A brown oak leaf curled, crisp, and dry somersaults through the rustling grass. Snowbanks try to keep it on a path, the grass attempts to slow it down But, it is driven by an unseen force and springs, across a vast white carpet. It can not be stopped. Its destination is unclear. Uncharted, and with little concern away it blows dancing through the tumbles. It knows not of life or death. No wonder or purpose weighs it down. No practice or rehearsal, or apprehension of its final performance.
Even as the miles wear and tear upon its form, it somersaults. In time, it crumbles into pieces each and every part, somersaults, as it spread. Eventually, it becomes dust and with a peaceful grace, All the particles Somersault. One thing becomes another. The seasons change. A continuous ring, of somersaults.
Snowflakes spiraled through the cold air and landed on the breast of her warm winter coat. This would not seem so strange of a scene, had we not been inside my truck, driving down the road with the windows rolled up. I was sixteen years old. This was my first winter driving. Robin was the first girl I ever took out dating. I drove a 1954 Chevy panel truck that I restored…well, mostly restored. The old truck was named, Pandora.
It was snowing when I picked Robin up. The heater barely worked. Even if it had, it could never keep up with the cold air that blasted through the door jams, that had no weatherstripping, whatsoever. You could always tell what the weather was outside, by seeing what it was doing on the inside. We were on our way to the park, in Westerly. I think her father leant me his ice skates. I never owned a pair and had never been skating in my life. Robin was going to teach me.
It could be a romantic recollection, but the whole park was like a scene from a movie. It was absolutely gorgeous! Covered in snow, kids sledding down the hills, and even more, skating on the pond. Things were different, back then. The gold and multi-colored coy that we threw popcorn to all summer, were now frozen in time somewhere along the concrete basin’s bottom. The pond was kept up in the winter, and skating was as natural as breathing. Those were the types of winters and events we had back then. The cold never seemed to bother us. Every winter was a good ol’ fashioned, winter.
I parked the truck in the lot behind the United Theater and we made our way to the park. I tried not to show it, but I was a little apprehensive about learning to skate. Robin was an athletic girl. I always tried to give an air of self-confidence, but inside I was afraid of almost everything around me.
Robin and I sat together on a bench and laced up our skates. I wasn’t even sure if I could make it to the ice, let alone, glide on it. But it gave me a good excuse to hold her close as we carefully walked in that direction. I did a quick overview of the people on the ice. There were mostly young elementary school kids skating in two packs. Robin held onto my gloved hand and I wobbled along. At least I was upright, but for some reason, and I can only imagine how I looked, the kids immediately saw that I was a novice, and surrounded me. They couldn’t believe that I had never skated before. They were WAY too eager to show me how. Suddenly I found myself with two or three kids on each arm as they lead me around the pond. Robin was smiling and laughing, which is the way I always remember her. I was too busy having fun to be terrified, and I learned a lot that day. I learned that Ice is really hard when you fall on it, skating is a blast, and don’t let your fears dictate your actions. The latter is one that I am to this day still working on. I learned a lot from Robin. I think of her often. That evening is one of my most treasured memories.
2/19/25 -Two weeks ago, I was doing laps around the park. I did a lot of laps around the pond… a lot. There are “No Skating” signs posted around the pond. It was a mess, covered in frozen snow. There were three young men, teens, putting one foot on the ice as if to test it. They didn’t see me coming around, and when I got behind them, I never stopped, and in a soft voice I said, Good Afternoon. Two of them just about jumped out of their skin, and one exclaimed, “He just scared the $*** out of me!” and I laughed right out loud, still exuding that air of self-confidence, and really not too afraid at all. Every time I visit the park, no matter the season, my mind reels back to that evening. I am floored to think that 49 years have passed in no less than a blink. But a lot of good memories remain vivid, and for that I’m glad.
