Our church sponsored Boy Scout Troop 19, to which both Dick and I were members. We both rose to second or first class scout and both ended as patrol leaders (the Hawk Patrol). Dick matriculated before me and I sort of followed in his footsteps. In those days, making Eagle Scout was almost unheard of and extremely difficult to achieve (thus the dirth thereof). In addition to the many camp-outs and camporees we also had a troop cabin outside of town on a site owned by the Bridgeport Hydraulic Company (the water works). Along one side there was a roaring brook, and up a slight hill in a stand of mature (over mature actually) Eastern Hemlock, a nice wooden cabin with lots of bunk space was located. Now the hemlock is considered a climax species in that its foliage is so dense nothing will grow under it, including its own seed. In the evening standing under that canopy was almost a spiritual experience. All was silent except the slight rustle of the breeze through the treetops, making me feel we were in a cathedral.
The local scout council maintained a camp: Camp Pomperaug located on a lake of that name along the Pomperaug River near Southbury CT. There we learned a lot. There were archery and shooting ranges. We had registered NRA instructors in gun safety and target shooting. All kinds of water sports were made available, the most fun being the canoes. There is more than merely paddling them along. We learned the J stroke (where one person can paddle and navigate the canoe in a straight line), canoe tilting (two in a canoe, one paddle-man in the rear and one standing on the forward gunwales holding a long pole with a boxing glove tied on to the end. Object: engage opponent similarly rigged and maneuver such that you can place your boxing glove such that a slight shove would knock him off. The secret, don’t lunge (a tempting option), for inevitably, the opponent would move just enough you would miss or land a glancing blow neither of which would slow your momentum enough to avoid going into the drink yourself. During recreation time, there was a small “gee dunk” where you could purchase soft drinks, ice cream sandwiches, candy bars, etc. It was the first time I saw the sign: “In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash”. Best of all though, were the Pies. One of our troup members was a guy named Joe Vaughn. Joe’s dad was the general manager at the Frisbie Pie Company back in Bridgeport. In addition to the regular sized pies (the inspiration for that ubiquitous disc known as the “Frisbie”) the company sold many small (6” or so) individual pies. They were always very popular in grocery and other corner type stores. Occasionally, a less than perfect batch would come out of the oven (mis-shapen, slightly burnt crust, etc,) These were of course rejected for sale, but Joe’s dad would bring huge trays up to camp and I can assure you those small apple, lemon, or blueberry pines went down just fine, burnt crust and all.
Of all the things we learned in the scouts, none was more important and tangible than the ability to cook. Although this was in an outdoor setting, basic principles apply in most cases. In the outdoor situation, the fire was the most critical element. The ability to create a fire with hot and not so hot coals was (and still is) critical. The greatest mistake people make is to cook things too fast. Our patrol was lucky to have leaders that could teach the basics, but the rest was basically an art that comes with practice, just ask any good cook. When I entered the scouts, I was in the same patrol (Hawk) as my older brother Dick, who was patrol leader and just leaving the troup. Since our mom had no daughters, she was bound and determined she was going to pass on some of her expertise to her boys. Dick was a good cook to begin with (and I was fair myself, probably to the point of not starving). It was a matter of projecting all that to an outdoor venue. He did and taught us who in turn taught those that followed.
We were known for our great meals not only within the troup but throughout the district council. Every year there was held an annual District camporee where all troups and patrols were judged on the overall campsite set-up, including tent placement, security (wind and rain) , drainage and meals. It was significant that every year I attended, including the three when I was Patrol Leader, the top District staff, serving as judges, made sure they stopped by our patrol for lunch on the day of meal judging. One of our innovations was a dandy oven made from a large Borden Milk can. This was a square rectangular vessel with a screw cap in the middle of the top. We cut out the entire top and with wire rigged a usable and smooth operating hinge. On the other side. A leather strap handle was affixed with a couple of rivets. Inside we affixed brackets that would hold light metal grate lifting the food off the bottom of the oven. We also purchased an oven thermometer. One of our favorites was canned Franco-American Mac and Cheese with cubes of seared canned Spam. Remember we had minimum refrigeration, so bulky stuff such as fresh meat and milk was out of the question. Now on top of the Mac and Cheese we grated generous amounts of sharp cheddar cheese. Put that in the oven for 30-40 minutes and pure ambrosia! That plus butter biscuits made a pretty good lunch, such that we had to make a batch to feed the line.
