February 12, 1956
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
We are enjoying our vacation with Ed’s dad and stepmother—although
Tina and I occasionally have Trouble in the Kitchen. She doesn’t read
instructions, she does things backwards, but her meals are out of this world.
One night I insisted on getting dinner by myself—I wanted to try the
Seven-Heat Economy Cooker that came with our new home's stove—and burned the potatoes.
Tina and Ed kept assuring me they were tastier that way, (“Just like campfire
potatoes,” said Tina), but Grandpa, unaware that I had taken over the cooking,
wanted to know what the hell happened to the potatoes.
Tina keeps putting the table butter in the refrigerator. I keep
switching it to the cupboard because I dislike mutilating my toast when I
spread it. Yesterday I left the butter dish on the hot stove and it runneth
over. I also cremated the toast, which wouldn’t have happened if Tina hadn’t
confused me by changing the toaster’s dial. Fortunately, the folks weren’t up
yet. It took me half an hour to eliminate all traces of disaster, but it was
worth it. Never let it be said that Ed is dieting in self-defense.
Ed and his dad don’t see eye to eye on things, either. In fact, if one
discovers he’s agreeing with the other, he switches sides. The trouble is,
they’re both bossy. Or to put it another way, they’re both leaders. (That’s the
way Ed puts it.) Grandpa has a habit of treating Ed as if he were still his
little boy instead of a grown man who has a license and hangovers—the stubborn
kid just won’t mind!
“When’re ya going to get a haircut, for crying out loud!” yells Grandpa.
“Haircut? How’m I gonna wear a ponytail if I get a haircut!”
yells Ed.
The sale-priced washing machine arrived from Sears, Roebuck yesterday.
The four of us spent an hour standing around in the kitchen arguing over how to
run it. Tina had one like it once, so she thought she knew everything.
“But Tina,” I said, “it says in the book not to put the clothes in until
the tub is full of water.”
“Oh, never mind the book!” she says. (She has the same attitude about
everything else, including the pressure cooker. “Tina, the book says when it
hisses like that, there’s something wrong.” “Oh, never mind the book,” she
says.)
The washing machine has a wonderful invention attached to it called a
wringer. You push a button and the dirty water pumps out of the tub and into
the sink. You feed the clothes through the wringer, keeping in mind its
propensity to bite the hand that feeds it. Then you go out in the yard, where
the sun is shining and a breeze is blowing, and you dreamily hang up the
clothes, feeling like a pioneer woman.
After you’ve hung them up, you take them down again because you remember
you forgot to rinse them. Never mind, it
will be fun matching wits with the wringer again.
February
26,
1956
Cohasset
This morning I could feel a bad
mood coming on. As my dear ones will testify, when I get in a bad mood I should
be put in a padded cell for the duration. Recently, a more practical solution
turned up in the form of some little pills recommended by Ed’s company doctor.
He claimed they were helpful in relieving tension.Ed brought home a handful last month, and when my nerves began to jangle, I started taking two a day. It may have been the power of suggestion, but they seemed to work. I became so gentle and patient with my children, they asked me what was the matter. My attitude toward Ed was one of such loving understanding, an outsider wouldn’t have believed we were married. I faced the usual daily emergencies with good humor. To show his appreciation, Ed gave me a corsage of camellias on Valentine’s Day. Instead of wanting to know what he’d been up to now, I thanked him. There was no getting around it, I was much nicer than I really am.
But now I lay in bed thinking black thoughts and refusing to resort to the Disposition Pills. Maybe they were habit-forming. It would be a terrible thing if I couldn’t be agreeable without taking a pill first.
All I needed was a little sleep.
I envied Ed the way he could sleep. The way he could sleep when I couldn’t was grounds for divorce. I remembered my mother telling me that Dad sensed it when she had insomnia, no matter how careful she was not to disturb him. “What’s the matter, honey bun? I can hear you thinking,” he would say sympathetically.
When I have insomnia I could use a little husbandly sympathy myself. To make it easy for him, I didn’t even try to be quiet last night.
“Ho-hum,” I said when the town clock struck 2:00. I upheaved my blankets and rolled over with a thump, hitting my head on the bookcase headboard. The door rattled along its track like the Toonerville trolley. Not a sound from Ed.
“Ouch!” I said lonesomely.
