Starting in the 60s, we four friends— Connie, Sally, Jean and I (on left) -- used to play bridge once a week.
We’d take turns picking up lobster sandwiches at Hugo’s Shack, a dollar each in those days (before most of you were born, no doubt), and the hostess would supply wine. One day we were so engrossed in our bridge and having such a good time that it got to be very late in the afternoon. Very late.
Tom Sears, Jean’s husband blew in, stamping snow off his boots, and looking at us with his hair turned white and an odd expression on his face. He asked if we had any idea what it was like outside. It seemed the biggest blizzard in Massachusetts history had developed behind our backs, blanketing everything in sight including our cars and Jean's husband.
Noting our surprise and empty wine glasses, Tom announced, as he got out a shovel and a broom, that thenceforth our foursome would be known as The Stewed Tomatoes.
Two of us have gone on to that great bridge tournament in the sky, but we survivors still reminisce about The Blizzard of 1968 and the Oblivious Stewed Tomatoes.
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| I SET THE TIMER ON MY CAMERA, THEN RUSHED TO JOIN THE OTHER TOMATOES. |
Tom Sears, Jean’s husband blew in, stamping snow off his boots, and looking at us with his hair turned white and an odd expression on his face. He asked if we had any idea what it was like outside. It seemed the biggest blizzard in Massachusetts history had developed behind our backs, blanketing everything in sight including our cars and Jean's husband.
Noting our surprise and empty wine glasses, Tom announced, as he got out a shovel and a broom, that thenceforth our foursome would be known as The Stewed Tomatoes.
Two of us have gone on to that great bridge tournament in the sky, but we survivors still reminisce about The Blizzard of 1968 and the Oblivious Stewed Tomatoes.
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