Another innovation was the “Emu” (like it sounds, not how it is spelled) Pit. Basically a hole in the ground, deep enough to keep animals from digging it up. If we arrived on a Fri. night, first thing Sat. morning we would dig the pit 2 or 3 feet across and 4 feet deep. We would then build a huge fire in the bottom and let it burn down to coals. While that was happening, we would typically wrap an uncooked pot roast of beef, potatoes, carrots and maybe onions separately in cheesecloth, and then wrap them all in one non-permeable (Aluminium foil) wrapping. Back at the pit, the coals were evenly spread, with a thin layer of soil on top. Then the groceries (gently flattened) were placed on top. Next, the pit was back-filled with the soil removed, and the area well flagged. Thus it was the last meal of the camp-out (Sunday lunch) was being cooked. Twenty-four hours later the meal was exhumed, and the cheese cloth package removed. A perfectly cooked pot roast (falls off the bone) emerged. The vegetables were completely cooked and since the cheese cloth used to wrap everything was porous, the veggies were well exposed to the delicious juices from the pot roast. What a great last meal. No clean-up. Just fill in the pit and head for the house (DI-8)
As long as we are here, a word about the Pomperaug River and its close neighbor the Shepaug River. Both were tributaries to the Housatonic River, one of the largest watersheds in the state surpassed only by the mighty Connecticut River. My closest buddy in those days, Toby Thompson (sadly deceased) and I spent many days and nights fishing these two rivers with good success. Fresh brook trout cooked over a fire is hard to beat.
Silver Hill
No discussion of my beginnings would be complete without considerable reference to Silver Hill, near Cornwall Bridge, CT. It was here along the banks of the Housatonic River that Pop and some of his friends built a weekend get-away or camp on the lands of the Stanley Works (Stanley Tools). Although it was part of a working (more or less) dairy farm, one of Pop’s friends was an officer of the company, so permission was granted, Where the camp was located was not suitable pasture-land anyway. Where was this anyway and so what? Well let’s locate it first. Most readers of this will have access to Google Maps, or some other mapping application, Refer to this as I explain. Leaving our house and turning north on Stratfield Rd. (CT Rt. 59) we travel north and cross the Merritt Parkway (CT Rt 15) where Stratfield Rd becomes Sport Hill Rd. In a few miles, Rt. 59 forks off to the east and becomes the Stepney Rd. until it ends at the intersection of CT Rt. 25 (a major 4 lane highway now) connecting Interstate 95 in Bridgeport with Interstate 84 in Newtown/Sandy Hook (famous for the schoolhouse shooting in 2013). From Newtown we bear a little west and pass through Brookfield Center and Brookfield and join US Rts. 7/202 north to New Milford, where we bear east across the Housatonic River on 202 and travel North to New Preston, and the northwesterly on state Rt. 45 past Lake Waramaug, over Warren Mt. and back down to Rt 7 just a few miles south of Cornwall Bridge. Traveling north we turn west and cross the Housatonic River on Cornwall Bridge (also a small community by that name with a post office). Crossing the bridge from east to west, a road intersects from the right (north) and circles around and goes under the bridge on River Road heading south. It was a rather large diameter curve that accommodated a church and a hostlery called “Laughing Water Lodge”. About 2 miles downstream, there were (and still are) dramatic remnants of a former bridge named Swift’s Bridge that washed out in the great flood of 1934 –‘35. That was the original route to the camp, but the bridge was never rebuilt. On the way to Cornwall Bridge as Rt. 7 was rejoined, the old road to Swift’s bridge a mile or so south, is still there as of this writing. Swift’s bridge was an old iron bridge similar to many others like it, but close to the river. When it washed out, all the stanchion support (rocks and concrete) fell into the river creating a delightful riffle of rapids that served as a real challenge to kayak and canoe races over the years. The kayaks used were actually called folbot’s (fold boats). They were collapsable and folded up into a duffle bag for travel. Every year there were foldboat races down the river from West Cornwall to Kent. We used to congregate at the old Swifts Bridge rapids, and watch the troops shoot through (and sometimes up and down). It was great fun and an inspiration for us to purchase a used one we will talk about later as appropriate. North of Cornwall Bridge there were other covered bridges that went down stream in 1936 as well. Most of them were never rebuilt (not really practical and high maintenance) The one in West Cornwell was rebuilt however, and is also known now as Cornwell Bridge. It is a beauty and is still actively used. Nowadays, these types of bridges are rare enough that they become tourist’s destination points (DI-9).