There was a soft snore from the bed next to mine, followed by a breezy sigh. He must be dreaming it’s his birthday and he’s blowing out the candles, I thought. Snore, puff, snore , puff, snore, puff.
I turned on the light and shone it on Ed’s face to see if he was just pretending. Snore, puff. I read a few more chapters of Marjorie Morningstar. I reached the point where Marjorie was on the brink of an exciting career and losing her virginity. She was twenty-one. At twenty-one, where had I been? Out in the laundry, washing diapers for his children. What had my life been since then? More children and more diapers, and anyone who calls that an exciting career is a man.
I dropped Marjorie Morningstar on the floor and switched out the light. My exciting career was dreaming about girls. Sigh, wolf whistle, sigh, wolf whistle. I stabbed him in the back with my forefinger.
“Humph, flumph, hunh? Wassa matter, cancha sleep?”
“Aren’t you the perceptive one! I haven’t closed an eye for hours, if you’re really interested.”
“Z Z Z Z.”
I look forward to sleeping late Sunday morning while the children get ready for Sunday School. This morning I wearily focused one eye on the clock and tried to make out the time without waking up. I heard Kathryn call from the foot of the stairs that it was after 8:30 and breakfast was nearly ready. If Vonnie would remember to rouse Teddy from his ivory tower on the third floor, I could go back to sleep.
The harrowing thing is, sometimes she remembers and sometimes she doesn’t. Remembering is only half the battle. Ted is like his father; he can sleep through anything, especially the hour before Sunday school. On Saturdays he’s up and dressed with no prodding; basketball practice starts at nine.
I dragged myself from bed and called up to the third floor. “Teddy, are you up?”
“Yeh,” came the sleepy answer.
“Well, come down and get dressed right away or you’ll be late for Sunday school. Don’t forget to make your bed.”
I closed the windows and crawled back into bed. I waited for the sound of bare feet pounding down the stairs. Ten minutes later I got up and called him again.
“Yah, yah, I’m coming. You want me to make my bed, don’t you?”
“Well, not from scratch, Teddy.”
Back to bed. Bare feet pounded down the stairs and into Timmy’s room, where the boys share a closet.
As time went by, I knew I’d better check on their progress. I rapped on the door and looked in. Timmy, in his underpants, was in the midst of a flying tackle.
I blew my top. “Okay, you two, if you’re not ready to go downstairs in five minutes—teeth brushed, beds made, hair combed, faces washed—you’re both going to bed early tonight.”
“Don’t we have to get dressed?” Timmy asked.
“I mean it, now! I’m sick and tired of going through this same nonsense week after week, two big boys like you, what are you, babies? Well, if you’re babies, you can go to bed early like babies. From now on, either you kids are ready for breakfast at nine o’clock every Sunday or you go to bed early. Is that clear?”
As I stomped out of the room Teddy mumbled something and Timmy said loyally, “She is not!”
“I’m ready, Mummy,” Vonnie called virtuously from the bathroom, where she was polishing her shoes.
“Oh, goody for you!” said Teddy.
“Vonnie!” I scolded. “That’s not the right polish, look at the mess you’re making, what are you doing with Daddy’s polish?”
“I like to open the can.”
“Honestly, Vonnie, what a mess. You’ve got little bits of polish all over the floor. You’re stepping on it! No, don’t use the good towel! Put the can away and use the shoe polish in the bottle and don’t spill it. Besides, why are you wearing your school shoes instead of your patent leathers?”
“Because my patent leathers don’t need polishing,” Vonnie said with patient eleven-year-old logic.
“Vonnie, some rainy day you can polish all the shoes in the house. Now go put on your patent leathers, Kathryn is calling you for breakfast.”
“Hey, Mummy, I can’t find any socks,” Timmy said.
“There must be some in the laundry room. Take your shoes and go downstairs before your breakfast gets cold.”
“I’m having cold cereal,” said Timmy, always ready for an argument.
“Get going!”
Ed was awake when I returned to our room. “Honestly, those kids of yours are going to drive me out of my mind!” I said, glaring at him.
“Why don’t you take a tranquilizer?”
“Take a pill? It’s not me! It’s those kids! They’re irresponsible, inconsiderate, lazy, careless—“
“Children.”
