flame, and opened the door.
To my ultimate horror, standing there were not only Dereck, Jack Jr., and the twins, but also two other friends that had tagged along. To say the least, my embarrassment was off the charts, as after just one look, they broke out in unison singing and razzing: “Jimmy’s playing with Barbie dolls. Jimmy’s playing with Barbie dolls, Jimmy’s playing with—” Well, you get the idea!
Lightyears beyond mortified, I flushed bright red and began sputtering excuses.
“The girls made me play! I really hate Barbie dolls! I was only playing so I could chop their heads off…” Blah, blah, blah. It was all to no avail.
So there I was. Totally. Undeniably. Irrevocably. Busted!
Although the teasing and embarrassment would eventually fade, there was a life lesson learned in the incident which would stick with me on repeat, forever: I had initially judged Dereck by the unfashionable white socks he wore, but he was much more than his stupid socks, and he had unfairly judged me for the toys with which I was playing, and I was much more than those (stupid) toys.
I learned that people could look a certain way, or do a certain thing, but that’s not necessarily who they are. I hold these truths to be self-evident: Don’t be so quick to judge. Be quicker to accept. My mom called these: “Life’s lessons.”
Years later, when Dereck and I were still somewhat friendly, but not really friends, what with me only hanging with the “super-cool” kids, he approached me about something else, but wound up explaining the “un-cool” way in which he’d dressed growing up, specifically mentioning having had to wear those “stupid, white, dorky knee socks,” and saying he wished we could hang out more.
Turned out he and his three brothers often played impromptu soccer or kickball. The family doctor, (who saw a whole lot of the rough and tumble Shifter boys, but Dereck more than the other three) had told his folks that high, snug-fitting athletic socks might help Dereck reduce some of his injuries from bruises and reduce the possibility of shin splints. His mother had sought out the tallest socks and inadvertently purchased multiple pairs of girls’ cheerleader socks. And... so much for looking cool.
Dereck said he’d been pretty embarrassed about it back then. But my embarrassment ran considerbly deeper for having thought less of him for it. For not the first nor last time, Mashnee had taught me a valuable lesson.
It not only struck me. It stuck with me.
Chapter 7
Decked
Life on Mashnee was a breeze. Our daily routine, which in reality was no routine at all, was to head to the beach with my parents. They would join my aunt and uncle at one of the clusters of colorfully woven lounge chairs, each with a thin mesh chain at its base, running a few feet to a nearby pole, spiked deeply into the sand. Instead of realizing that even a good stiff breeze could scatter the aluminum lounge chairs all over the island, the typical user’s reaction was to assume they were anchored for security purposes.
“Welcome to our beautiful beach. It’s wonderful to have you. We hope you have a great time. But don’t you little bastards try to steal our chairs! You hear?!”