The Housatonic River near Cornwall Bridge was an ideal fly fishing stream. There were plenty of relatively calm (non-rapids) stretches including in front of our camp site, with ready access. As my Dad’s old friend, Judge Bradford Boardman used to describe it “30 minutes from bag to bank”. Many visitors to the camp brought their own sleeping bags. Shown are a couple of pictures depicting the denizens one might encounter in the river. The Rainbow trout is breathtaking when still wet. The smallMouth Bass is not (pretty), but more than makes up for it with his fierce battling characteristics. Both properly prepared, fried up beautifully in a frying pan (Plate A-9). The River Road ran along what might be called the “cut-bank of the river in that the hills came right down to the road. Much of the road has today become part of the Appalachian Trail and I don’t know if it is maintained as a road any longer. A quarter mile or so down from the Old Swifts Bridge, there was a small turn-out within which was a concrete pool fed by a mountain spring. In this pool, the farmer Ralph “brother” Watt (who farmed the land where the camp was) stored his filled milk cans. Once a day, a truck from Hood’s Milk Co. (Boston) would come and collect them and return the empty’s. The overflow from the concrete cistern created a small stream that flowed under the road and directly into the river. This is always a good situation where cool water from a spring meets the warmer waters of a river, because it is here that smaller bait fish congregate, setting the table for the bigger trout and bass.
In this part of the country there are 3 dominant species of trout, the Rainbow, Brown and Brook trout. Actually the Brook trout is a mis-nomer, the species belonging to the Char genera. But for our purposes we will call it trout, like most others do. In the river however, the Rainbow and Brown trout predominate along with the SmallMouth bass. When fishing for trout, the bait (live or artificial) must look good and natural for them to take interest. Not so with the bass. They are not so spooky and will strike just out of irritation at anything intruding into their space, especially when they are on the spawning bed. To make this point, I was taking a younger visiting kid down to the prime spot on the river for a little fishing. However we needed a few casting sessions to teach him the fundamentals. All I had was a simple fly rod with only an unbaited (albeit reflective) hook on the end. Just enough weight to make casting feasible. After showing the kid the basic arm motions, I cast the glistening hook out in the river so I could show him the proper retrieval sequence. No sooner did that bare hook hit the water, than “Wham!”, and I had hooked (and landed) the largest smallmouth I had ever caught. The kid looked at me in complete awe, and followed at my heels for the rest of the weekend (just what I needed). Every time we went back to camp, I hit the same spot (with and without bait) and never even got a nibble.
About a half mile or so further south on the river road, the hills yielded to a narrow flood plain a quarter-mile or so wide suitable for farming (the word “agriculture” would be too sophisticated). The crops here were mostly hay, pasture and corn (cattle not sweet). Moving down the road we would cross a placid looking stream(brook) running across the plain after cascading down the wooded hill-side. Just past the brook, was a long drive that crossed the field and ended in a barnyard with squawking hens and strutting roosters. There was a house (of sorts) to the left where “brother” Watt lived with his woman (Mrs. Curtis). The two were quite a pair, and the whole house smelled of burnt grease. He resembled the character “B.O Plenty” in the old Dick Tracy comic strip, with floppy hat, scraggly beard and face hair, and she is his perfect counterpart. There was a handyman, Warren (last or first name I don’t know). We called him the “wrangler”. Folks told us later that he was pretty much of an alcoholic, but as kids we never noticed. All we knew was he was a great guy and we often followed him around during his chores which included bringing cows in from the pasture, milking them and putting them back out again. He taught us how to milk (by hand) and drive a tractor. Also the technique for collecting eggs from the poultry barn (always leave one behind). I really became interested in dairy farming because of that experience. Alcoholic or not, Warren was a good teacher.