I snatched open a bureau drawer and the handle fell off. “You see?”
“Take a pill,” said Ed.
Vonnie came in, carrying a pad of paper.
“What now, Vonnie,” I sighed.
“I want to show you the picture I drew of you. I think it’s the best picture I ever drew.”
“Not now, go down and have your breakfast.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” she said, leafing through the pages. “Here it is—oh no, that’s not it, I’ll find it in a minute.”
“For heaven’s sake, Vonnie!”
“Oh, here it is. It’s a picture of you. Isn’t it good?”
“Very good. Now run along.”
She gave me a hug and ran downstairs. I looked at the picture again. Under it she had printed: “My mother is a beautiful picture to me.”
I put down the picture and went to the bathroom medicine cabinet. I took two tranquilizers.
Breakfast might have been pleasant if I’d taken the pills sooner. I got our breakfast ready while Ed drove the children to Sunday school and picked up the papers. When he walked in, he threw his coat down on one of the dining room chairs.
He does this every night of the week. When I’m not in a bad mood, my thought process is as follows: “The poor, tired boy. He works so hard at making a living for his family, he’s too exhausted to hang up his coat. What a privilege it is for me to hang it in the closet for him!” I put the coat away with a tender smile of understanding. (I know I’m sincere about this because I don’t wait for him to come downstairs and see how understanding I’m being.)
When I’m in a bad mood, there’s nothing that irritates me more than this habit of throwing his coat on a chair. “For Pete’s sake,” I say to myself, “how am I supposed to train the children to be neat if their own father doesn’t set them a good example! Suppose we all threw our coats on a chair, wouldn’t the house look lovely. I’ll bet it takes him longer to walk into the dining room and drop his coat than it would to open the closet door and hang it up."
This morning, while ostentatiously transferring Ed’s coat to the closet, I expressed these thoughts aloud. Ed looked surprised and promised to set a good example hereafter.
Then there was the way he ate his grapefruit. Usually I don’t notice the way he eats his grapefruit because I’m busy tackling mine. But today I watched and listened with an air of distaste. Couldn’t he take a spoonful without that silly gasp? He went after it as if someone were going to steal it from him. After slurping up the last section, he squeezed the grapefruit over the bowl, which he raised to his lips, gulping the juice with the gusto of a parched water buffalo.
“If you could see yourself!” I exploded. “Would you eat grapefruit that way if you were having breakfast with Marilyn Munroe?”
Ed looked thoughtful. “No,” he said. “I’d have her feed it to me.”
This afternoon when I found smears of
liquid shoe polish on the bathroom rug, I summoned Vonnie.
“Look what you’ve done now!” I said.
“Didn’t I warn you not to spill it?
No more polishing shoes for you until you learn not to be so sloppy.”
“I didn’t spill it.”
I asked Timmy and Teddy if they had been using the polish.
“Not me,” said Ted.
“Me either,” said Timmy.
“Well, Vonnie? This rug
didn’t get smeared by itself.”
“I didn’t spill any, but—well—maybe it came off the bottom of my shoes.”
“The bottom of your shoes?”
“Yes,” she said, twisting one leg around the other. “I polished the bottoms.”
Who but Vonnie would be inspired to polish the soles of her shoes? Wasn’t it Vonnie who chewed gum until her jaw
got stuck and she had to go to the doctor?
Who sealed her lips with Scotch tape and then asked her father for a
kiss? And at the tense point in the
movie when the villainess dove from the float to recover the knife from her
victim’s back, wasn’t it Vonnie who exclaimed:
“She’s a good diver!”
“You’re a character, Vonnie,” I said.
Then I remembered something. I
told her I loved her portrait of me, and I was going to have it framed.
June 29, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor
June 29, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor
Left Cohasset 6:45 PM. On our way to Scituate to join Pinkhams, Ed
discovered why the Loran wasn’t working—the two-position antenna switch
(covering the Loran and the ship-to-shore phone) was on the ship-to-shore
position. Wish all our problems could be as easily solved.
Pinkhams came aboard around 8:30, suggested
we go ashore for dinner. The icebox
being full of cold chicken and ham, I talked them into dining aboard on paper
plates. Ed and I had the chicken and
ham, the Pinkhams the paper plates. Ed,
Flo and I read magazines until 10:30 while Alden slept like a non-insomniac.