Fishing on the Pawcatuck River comes as naturally to me as breathing. I found it rather amusing, as well as flattering, this week as I cast a lure from my rowboat, that a passer by in a kayak made the comment, “You should be in a Norman Rockwell Painting with that boat!” I laughed, and gave him a quick account of the history of my boat, the longevity of our relationship, and my restoration of it a few years ago. I told him that every time I get in my boat, I go back 50 plus years in time.
I’m 64 years old. I marvel at the freedom I had as a young boy, especially when I consider how afraid my mother was of so many things. But I think that surely, her freedom as a young girl probably would make my own experience, pale in comparison. I know that at a very young age, probably 5 or 6 years old, that I was introduced to the yellow haired girl across the street. She is a year younger than I, and we explored the woods behind both our houses. All the landscape was new to us. The thick woods and the sound of the river running nearby, made for the perfect adventures. We had no idea where we were going, but we always found our way back – and we travelled a pretty good distance. We had everything from Potter Hill to Chase Hill, mapped in our heads. Many of the houses that are on these roads now, didn’t exist back then. We had no idea whose land we crossed, and we never ran into a single soul on our journeys. It seems like the exploration of trees, insects, birds, and animals, was as much fun as one could possibly have, or want. At that time, we were as innocent as the day was long, and we truly loved our time together.
Before I hit my teens, I realized that things were not good with my mom and dad. There was an eerie silence at the supper table. Dad was leaving the house earlier and earlier to go to some type of “meeting” or another. It became apparent when I woke up early to have milk crackers in milk and sugar, and found mom asleep on the couch, that a change would be in the air.
The yellow haired girl didn’t have things any easier. Her mom suffered from the effects of polio. But she still did her best to keep the house up and the kids in order. Her dad, as I was told, was a mean drunk. I don’t know what went on behind closed doors, but I do know that for some reason he liked me. I was always a little afraid of him, but I took advantage of his liking me and strived to stay in his good graces, to continue a close relationship with his daughter. Her mom would make homemade potato chips, and would call me over to partake in the treat. I didn’t realize at that time that my dad too, was a drunk. His meanness came in the form of silence, and passive aggressiveness. I only remember one time that I was not allowed to see the yellow haired girl, so we tied notes to rocks and threw them back and forth across the street to each other.
It may have been the spring of 1973 when my father gifted me with my boat. It was obviously a used, aluminum rowboat. It measures eleven and a half feet long. It is narrow, with a flat bottom and a vee hull. It came equipped with a pair of oars and a 7&1/2 hp Elgin air cooled motor, which has to be the noisiest motor on the planet. My dad must have asked for permission to store the boat on the river bank of Mr. Coombs home. That is where my dad took me out and showed me how to hook up the gas line, start the motor, and go. It was the only time my father ever went out on the water with me. That was his way… show, and go. My dad had no interest in the river, which surprises me because he grew up there himself. I remember begging him to take us fishing on opening day. I didn’t realize it then, but know it now, that he was too hung over from the night before, to get out of bed. So, it goes.
I asked Mr. Coombs if I could build a small dock on his property, and he said yes! Times were so different then; you didn’t have to get a boat with a motor registered, and you could throw a dock up on the riverbank without any question. It was a new found freedom for me. I lived on the boat. I would row that boat for miles. My brother would sometimes accompany me. Usually, it was my cousin or my best friend. We would go to Black Rock, a rock that juts out from the river bank. There was a tree with a rope, and we would swing out onto the water. A little further downriver was the Potter Hill Bridge. It actually had a ladder and a make shift diving board. I once took 5 or 6 kids from BlackRock to the bridge. The side of the boat was nearly taking in the river, but we made it, laughing all the way. I knew every cove in the river between the Meetinghouse Bridge and the Potter Hill Bridge. My uncle, mom’s younger brother, introduced me to snapping turtle hunting. We fashioned spears and checked along the muddy bottom of the coves, pushing the spear down until we felt a shell. Their shells are soft. We took dozens of them from the river. We were convinced that we were helping the duck and swan population, as we witnessed several times, the innocent birds being pulled below the surface. We fished, swam, filled the boat with painted turtles, just to see how many we could catch, then release them unharmed. We found massive grapevines along the bank, and we would climb them and pick the grapes, thinking we would make juice. They were the sourest thing that I ever put in my mouth.