To get to the camp, we went through a gate on the north side of the barnyard, and went up a steep hill (not too steep for the older folks) a quarter mile or so where the topography leveled out a ways before going up again. In that relatively flat area (pasture actually, and we had to watch where we stepped) we eased eastward across a causeway bridging the aforementioned brook and turned north again into the campground. To the right as we walked in, was a small barn-red cabin built by one of the families (Walter North), and beyond right in the middle of the clearing, a huge rock and concrete fireplace about 3’ high. Slightly recessed on top was a heavy grate (often seen on sidewalks in cities). Beyond that at the north end of the clearing was Mom and Dad’s walled and floored tent (main tent). West on the edge of the brook was a work table with a closed cabinet at one end that contained our eating utensils and other “chuck wagon” stuff. At this point, the brook had developed a small revenue, and just north of the cook table was the eating table. Set at right angles to the brook the table had a roof and was about 10’ long. It was slightly cantilevered over the revenue, and a lot of time was spent around that table (eating, games, etc) rain or shine. There was a path that went quite a ways up the east side of the brook that we used for fishing and bathing. About 50’ up the path a platform was cantilevered over the edge of the brooks bank, where sat a real ice box. Ice in the top, accessed separately by a top-lifting lid. Below and accessed by a regular insulated door was a one shelf space for the things to be refrigerated (at the very minimum there was at least one steak and several cans of beer), but milk and cheese also. Vegetables were locally grown and didn’t need refrigeration on a weekend basis. Ice for drinks was chipped from the block ice in the ‘fridge’ ‘ The ice was purchased in New Milford on the way up. This ice was cut from local lakes during the winter and stored under mounds of sawdust. It was amazing how well it lasted through the summer. The ice was lugged to the campsite from the car in a good old L. L. Bean canvas sling with one guy on each handle. As soon as we were old enough, guess who the guy’s were?
Into the woods in back of the main tent was the guest tent, also walled and floored, but not quite as big. That was the kid’s digs while we were there. Just in back of the main tent (and right next to the fridge platform) was a bridge across the brook that led to the largest of the camp’s cabins owned by Sid and Eddie Talbot, great family friends. It had a nice Dudley (wood burning) stove and plenty of places to sit. It served as a refuge in bad and cold weather. Just west of the cabin (maybe 100’) the hill rose out of the brook’s small bottom. Arising out from the side of the hill was a fresh water spring to which a copper pipe was affixed. A steady stream of cold water was always available. In dry weather it would slow down some, but it always produced. There a bucket was always set under the pipe, and we never lacked for fresh water (I know, the kids had to fetch and tote). Just north of the bridge the brook cascaded over a series of big rocks forming a delightful pool beneath. Called the “little bathtub”, it served to wash up, brush teeth and when it was really hot, a place for kids to “skinny dip” (our family had only boys). Further up the brook was a much larger but similarly formed pool not surprisingly called the “big bath tub” where the big folks could bathe and far enough from main camp, could enjoy a little privacy (if you didn’t mind the occasional water snake peeking at you between the rocks). Absence of disturbance, the big bathtub was one of the very best fishing holes on our whole stretch of brook. The fish dejour was the common:brook trout. The brook trout is a feisty character typical of minor cold, clear waterways such as our brook and small ponds (DI-9). In some areas, the flesh is Salmon pink just like we found on Dix pond in the Adirondacks. For our Silver Hill brook, the flesh was whitish gray and delicious. The trout pictured is larger than we would typically catch (6”-12”). Six inches was the lower size limit. As now, fishing was best in the early morning, and that is when we went and the fish caught were fried up and served with breakfast that very morning (no refrigeration necessary).
This wonderful camp was located on what was known as “Silver Hill”. Whether or not this referred to past mining and extraction activity I have no idea. Like most extended youthful experiences, it seemed it went on for years and years. While it was multi-years, I suppose the heaviest use was from 5 to 8 years or so (1935-1945) but the experience left an indelible impression on me. Of course, Ma and Pop were outdoors people and that also rubbed off in a big way. Pop loved to hunt. No big game (deer, etc.) just birds (non song types), specifically, woodcock, pheasant, partridge (ruffed grouse) and ducks (on occasion). In their defense, none of them had any more worry than Ma had with us crossing the street to go to school every day, In fact, they may have been safer.
In this part of New England, the fall was short, and winter was well upon us by mid-November. Where we lived in southern New England along Long Island sound, precipitation was usually cold wet rain. Occasionally it snowed, and quite a few times it snowed a lot. When I was four or five years old, skiing was just beginning to become a popular winter activity, and our family due to the influence of my uncle Fuller (Mom’s middle brother) were into it with both feet. About 3 miles north of us Stratfield Rd. crossed the Merritt Parkway (CT Rt. 15) and became Sport Hill Rd. Right after the parkway Sport Hill Rd. intersected with Congress St. coming in from the west. Congress St. ran parallel to the parkway on the south and Mill River on the north. It connected in a couple of miles with CT Rt. 58, the Black Rock Turnpike. At that particular intersection lived the famous Richard Rogers (Rogers and Hammerstien, Rogers and Hart, etc.).