June
30, 1956, Scituate Harbor to Onset
All set to head for Syspican along with Seabird
and several other Scituate boats--the first leg of a two-week cruise, which
unfortunately we can be part of only this weekend. (Ed has to fly to Detroit on
Monday.) I would really like to go on
this cruise, as I know I could count on Alden to provide plentiful material for
the Log.
He didn’t let me down this morning. Called to us that something was wrong with one
of his engines.
“Ed, go tie up at the dock and take the launch out and see if you can figure out what’s wrong,” Alden called.
“Ed, go tie up at the dock and take the launch out and see if you can figure out what’s wrong,” Alden called.
“You’ve got to have some breakfast first,“
I said.
While Ed tied up to the dock, I hurried
below and rustled up a nourishing meal of strawberry milk and stale coffeecake.
Emerged from west end of canal after
somewhat choppy trip to find weather definitely rough. After pounding into it for a few minutes,
consulted with Seabird I1 about turning into Onset instead of
trying to make Syspican. Alden was all
for it, so shortly afterward we dropped the hook in Onset Harbor within hailing
distance of each other. Alden, Ed, and I
had a swim followed by highballs and Delmonico steaks (provided by Pinkhams' guests, Ernie and Arlene Gavet) aboard Seabird. Alden is an excellent chef. We were especially intrigued with his method
of preparing charcoal-blackened rolls.
“The browns are rolling,” he announced from the galley. What he meant was, “The burns are
rolling.”
July
1, 1956, Onset to Cohasset
Ed and I left for Cohasset at noon. Passed Alden fishing in channel, waved
goodbye. After we left east end of
canal, winds very strong. Blew
ferociously the last hour. Found our
mooring occupied by a cruiser, one of whose gas tanks had burst and our mooring
was the closest they could put her in a hurry.
Were guided to another mooring by Cliff Dixon, aided competently by
volunteer Timmy.
July
3, 1956, Cohasset to Nantasket and back
Impromptu decision to treat the kids to
Nantasket fireworks display. Brought irreplaceable helper Kathryn Kilpinen along, left harbor around 11:00 p.m., drew alongside fireworks
tug off Nantasket shortly before midnight.
Finding way on this moonless night was no easy chore for the Skipper.
Communicated with tug to find out if we were in their way, had it pointed out
that hot ashes were liable to fall on us.
A minute later, the first rockets began shooting skyward, and as warned, Happy Days made a splendid
target. Ed turned on the motors and we
retreated to a discreet distance—although the final spectacle gave us the
sensation that the sky was splintering to pieces directly on top of us. I missed most of this spectacle because my
fingers kept obstructing my vision.
Made hot soup for everyone; couldn’t fill
Tim up. (“I’m eating you out of house
and yacht, Mummy,”said our ten-year-old)
Arrived back at Yacht Club at 1:20
a.m.
July
7, 1956, Cohasset to Gloucester
In spite of the pill, I began to feel
nauseated as soon as we passed Minot’s.
What particularly nauseated me was that Sally and Connie were not. In an attempt to be sympathetic, Connie
described to me a rough trip she once had on a Polish steamship whose
unfortunate passengers were subjected to hearty Polish fare such as—well, I
should have stopped her at that point.
The Borsch with Sour Cream sounded so offensive to my churning innards
that I barely controlled an urge to smother Con-Con in sour cream and
cornflakes. Jackie Baby, up on the
flying bridge with Ed, kept throwing up over the side but wouldn’t admit to
seasickness. Felt fine, he said.
As for Whitey, the man with the cast-iron
stomach, he confessed to losing quite a bit of shrapnel and wanly allowed that
next time he would join us in the pill-taking ceremony.
Connie brought nine pairs of shoes, which
ought to see her nicely through the weekend.
It would see a centipede nicely through the weekend.
Bill Brown picked us up at Eastern Point
Yacht Club and chauffeured us to his home for a highball before the Club’s
buffet luncheon. After a yummy
lunch—chop suey, corned beef, veal, ham, tuna salad, coleslaw, tomatoes, lemon
sherbet—we girls took the launch out to Happy Days and snoozed in the sun in our bathing suits while the boys went
to inspect Browns’ new boat.
Couldn’t inspect Kirkfield without
taking it out for a spin, of course.