By 1975, my romance with the yellow haired girl had ended. A lot of things ended. Mom and dad were divorced, my uncle, mom’s older brother, passed away, and my grandfather was diagnosed with Leukemia. He died in 1976. I turned to the river, often alone, where I could shed my tears freely, and scream at the god who was supposed to have saved them all. Me and my boat. Sometimes listening to Harry Chapin, on my portable yellow 8 track player that resembled a dynamite plunger. If you know, you know. Even after I got my drivers license in 1976, I’d still often set out in my boat. My friend flipped the boat with him and me and the 7&1/2hp motor. He couldn’t swim, and I got us all to the riverbank. I traded for a 3 hp Johnson motor, after that. I brought a snapping turtle into my Afro-American History class. The principal saw me walking through the smoking area from the parking lot, and quickly glanced away. My teacher was not amused when I was a minute late for class, and when I suggested that we cook a turtle, while swinging him around to the front of me, sending the girls screaming and causing the boys to laugh. She directed me to bring it back out to my truck. Yes, there were times when I was a stupid teenager… And then I had romances in high school. The kind where there were a lot of letters written. I wonder if teens still write letters? I hope so. But when the relationships passed away, again, I found myself on the boat. There was a sandy spot on the shore where I would dig a hole and have a ceremonial burning of the letters. I wondered if the ashes would make their way to the ocean, and even back to the place where they were originally written. It was a romantic notion, though one that probably makes no difference in the world. But it comforted me, in my boat, while I rowed up and down the brown, tea-like water of the Pawcatuck.
Then, at some time, and I can’t remember when, I lost track of the boat. It must have been before, during, or after, my failed marriage; but it was blotted away.
When I re-married, I had another boat. It was a 14’ johnboat, and I had a lot of good times in it with my wife and kids. They are close to my heart, but the johnboat wasn’t. I sold it and bought it back a few times, but life went on and the river was pushed further back. My son went to college in Tennessee, and my daughter was interested in horses. In 2004 we moved to Kentucky to be closer to my son and help our daughter build her dreams. It never felt like home to me in Kentucky, and I longed to be back in New England. My emotions always resort nostalgic. I missed my home, terribly. Four grandchildren came while we were in Kentucky. I was so happy when my son said that he was moving his family to Rhode Island. I had to wait a year while I delt with some cancer, but the thought of going home was driving me on.
In 2020 we moved to Connecticut. We were only here for a short while, perhaps a matter of weeks when there was a knock on my door. There stood my cousin with a big grin on his face. He asked me to step outside because he had something that he thought I would like to see. And there it was. My old rowboat, in the back of his truck. I have no idea how he ended up with it, but he was returning it to me. He had kept it, all these years. It needed a full restoration. The transom was rotted. It had a few gashes and dents. We brought it into my garage, and already the memories were flooding my grateful brain. As I worked on it, I couldn’t help but smile as my childhood flashed before my eyes. As I sanded the paint, the aroma of the river filled my nostrils. I was so happy to have my old friend at hand.
And now, I take it out on the river. Against all odds, and honestly, you just don’t see these anymore with the craze of kayaks and canoes. But I row on. Casting into the tea, once again. Black Rock is still there, but the tree and rope swing have long ago, gone away. The Potter Hill Bridge has been rebuilt. When they did it, they poured rocks beneath it, so it is no longer a place to dive. Many of the coves have long since grown in. Dams have been torn down and there’s still talk of removing the one in Potter Hill, which I think would be a tragedy to the established eco-system, with the talk of lowering the river up to eight feet. Yet, here I am, rowing along. Born in a different time, with a rowboat, built in a different time; reminiscing of the past, contemplating the future, and longing for contentment, in a time, back in time, like the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting.