About a half mile from Sport Hill Rd. on Congress St., a driveway bridge over Mill River and proceeded about a quarter of a mile to a farmhouse on the left. This was the home of Tom and Mary Taylor (of Adirondack fame), dear friends of Mom and Pop. There was a barnyard with 2 or 3 mostly unused sheds. While the house itself was more or less square, a long addition off the southside corner made up a very functional den. This created an L shaped building. In the courtyard created by the “L” was a working well and pump, which was the source of their drinking water. (they did have running water and flush toilets, but well water beats city water every time). The barnyard/driveway continued behind the house past the well and through an old stone wall where the drive ascended a hill for another quarter mile or so. As the hill leveled out briefly, a bungalow was located, painted a forest green with a great wrap-around porch. Although the drive stopped there, a great open slope rose up to the west and continued as a wooded hillside to the top of the hill. Part of the hillside was occupied by a powerline running west/east. The open slope was a great skiing area, especially for beginners. Pop and his buddies worked hard to develop a usable ski trail utilizing the powerline right of way. On top of the bungalow they affixed several powerful flood lights. Of course, in the winter, days were short, and many evenings after dinner we would drive to the Taylor’s bungalow (where there was always a fire and hot chocolate) and ski for two or three hours. What a way to spend a great evening (there was no TV back then). It was there where I would begin my skiing lessons at age 4.
Back down the hill to the main house, there was across the drive from the well a small building next to one of the barns and it was tagged as the “gun room”, and it was. It had a pot-bellied stove, a couple of bunks and chairs and plenty of gun racks and a small bench for cleaning and maintenance (though I saw none of that). I did see plenty of beer and bourbon, however, and the “war” stories spun there were no-less than spectacular. Several people lived in revamped farm houses, some of which retained some of the original conveniences, including back (out) houses, and many were still functional. One friend had his outhouse wired so when someone went in and sat down (preferably a girl), a voice would boom out “Hey lady, move over I’m trying to paint down here”. It usually took a period of time before the individual would emerge red faced and amidst peals of laughter.
So what did we do the rest of the year? Well in the fall there was football, winter (in addition to skiing) was ice hockey and basketball, the latter of which I was not well equipped. In the spring was baseball, camping and an occasional golf round (groan), which proved to be more of a vocabulary builder than it was golf. In the summer, there is still baseball, camping and of course the beach. The most fun I had during those years (late ‘30’s and 40’s) was football. My good friend Dave Crego (since deceased, unfortunately) was physically unable to participate in contact sports (chronic back issues), but he loved the sport and was an extraordinary organizer for his age. We put together a 6 man football team and Dave developed a play book, and canvased other Lincoln School guys from surrounding neighborhoods and pulled together at least 4 other teams to provide a nice round robin playing schedule. Six-man football was an interesting innovation in which at least two players had to be in the backfield and the ball had to go through two sets of hands before executing the play (i.e. quarter back and hand-off, quarter back and lateral pitch, etc.).
About this time (5th grade), the school district boundaries changed and we (Lincoln School) added several new students from Stratfield School. Two stand out. The first and most significant was a feisty girl, with a great sense of humor and an easy laugh, named Joyce Edwards. The second, and at that moment more pertinent was a black kid by the name of Henry (something). He was small and shifty and was a huge addition to our football team. He was a happy kid, who fit in nicely, which was not unusual for that part of the country even back then. Dave Crego lived on Brookview Ave. a road intersecting Stratfield road from the west about ½ mile south of Brooklawn Terrace. That road crossed Rooster River and ran level for a quarter mile or so before it rose up the hill. Dave’s house was at the transition. In another quarter mile, the paved road ended and a dirt road continued through a gap in a stone wall and up on Brooklawn Country Club property. This road wound around and traveled between the 11th hole green and the 12th hole tee box. Our home field was the rough along the 11th fairway (with permission of the green’s keeper, as long as we stayed out of the fairway, and would respect golfers as they played through). Mr. Knapp was a nice guy and he also let us play baseball down the bottom of the hill next to the 12th hole green (right up against Rooster River (that “ate” a foul ball or two). The alternate field was Owen Fish Park. This field was on Stratfield Road a mile or so north of Toilsome Hill Rd. This fairly new park provided a better playing surface and most games were ultimately played there, saving the golf course for practice (and club members). Our only padding for these games were a set of flimsy shoulder pads and a helmet with little or no padding and face masks were a thing of the future. You would have thought there would have been some serious injuries, but except for a slight concussion I received, I knew of nothing really serious, In my case, we were playing on our country club field and I got bopped, I never remembered riding my bike home, but I did. I managed to call Dave Crego over 20 times to get my homework assignment. By then, his mom decided something was not right and called Ma. Since I called from upstairs, Ma hadn’t a clue I was calling. Overcame the Doc (in those days, doctors actually made house calls), resulting in the diagnosis and low activity for several days. I think I recovered, though there are those who seriously question that to this day.