Eventually Bill tied up alongside Happy Days, which gave the girls a chance to inspect the new boat. Very lovely craft, with lots of room—36-foot
cabin cruiser made by Sample.
Changed into dress-up clothes (Con-Con’s was
sensational, but she had a couple of big problems—finally covered them up with
a little nosegay—went ashore to cocktail party in our honor at Browns. When the party boiled down to a moveable
number, we took off for the Lobster House.
Jane spent the dinner hour discussing politics with Jack and ministering
to his poor sprained thumb. This,
of course, involved much holding of hands, and if I were Connie, I’d be plenty
jealous. In fact, I was plenty jealous
anyway.
Harbor very rough, so Ed taxied us to Happy Days in small groups, managing to deliver every one of us in prime
condition. No accidents, no bloopers at
all so far this week, much to my regret: it makes for a very dull Log.
July
8, 1956, Gloucester
Arose at ninish this morning after a great
deal of prodding by Whitey, who woke up with a two-by-four chip on his
shoulder. Talk about your Simon Legrees. Sally and I finally managed to rustle up
breakfast, but I don’t recall Whitey rustling up any thank-yous.
Played tennis for a couple of hours at
Browns’ neighbors’ courts, back to Browns for liquid refreshment, back to Happy Days for a squabble over how to cook the steaks. (Somebody failed to bring charcoal.) Menu: Fried steak (“Ugh,” said Connie, who
then proceeded to lick her platter clean and Jack Spratt’s, too), succotash,
potato salad, sliced tomatoes, chocolate cake.
It was Connie’s sensible idea to get our main meal safely under our
belts, leaving us free to entertain expected visitors.
First to arrive was Nat Loud, accompanied
by her two well-behaved children, John and Ann Adele. Soon afterward Jack Loud joined us, then the
Browns. Little Ann Adele stood at my
elbow while I fixed a snack for her and her brother and told me she loved our
kitchen.
“It is nice, isn’t it?” I
agreed. “But after this, dear, you must
remember that on a boat you never call a kitchen a kitchen, you call it a
head.”
Jack Barnard overheard this conversation
and practically fell up the gangway in his haste to repeat it to our
guests. And I thought lawyers were
discreet!
“Never mind, Connie,” I said—Connie was
pouting because she thought the Brewers might have at least feigned reluctance
to leave us—“ We can play bridge and have lots and lots of fun and hope they
both have nightmares and fall out of their comfortable beds.”
July
9, 1956, Gloucester to Cohasset
The Barnards and the Malleys played bridge
until 1 a.m. last night and had a peachy time.
Poured rain during the night, drizzle and fog this morning. Had planned to leave for Cohasset today
(Monday), but it looks as though we are fog-bound. Ed communicated with his office and said he
might not get back till Wednesday or Thursday.
He relayed a similar message to Jack’s office while Jack was in at the
dock getting rid of the Brewers and picking up the rubbish. I mean, getting rid of the rubbish and
picking up the Brewers. Jack turned pale
when Connie told him how Ed had fixed things for him at the office, but he
shouldn’t have looked so worried. Ed will help him find another job.
3:00
p.m. After listening to the weather
report at 12:20, the six of us had a conference and decided to make tracks for
Cohasset. The trip home was not nearly
as rough as the trip over. Weather here
in Cohasset is “go-juss” as Sally would say.
Our planned trip to Provincetown with
Vonnie and Timmy was made doubtful by weatherman's forecast. Suddenly at 8:00 p.m., just after dinner, Ed made up his mind to go,
figuring that with Loran and all the other gadgets at his service, he wasn’t
taking too much risk.
Left Cohasset at nine, after hasty
scramble to throw clothes for the four of us in a suitcase and a few provisions
in our canvas bag. All was well until we
reached the tide rip off Provincetown. Meanwhile the wind had come up and it
was raining intermittently.
It took us more than an hour and a half of
tortuous bumps and grinds to make our way to the Flagship’s white light that
signifies a left turn into the harbor.