This 71 Ranchero began as a bottom of the line 6 cylinder, painted anti-establish mint green with no ac or power brakes. It was in a minor wreck in the early 70’s, repaired and re-painted maroon. It was sold and then beautifully restored and painted with a blue metalflake, in 1977 or 78. Once again in a hard wreck, it took down some 120′ of stone wall, then stopped with a utility pole in the center of the hood. It hit so hard that the rear end was bent. The owner walked away from the accident. People told him that it could never be fixed, and he set out to prove them wrong! I worked in his auto body shop from 1976-1978. He cut the front clip off and replaced it with a Fairlane clip from the junkyard. Over the years he replaced the drivetrain (289 with a small cam and a Holley 4 barrel, MSD ignition). He collected fenders, the GT hood, and a couple of grills and bumpers. Health issues ensued, and he was never able to finish the car. Fast forward to 2020, and I bought his farm and the Ranchero was part of the deal. I’ve tinkered and worked on it over the past 4 years, having to rework a lot of the body and spent hours removing masking tape that has been on the car since the 70’s. Finally, I painted it this June. I reminisced nostalgic, as I finished the car of the man who taught me the trade, back when I was a teenager. I had his longboard on the dash as I worked on it. The music I listened to, was the same music I heard way back then. His presence was with me. At long last, after only a half dozen years of it’s life on the road, and decades in storage, the 71 lives to roll down the highway, again.
Oh, sheep; those four-legged fluffy clouds that graze along the hillsides. So calm. So peaceful. But wait a minute, have you ever owned one? I have. Please allow me to enlighten you with the knowledge of the real character within the fluffy noggins of these wacky creatures.
Our first farm laid on less than 3 modest acres in Ashaway, RI. It was overgrown with bull briars, and swamp maple widow makers. I strung a make shift fence around part of the property that I wanted to be future pasture land. I had to do so in a hurry, because somehow, we became the owners of a sheep, before we had moved to the new farm. I readied a couple of stalls in an old chicken coop that was already on the property. Our first sheep, Tag, moved onto the property before we did. She was a fuzzy, fluffy mixed breed that thought she was a dog. She had been bottle raised by a family that trained her that way. Her name was Tag, because she liked to “tag along” with everyone. Once we were settled on the farm, we added a couple more sheep to the mix. Two black faced suffolk, which we picked up in our 1987 Buick Electra Estate wagon. Oh, the looks we got while driving down the highway. People pointing and waving, as if we didn’t know that there were two sheep riding in the back. We eventually added a black sheep, delivered to us in the back of a Volvo wagon, and oddly enough it was snubbed by all the other sheep we owned. All of these sheep were a wool variety, and had to be sheared in the spring. An old man came to the farm and did his best to hold onto the not so willing participants as he buzzed them with the shears. He would tend to any cuts with a purple-colored antiseptic, give them their yearly shots, then send them on their way. For the next month we would have purple spotted sheep running around on the farm.
I was amazed at the job they did on the bull briars. They would nibble every leaf off a shoot, leaving a thorny stalk. Next, they would start at the tip of the stalk, and munch it right to the ground, thorns and all. They did an incredible job of clearing.
We decided to borrow a friend’s ram and breed two of our sheep. I laughed when he arrived on the farm, as he was half the height of our girls, with perfectly formed rounded horns protruding from his thick skull. His name was Rocket man. He loved being with our ewes, but for whatever reason always thought that the grass was greener on the other side of the fence; that is, until he got there. One day I heard him clamoring because he was on the outside, looking in. I went out and opened the 8’ wide gate that he was standing next to. Surprisingly, rather than go through the gate, he started ramming the fence just 3 feet to the side of the gate, repeatedly, until he broke several tee-posts from the ground and then dragged them and the fence they were attached to, into the barn. Well, after a month of dealing with Rocket Man, it was time for him to go back to the farm from where he came. Impressively, he had done his job, as both of our ewes had twins. Donna and Amanda got to see one set of them born. I had both our ewes in separate stalls. The morning after the first set of twins was born, I went out to the barn to do chores and noticed a set of twins with the ewe that had not had hers yet. Oops, my mistake, yes, she had! No assistance needed, as all four little ones were healthy and the moms did a great job raising them. The little lambs were a joy to watch. One would swear that there were springs attached to their feet, as they would hop about. It was comical to see them interact and play.