In terms of playing games, we always managed to improvise a playable venue. Ice Hockey was a good example. On Brookview Ave., just before the hill and where Dave Crego lived, a road (Westwood Dr, I think) proceeded due north from Brookview Ave. and proceeded about two lots, and turned right angles back east toward Rooster River, where it dead-ended. North of the dead-end was all river bottom, part of which flooded during the winter months. Given the season, this overflow froze and presented a fine hockey venue, ignoring of course the several grass clumps and occasional tree or two. It worked quite well. Right across the Rooster River from this wonderful woods pond stood Mr. Johnson’s barn. His house of course, was in front facing on Stratfield Rd. right across from where Brooklawn Terrace entered. Mr. Johnson was a mystery to us kids and we seldom if ever saw him. Being such, we considered him at the very least a recluse and a bit of an eccentric character. Well, the back of that barn was covered with small windows, most of which were pretty fogged and dirty. We saw stuff on shelves on the inside but couldn’t identify anything. Even though the building was across the river, it was well within s snowball range, and if the snow ball was aimed just right, you could hit the intersection of 4 windows and take all four out with one shot, including what was on the shelves behind them. What a contest that was. Unfortunately, the blond toe-headed kid (me) was easily identifiable. Two days later our front door bell rang, and when Pop answered it, there was Mr. Johnson. Turns out his barn was his workshop (woodworking) with all the electric saws and drill presses to go with it, Those mystery items sitting on the ledges were cans of paint (mostly). I won’t bore the reader with the tempest that followed other than to say I was on bounds for at least a month, and if I dared question it, another week was added on. Lesson learned? You bet. Things are not always what they seem (hardly ever). Turns out Mr. Johnson was great about the whole thing. Punishment was dad’s not his. He was no recluse nor eccentric, just a good guy who had a nice hobby and get-away in his barn, or thought he did.
As would appear obvious, I was heavily athletically oriented (if not accomplished). Unfortunately I was at the same time lightly academically oriented, just getting by. It was an attention span issue. Like so many, I could not really see the relevance of what we were being “fed”, and surely anything I could think of outside made more sense. Brother Dick on the other hand, while perfectly competent in athletic pursuits, was more academically oriented. He was also gifted in music, art, and prose. I believe he could have been accomplished in playing any instrument he wanted, but his choice were the drums (after the tuba). I mean trap drums, base drums, tom toms and all the symbols to go with them. In our school’s fife and drum corps he played the symbols (big jobs he would gleefully clang together over his head right on cue) while I played the fife, I would have failed in that had it not been for the fact I learned to whistle (I was good at that) while the fife bobbed on my chin. After one Memorial Day parade, Pop referred to Dick as the fly swatter.
Pop was a humorist in his own right. He was a member of the Bridgeport Comedy Club and studied drama at Yale under one of the great humorists and actor Monty Wooley. There was no person or situation in which he wouldn’t attach some nick name. For example, during World War II, one of the most devastated European countries was Greece. There were all kinds of relief aid sent to that country, and one case a ship full of refugees was sunk. Its name was the “Zam Zam”, and it fed it’s “passengers” a concoction only known as “glop”. All stews and casseroles from that time on were referred to as a multi ingredient “glop” in our house, Likewise, in the years Dick was dating one girl, he started dating another girl of Greek extraction. Well, naturally she was referred to by Pop as “the Greek Relief”. Dick wasn’t spared either. At the bottom landing of the stairs at home, there was a Newel post with a defunct gas-light fixture on top. As a little kid, Dick would point to it an chant “gas light, gas light…” Well he soon became the “Gasman” or just plain the Gas. That stuck until he left home.
Don’t think I escaped the nick naming. One day brother Dick got so ticked off at something I did or was doing he shouted “why you, you, Guinea you” (Ma and Pop were in the room and he couldn’t use the word he really wanted). From then on I was the Guinea, or just the Guin. Remember, ethnic issues were non-existent (or at least ignored) back then. All Ma and Pops friends thought this hilarious, and referred to me by those names too (oddly enough, Dick didn’t). That handle stuck with me well into adolescence and early adulthood (or until I left home).