The children were patient and
good, but poor Tim was ashen under his tan and confided that his stomach felt
upside-down and inside-out. As we swung
toward the harbor, Ed turned both engines down to dead low, being anxious to avoid colliding with other boats in the dark. One of the engines conked out, and Ed went
down to investigate, leaving me alone on the flying bridge in charge of the
Avoid Collisions detail. It was
drizzling and very dark out, except for occasional flashes of lightning. Then the other engine conked out. There was nothing for it but to throw over
the anchor while Ed fussed over the engines at 1:30 a.m. After he finally got them going again, we
poked our way cautiously into the harbor and dropped the anchor close to a
large black sloop.
Saturday,
July 14, 1956, Provincetown
Called Tina and Grandpa on ship-to-shore
phone at 9:30. “We’ll pick you up in an
hour,” said Tina. Ed and Vonnie had a
swim, then Ed took us ashore--two trips because it was still plenty rough
out. He laboriously pulled the dinghy up
on what used to be the Public Landing, chained the outboard motor to boat and
dock. A fisherman yelled down to him
that he couldn’t park the dinghy there for long, it was now a private
dock. “That’s a helluva place to leave
it anyway, when the tide comes in, it’ll be smashed to pieces.”
“You’re right,” Ed said amicably. (He had pushed the dinghy half under the
dock, and when the tide rose, it would indeed have been squashed.) Ed moved it over to the new Public Landing.
Meanwhile the fisherman, who had been
expecting a lot of back talk, changed his tune and walked into town with us,
chatting in the friendliest of manners.
Said he’d been coming to Provincetown for thirty-odd years and this was
by far the worst summer he’d ever seen.
Advised Ed on how to handle the tide rip problem--either hug the shore or
go way outside.
Had a swim in that warm Cape ocean. Vonnie
pushed me around on the plastic raft, Tim’s sailboat capsized a couple
of times (“Hey, Tina, take this back to the store, it’s guaranteed!”),
Ed bailed out Grandpa’s boat. The kids
went off to explore the pond while the rest of us had highballs. Tina broiled three enormous T-bone steaks for the
six of us--first time I’ve ever seen Ed give up instead of gnawing the bone
down to the bone. Grandpa organized a
game of Crazy Eights. First, he
got eliminated, then Tim, then Ed, leaving the smarter sex to fight to the
finish. I promptly was bagged and in the
next hand, Tina went out first, making her the Grand Winner of ninety
cents.
Sunday,
July 15, 1956, Provincetown to Cohasset
Good night’s sleep in Orleans. Lovely warm day. Children had conned grandparents into letting
them stay on until Monday, so on our way to PT, we dropped Tina and the kids at
Nauset Light Beach. Told Grandpa not to
wait around to see us off, we might take a swim first, but nevertheless we
could see him stationed at the end of the dock right up to the moment we
finally steamed toward the mouth of the harbor.
We took our swim, left around 1 p.m. Arrived Cohasset 4:45.
Saturday, July 28, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor
Saturday, July 28, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor
Wednesday,
August 1, 1956, Cohasset to Onset
The Thaxters were already aboard when we
arrived at the Yacht Club fifteen minutes late.
For a minute they had us worried--they had asked if it would be all
right to bring Debbie along as far Onset where her grandparents would pick her
up--but they hadn’t said a word about adding Jody and baby-sitter Anne to the
passenger list. I half expected to see
their dog Panda and their five cats come bounding out of the stateroom. However, when Ed started up the engines,
Jayne handed Jody over to Anne and we all stood around waving bye-bye at each
other. Except Jody, who was torn between
smiling and waving or kicking and screaming.
Arrived Onset around 8:30 p.m. Debbie said goodbye and thank you for the
boat ride, gathered up her comic books and started ashore with Blake in the
dinghy. Blake got the outboard going
without any trouble at all, then yelled to Ed, “How do you shut this thing
off?” It’s lucky he thought to ask, or
he and Debbie might have putted up over the dock and down Main Street until he
ran out of gas.
Ed took a swim, headed toward the dock to
look for Blake. Blake, meanwhile,
returned to the boat to pick Jayne up so she could say hello and goodbye to her
aunt and uncle who were with Debbie’s grandparents. By the time the four of us sat down for Happy
Hour, it was 9:30. We put our feet up on
the new hassock Jayne contributed to Happy Days and waited
hungrily for our charcoal broiled steaks.
Half a Happy-Hour later, Ed asked Drake if he wanted another blink. Without clinking an eye, Bwake clickly said
yes. They understood each other perfectly. There was too much steak for the
four of us but we finished it anyway.