At this time our kids were involved with 4H. Their leader raised Nubian goats, which are a rather large milking breed, with long floppy ears. Everyone says that goats are the best animals for clearing pasture land, but even the owner of the goats said that our sheep did a better job of clearing, than her browser goats. She ended up borrowing a few from the same farm that Rocket Man came from, and put them in with her goats. Oh yeah, they ate EVERYTHING, and in a few weeks’ time, they were ready to go back to North Stonington. Well, I should say that the goat farmer was ready, the sheep, maybe not so much.
As I recall, there were three of them. Two of them were fairly easily corralled into the trailer, but one was insistent on staying. Several of us finally herded it into the barn. I went in to get it, and the goat farmers husband, Joe, quickly shut the door behind me. It was dark. I could see little strips of light peeking through the rough-cut lumber, hanging on the barn. The air was still full of the dust that the sheep had stirred up. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and then I spotted the sheep. As I took a step towards her, she held a stare and stomped her feet. I thought, wait a minute, this is just a simple sheep! I’ve never seen one go into, “get ready for battle” mode! I had no leash and she had no halter. I took my belt off and put the end of it into the buckle, making a leather lasso. I stepped toward the sheep and she charged at me. I got the lasso around her neck and braced myself while she never slowed down. Much to my surprise, she took me right off my feet and was dragging me across the dirt floor of the barn. There was dust flying everywhere, but I wouldn’t let go. Right at that moment, Joe, opened the door, seeing me being dragged by the wild sheep. He shut the door and yelled, “Wow, look at him go! He looks like that crocodile hunter guy, or something!” Finally, the sheep was worn out, and with whatever dignity I could muster, got myself up and led her out of the barn, all the while acting as if the whole ordeal was planned. I thanked him for his help and we loaded the sheep onto the trailer. Oh yeah, good times.
Once our pastures were cleared, we sold our sheep, and made the place ready for my miniature donkeys. Well, that never happened and we ended up with a couple of miniature horses and a Quarter Horse. We never had sheep again until we moved to Kentucky. At this time, I did have two miniature donkeys that we felt were good guardian animals. We decided to go with a few young Katahdin hair sheep. They were specifically bred by a guy in Maine for the purpose of clearing power lines in rough terrain, and be a good alternative to chemical weed killers. They are a hair sheep that require no shearing. Also, they can be used for meat.
Our three young ewes took well to the farm. I administered all their shots. We noticed that they were gaining weight incredibly fast, so we cut back on the little grain we fed them, as our pastures were quite lush. One day I said to Donna that I thought the sheep were pregnant, or at least two of them were. She said, that’s impossible! But I was pretty sure they were, anyway. Sure enough, one day as I was coming home from work, there was a springy stepped lamb running about. A week later, there was another! I called the guy I bought them from and he said that he didn’t think they were old enough to breed when I got them, but guess what, they were! All were healthy and the moms did a good job raising them.
Yes, sheep; I can assure you of this, if you decide to become a shepherd, you will never have a dull moment. Oh, and if you look at sheep from a biblical view, or the way humans are compared to them, well, let’s just say it’s not a compliment. Thank goodness for the Shepherd. God help, the sheep!
I have two words and their definitions have been heavily on my mind, this past month.
They are-
Essence; (noun) the intrinsic nature or indispensable quality of something, especially something abstract, that determines its character.
And
Nostalgia; (noun) a sentimentallonging or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.
Today is May 25, 2023. It’s my 63rd birthday.