In art, Dick was a good sketcher, but he really stood out in his ability (and patients) in modeling with clay. Whether it was a cowboy on a horse lassoing a calf, or a guy in a speed boat pulling a skier, he never lacked for detail and realism. One of his best works (in my mind) was a baseball diamond complete with bleachers and dug-outs. One team was in the field (tiny guys with gloves) with a pitcher raring back to pitch and a batter at the plate all crouched and ready to swing the bat. All this with clothing apparent as in wrinkled trousers and shirts. Not only that, but the bleachers were full with individual round heads in perfect lines with occasional stand-ups waving arms. He won a school art prize for his lone cowboy on a horse. He (the cowboy) had a hat that came off, a belt with holsters and guns that were removable. The horse was decked out with a bridle and western saddle with rope around the saddle horn and a rifle carried in a side-saddle scabbard. He outfoxed himself one time though. In the middle of the night, a shout of panic emanated from his room, bringing “Ma” on the run. Seems Dick modeled a King Cobra with head and hood (almost full size) rising from a massive coil (King Cobra’s can achieve 8’ in length). He had it on his bench next to his bed, so when viewed from the bed it appeared as a perfect silhouette against the window across the room. It must have been on his mind, for when he woke up and saw that silhouette, he nearly freaked out. He later decided there was a better place to display it.
Finally, I would be remiss not to mention his writing ability especially in crafting whimsical poetry (Ogdon Nash style from his book “A Golden Trashery of Ogden Nashery”). Christmas, birthday and mothers day cards were all originals. One Mothers day card he presented to Ma displayed a bedraggled woman with a stringy dress and hair with toes sticking out of shoes with a box of Duz (dish washing soap) under her arm standing in front of a sink full of dishes. The sentiment on the card read: “To our mother, oh mother dear, please tell us, do you think you will make it through another year?”
One of the poetic pieces he submitted to his English class as an example of an “ode”. I actually remember most of it, and it went somewhat like this:
Ode to an Empty Tube of Glue
Poor Empty Tube of Glue
Why do you haunt me like you do?
Just to think
I poked and teased you
Twisted, mangled and applied my knees to
Makes me sad I ever squeezed you.
When I have been your friend in need
You have been my friend indeed,
And way down here in this war-torn land
I think of you in God’s right hand,
And though our father doesn’t paste,
I am sure he wouldn’t want to waste
A friend at desk or in garage
A little tube of mucilage
So let this ode
With these words on it
Remain a feather in your Bonnet.
A cute little ditty, however the reference to God and a tube of glue did not fit the teachers idea of proper respect and he got a low mark because of this act of “sacrilege” (seems not much has changed to the PC world of today, but in reverse). In addition to all this, he was a wonderful cartoonist, a pursuit in which I always thought he could develop a successful career.
When Dick finished Lincoln School, three years ahead of me, of course, he attended Fairfield (Roger Ludlowe) high school one year, then off to Pawling School for Boys, near Pawling NY. Here our uncle Dick (Ma’s youngest brother) taught for a while and was good friends with the headmaster. The school folded in about a year, and Dick transferred to the Choate School in Wallingford, CT. Of course by this time (1942), the United States was well engaged in World War II and when Dick graduated from Choate, he enlisted in the U.S. Navy. Upon completing basic training, he was stationed at the Great Lakes Naval Air Station for further training in electronics and specifically radar technology. His active duty was with Naval Aviation in the Panama Canal Zone, a strategic link between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. He was accepted into the Navy even with his asthma which was surprising since he was constantly wheezing, He became the primary cartoonist for the Navy’s periodic publication down there under the pen name of “Wheeze”. There he remained for about 4 years and we will leave him there for the moment.
Meanwhile, I was finishing up grammar school and like my brother, I went to Roger Ludlowe (Fairfield) High school to begin my secondary education. I was still interested in agriculture and specifically dairy farming. I was accepted to Choate School the following year, but had the opportunity to work at the dairy farm of the University of Connecticut in Storrs, CT. the ten-day spring break before entering Choate (1945). That was quite the experience. The dairy manager (John Bogue, I think) was great and taught me a lot including feeding (DII-3) , basic care and maintenance requirements to insure sanitary conditions, milking, both by hand (I already knew how but needed practice) and machine, processing (cooling, pasteurization and homogenization), and storage of the milk. Treatment for Bovine mastitis was also on the curriculum list for the period I was there. This bacterial infection of the udder and nipples of the cow was extremely painful for the cow and shut down milk production. This of course was expensive for the farm and while no quick cure was then available, treatment in the form of cool moist packs soaked in an herbal brew relieved the pain. I can remember while applying it, the cow turning and looking at me with great relief in her eyes as if to say “marry me, please marry me”. This usually worked (not the marriage part). If not, the animal had to be put down since the expense of maintaining a non-producer was unacceptable. This total experience set me up for a couple of years of summer jobs at Choate.