I drove to the corner of Laurel Street in Ashaway, this morning. It’s a place where I always loved to fish. The Potter Hill dam is easily in my sights, and the black water running over it is as smooth as silk. The sun glistens and reflect silver strands resembling Christmas tinsel. At times it looks like the tinsel is the only thing running over the dam. Just out of sight is the fish ladder. I remember well the piles of sandbags placed, forming a dry area in the river, so the equipment could get in and do its work. I rode my Raliegh 3 speed there as often as I could to watch the progress. At 13 years old, I was pretty independent. The ride down River Road was always one that I liked to take slow. The peace of the river always eased my mind. The stage at home was being set for the divorce that would happen in the next two years. That divorce was like a doorway to a plague where bad events dropped like dominos. The death of my grandfather, Thomas Gradilone, in May of 1975 was a tough pill to swallow. He was 63 years old, the age I am today. It was like it gave my father the go-ahead to reveal to the world just what kind of ass he was. Then the death of my Uncle Jerry was even tougher (1976). Both my grandfather and my uncle had stepped up where my dad never ventured, and taught me some great lessons about being a man. When those two men disappeared from my life, the river was my only solace. It has always been a constant. I look across the street and the old mill is still tumbling into the earth, just an essence of what was. All the houses have changed. New homes exist where no one ever thought they could be built. The fish ladder was added, but the river held its course. Even though the remaining mills are no longer operational, there are things about the river that holds their essence. Clumps of foam form below the dam and float off to the banks. There is a certain smell, I can only describe it as dead fish, but not in a pungent, repulsive way. It just smells like it smells; familiar, like grandpa’s cigar.
Back when I was a kid, my uncle would take us bottle digging along the bank of the river. I remember the garbage and broken glass that was all along the bank. I’m sure that a lot of it still lies layers deep in the bank. The essence of my uncle and us kids as we hunted for treasure; it’s there, but no one is the wiser. Just like the roots of the old tree that once embraced this corner. It was a massive web of roots that one had to be careful when walking upon. There were many sets of initials carved into those roots. I wonder if the relationships lasted as long as the roots did? I would strategically step towards the perfect place to cast; more often than not, right into the leaves of the tree whose roots I was standing upon. Lures and fish hooks hung like ornaments from the branches. It was kind of reassuring to know that not all of them were mine. That tree and the roots are long gone now. There’s a fairly mature oak tree next to where the old used to be. I wonder if it came from the seed of that large rooted tree. It stands in essence of what used to be, and only a few nostalgic folks are left to tell the tale.
As I stand on a sandy spot in a small clearing, I cast away into the tea brown water. The river is surprisingly high for this time of year. It is not uncommon to see two islands in the middle of the river during the summer. The crown of one is just visible today. I look up and notice lichen growing on the branches of the new to me oak tree. I wonder if I noticed such things when I was a kid. There is a soccer ball peeking out from a crevice on the bank. It keeps time with the current, dodging in and out as if it doesn’t want to get caught watching me. I wonder how it got there? Do the kids miss it? Does it, miss the kids? I have no control where my mind goes. I think about the thoughts I’ve had while standing in this place. I remember opening day when I was too young to ride my bike to this spot, all excited to get out and go fishing. Just as the sun cracked the dawn, I ran in the bedroom to ask my dad to take me fishing. More than likely he was hung over, and snapped out an answer that dissuaded me from asking again. I was used to it, but then again, I wasn’t. I wished he were more like my Uncle Jerry; but he wasn’t. It wasn’t long before I would take to the road on my own on opening day. I remember so many of those second Saturdays in April, some where the ice would form around the eyelets of my fishing rod. But alas, there was always the Fisherman’s Breakfast at the boy scout cabin, where one could warm up and hear the tales of the ones that got away.
Today is not like that, however. It’s a warm day with billowing white clouds, adorning a sky which is perfectly blue. I’ve taken a dozen or so casts with a bright yellow rooster tail, and had not so much as a nibble. I figured at the very least that a passing pumpkin seed would take a shot at it, but no. As I unclip the lure and search for a red devil, a guy in a truck stops by and asks if I’m catching them all. I said, not a one yet, but the day is young. He wishes me luck, then drives away. The red devil is clipped, now, and out to the water it goes. It travels a lot further than that old rooster tail, being twice the weight, and all. This cheap ten-dollar pole from Walmart does a fairly nice job, and I strategically place about a half dozen casts out to the open water. As I’m reeling in a pretty sweet cast to the right, just about 12 feet from shore my line tightens. I jerk the rod back, and the sound of the drag from the reel begins to buzz, like an angry bee. The rod is bent hard, and I reel with caution, allowing just enough between the pulls of the fish and the wind of my reel. I’m thinking that I have a pretty good hook on him, and I’m figuring it’s a nice size trout at this point. He wants to go for the weeds, but I won’t let him. I work him over to a clear sandy point in front of me. Wow, this is a pickerel! I’ve only caught a few of these my whole life, and this one is the biggest, for sure. In fact, he’s no doubt the biggest fresh water fish I’ve ever caught. Even bigger than the six and a half pound, large mouth, that I caught on Pachaug pond. His skin is a beautiful shimmering green. He’s so large that I can’t get my hand around him. And that mouth, what sharp teeth you have, grandma! The hook has him right on the base of his mouth. Thank goodness he didn’t swallow it! I grab a handkerchief and a pair of needle nose pliers, and carefully extract the hook. It looks like a lot of blood…it is all his, but the wound I believe is superficial. I walk to the river’s edge and gently hold him in the cool water. He’s still, at first, almost unsure; then with a great blast, he is off. Whew, I’m glad he’s okay. He’s okay. I’m, okay. We may both be a little scarred. He may carry the essence of that hook and the battle, as do I, but when it’s all said and done, we both have the river. That soothing source which was here long before either of us, and will be here long after, for generations. Generations that I hope will remember the stories, and tell them to their children, and theirs. And I pray that if they bear any scars, no matter how they may have left a mark, that the power of the Pawcatuck will perform its healing magic, and leave them refreshed, renewed, and feeling like a kid again.
It was a warm summer’s day as I rode my Raleigh three speed down the side roads of route 3, in the little town of Ashaway.
My 15-year-old mind was alive with adventure, as the tires whirred on the hot blacktop. I was well aware of the freedom that the copper-colored bike had given me. For one reason or another, I was always looking for my freedom away from the house where I grew up.
I had worked at the Chevron station across the street from that house since I was 13. I had been a fixture in the Pawcatuck River for several years already, and had adventures over hill and dale on foot since I was 5, with the yellow haired girl in the white house. But I wanted more. I needed more.
Working at the gas station opened my eyes to the many different makes and models of automobiles. I learned about the way they ran and how they sounded, as well as the fact that they could be modified to show a part of yourself, in their curves. Oh, I had walked through parking lots and field with my dad as he gawked at the dream cars of yesteryear, but things for me really started to click, as I talked with the car owners.
It was less than a year before I would be given the privilege of driving. My mom drove a two-toned blue, Rambler Rebel station wagon that she and my dad bought brand new in 1968. It was the only car in the garage, since the divorce. Dad’s 55 T-Bird had driven into the sunset. How was this young teen going to show off his status, in a 1968 station wagon. It wasn’t what I would call a real chick magnet. It wasn’t a cool truck. It wasn’t even close to one of those jacked up muscle cars!
My mind reeled with a thousand thoughts as I steered my bike down one of the last side roads, and my eyes scoured the houses and yards like a brillo pad on a sticky pan.
I caught a glimpse of something under a large pine tree on a corner yard. I stopped, realizing that it was some sort of an old abandoned truck. I didn’t see anyone around, and I walked the bike towards the mound of pine needles, branches, and rust. Under it all, was an old 1954 Chevy panel truck. To say that it was rough, would be a gross understatement. But the truck was calling to me. I went to the front door and knocked. A woman answered and told me that it was her sons. He was in college, and last she knew, he said that he was going to fix it up one day. I asked her if she could confirm that, because I was interested in buying it. I could tell by her expression that it would be a relief for her to see it leave its exposed grave under her pine. I told her that I would come back in a week.