The summer before entering Choate, I worked at the Crawford Laundry Co. in downtown Bridgeport. The laundry was housed in a four story building in a poor part of town near Bridgeport Central High School. It was the largest laundry in town and was owned and managed by my friend Toby Thompson’s uncles and cousins who were Crawfords. That helped me get the job. I did nothing specific, but was rather a “gopher” and did a lot of stuff. Many of the workers were women, and tough old birds at that, but (as often the case) very friendly for the most part. I confess, no matter how hard I tried, I never found the machine that ripped buttons off shirts and blew them through the underwear, though it always seemed there must be one somewhere. It was a really good experience learning that side of the workforce. The closest friend I made there was, let’s call him George (forgot his real name). He was the dress shirt man exclusively. After the basic wash, he starched and ironed them one by one. In those days there were a lot of shirts when dress and fancy formal shirts were included with every day shirts.. He was located on the third floor.
The general flow of laundry traffic was from up to down taking advantage of gravity (remember the time frame and level of technology at the beginning of the 20th century). So, dirty laundry was delivered to the top floor where it was washed (dress shirts may have been done elsewhere), but in general all dirty stuff started on the forth. Once washed, the laundry (clothes, sheets, etc.) were placed in large centrifuges where they were spun-dried. Well they were wet, but not dripping. From the 4th floor, the laundry was placed in one of several chutes and dropped to the 3rd floor where it was sorted and dried, and finally to the second floor where it was finished and packaged for delivery. The first floor was for administration and shipping and handling.
Originally, George’s station was located on the 2nd floor with all the other finishing activity. His station was by an outside wall that included a window. It was good and hot inside (no AC to speak of). During the spring and summer that window was always open, which helped George stay somewhat dry. This is not a trivial issue if you are working hands-on with dress shirts. The building was built into the side of a hill, so the sidewalk came pretty close to the second story windows, Of course all the kids from the high school and neighborhood for that matter would see George in the window starching and ironing shirts, and would really razz him and verbally flog him on a regular basis. There were a couple of guys especially obnoxious who would get right under the window and give George all kinds of grief. One day, George had enough and when the two got right under the window and waved their fists, he dumped a whole bucket of hot starch on their heads, saying “oops so sorry”. Now George was good and really a specialist in what he did, and formal wear was a lucrative part of the business. Management didn’t fire him, but moved him to the 3rd floor where temptation and harassment were minimized.
As you can imagine, there was a floor manager that flitted around trying to keep everything moving smoothly and efficiently. He was a real busybody that drove everyone nuts. He was a little guy and like so many “little” guys in stations of authority, operated under a bit of an inferiority complex, and was “anal” in attempts to keep everything clean and orderly. He was not well liked or received. Below the large laundry chutes on the third floor, were placed laundry carts (on wheels) to receive the wet laundry at the bottom of the chute. The guys would holler down so someone would hold the laundry cart so it wouldn’t scoot across the floor when the laundry hit it. One day I heard them yell “look out below” and ran to hold the cart. Meanwhile Mr. Busybody came up to the cart and saw some trivial thing (safety pin or something) on the bottom of the cart and leaned into the cart to get it out, in spite of my warning. I was looking up the chute, and the light went out, meaning the laundry filled the chute and was on the way. I looked down and this idiot was still half in the cart, and before I could say anything this wad of laundry arrived and I jumped back surprised thinking the boys upstairs saw the boss in the cart. Apparently they did and as the cart scooted across the floor, Busybodys feet and legs were the only thing sticking out of the cart, and the howls of laughter from the 4th floor was heard throughout the 3rd . I raced over and got the laundry up and off Busybody and he stood up with bent glasses hanging off his ear, straightened his tie, brushed off his trousers and marched off the floor without a word. A pompous response from a pompous ass. By the time the summer ended, I was ready for my adventures at Choate.
Before we jump in at Choate (Bob’s first foray away from home), let’s catch up with Joyce, and see how she managed after our 5th grade encounters.
Although we first met in 1939 (about), we were closer from the beginning.