I rode that old Raleigh as fast as I could, back home. I blurted out my potential find to my mom. She was nowhere near as enthusiastic as I. I could almost picture her picturing herself worrying about the rusted heap that would be in her yard one day. At this point in my life, I had absolutely no idea how to work on cars. Especially one that had holes in the side that you could throw a cat through. And one that was missing the entire top half of the motor. The phone call to my dad was answered with the silence that I was used to. The same as I would get right after I asked him to go fishing.
My enthusiasm could not be squelched. A week later found me knocking on the door of the house with the huge pine tree in the yard. The woman at the door said that she had spoken with her son, and he needed some time to think about it. I told her I’d be back next week. And that week seemed to take FOREVER, to pass by.
A week later, and the answer was YES! Oh, I could hardly contain myself. The price tag was a whopping, 25 dollars! Mom insisted that my dad look at it first. He did, shook his head, and reluctantly agreed. The bill of sale was made out in my mom’s name. A few days later, a shiny black wrecker clothed in ornate red and gold pinstriping, pulled into our yard with the rusty brush pile, and backed in into the garage that once housed my father’s car. I immediately began brushing it off, and working up a plan.
A trip to Fishers Big Wheel scored pop rivets, a rivet gun, body filler and sandpaper. I was even able to buy primer, which kids today would get carded for. I have no idea where I came up with the sheet metal, but I had plenty of it. I spent my evenings cutting, hammering, and riveting metal over the holes in the body and fenders. Hours and hours of sanding and priming, and sanding some more. I had no idea what I was doing, I just knew that I loved doing it. Believe it or not, it was actually starting to look like a truck.
My dad worked at Griswold Textile where the boiler room was a make shift mechanic garage and body shop. He had an old 235 6-cylinder motor that came out of someone’s 55 chevy. It was probably pulled because it was so worn out. We towed the truck to the mill and we put the motor in together. When it was fired up, it burned almost as much oil as gas, and killed every mosquito in a three-mile radius. I put extensions on the plugs to keep them from fouling out.
I had picked out the color, Ford Grabber Blue, for the Chevy panel truck. My dad’s best friend came to the mill and painted it. Oh, how it shone! My dad drove it back to the Ashaway house, where it got the finishing touches.
White pinstriping helped define the curves of the truck. The name, Pandora’s Box, was put on the back door. Shag carpeting, black Naugahyde, and white paneling, along with Volkswagon highback bucket seats set the stage for the interior. Of course, it had an 8-track player and cb radio, with a 101-inch whip antenna mounted to the right rear, with the top clipped to the left front.
Retread tired held it up and barrel bolts kept the doors from flying open. I only had one time where I had to grab one of my dates to keep her from falling out.
The heater kind of worked, and the weatherstripping on the doors were just a memory, because if it was snowing outside, it was also snowing, inside. But I loved the truck. So did everyone that saw it. It was somewhat notorious back in 1976, after I got my license.
I taught myself to drive it. The old, 3 on the tree. I’d back it out of the garage and stop close to the road. Our driveway was in the shape of a horseshoe. I would drop the shift lever down into first, and slip up the clutch till she was rolling. I could glance down both sides of rt3 and if it looked clear I’d put it up into second right at the picture window in front of the house. We’d leave the driveway and cruise towards the billboard by the parking lot of the Chevron station. Heading between the pumps and the station, I’d drop her into third and dash across rt 3, up my driveway, and push the clutch back in to stop in the garage.
Those were the days! At 16, I had my new found freedom, and I’ll never forget the thrill of my adventure restoring a dilapidated 1954 panel truck named Pandora, who’s memories made will always live with me, and our first summer, in 1975.
stevevanhorn 