After dinner Blake made Jayne a G and G (gin
and grape juice). Then we all went to
bed and at 5:15, Ed and Blake got up.
The idea was, we’d get an early start before the wind came up, thus
assuring ourselves of a comfortable cruise across Nantucket Sound. The cruise was anything but comfortable. As soon as we got into the Sound, the boat
began to plunge and roll as gusts up to 30 mph kicked up the sea.
We got into Nantucket around 10:00,
stocked up on gas and water, were informed by the dock attendant that we were
lucky to have made it, it was really rough outside. Breakfast cheered us --bacon, scrambled eggs,
coffee roll.
Went ashore to look the situation
over--Jayne, Blake, and I laden with racquets, balls, cameras,
towels, bathing suits, etc., while Captain Malley regally led the way,
unburdened by such plebeian gear. The
Captain registered at the desk, ascertained that we could play tennis for free
on one of the six courts connected to the Yacht Club, announced that in his
opinion we should explore the town, take a swim, then play tennis. In my opinion, his opinion was impractical
and ill-considered, so I said to him, Listen Bub, you’re ashore now and here’s
the program: we play tennis now.
It might rain or a meteor might damage the courts or we might lose our
tennis racquets in the excitement of exploring Nantucket.
“Aye-aye, sir,” said Ed, snapping to
attention.
“At ease,” I replied kindly, loading him
with our plebeian gear.
Jayne, Blake, and Ed had a snappy game of
tennis while I watched the balls go by and strove to direct my serve into the
postage stamp on the other side of the net.
After a few games I was wishing I had been more respectful of Captain
Malley’s pronouncements. At least I
could have pleaded weariness for playing tennis like a three-year-old after we
explored Nantucket.
The Nantucket Yacht Club has one of the
finest set-ups we have seen anywhere.
Besides being physically attractive with lovely landscaping and terraces
adjoining a building typical of Nantucket (silver-gray weathered shingles), the
Yacht Club offers numerous facilities to its guests: indoor badminton, ping
pong, snack bar, real bar, weekly dining and dancing and tennis all day any
day.
So far we have but one complaint about
Nantucket: the young man who runs the launch service is a boor with a Hitler
complex. When Ed asked him why he
couldn’t drop anchor close by the Yacht Club, he proclaimed, “Because you can’t,
you just can't!”
When the launch came to take us ashore, Ed
said, “Okay everybody, quick like a bunny, hop in,”and leaped in himself to
help hold the launch.
“Never mind hopping in, just hang on to the boat!” the young man snapped. It’s a good thing for him he’s not a policeman or Attorney Thaxter would have his badge.
“Never mind hopping in, just hang on to the boat!” the young man snapped. It’s a good thing for him he’s not a policeman or Attorney Thaxter would have his badge.
The original plan had been to go ashore
for dinner, but we decided to postpone this treat until tomorrow when we’ll
have more energy. We picked up a few
groceries and had hamburg and ravioli aboard the boat. Folded at 9:30 p.m.
Friday,
August 3, 1956, Nantucket
We are blessed with beautiful
weather. Ed and I had an early swim,
banged on Thaxters’ porthole to wake those slug-a-beds. They joined us in the water, then we rustled
up breakfast, gathered up our paraphernalia and went ashore on the launch. After playing tennis for a couple of hours,
we set out for the beach, a walk of fifteen minutes from the Yacht Club. As we trudged along, a bus went tootling by
(“.15 to beach”), and we resolved to squander sixty cents on a ride home when
the day was over.
The Jetties bathhouse was the cleanest,
pleasantest, best-run public bathhouse we have ever encountered. We were delighted with the Family Locker
arrangement, two roomy cubicles side by side, one for the Thaxters, one for the
Malleys. The beach was not overcrowded
and the people were quiet and good mannered.
We had frappes and hamburgers and hot dogs at the Snack Bar, swam, lazed
around for the rest of the afternoon.
Chose the Ropewalk, the only restaurant
that was a member of the Diner’s Club, and were delighted with the service and
the fare—although Jayne was the only one
smart enough to order the Roast Beef Special.
Chances are we’ll return Sunday night and order four Roast Beef
Specials.
Before catching launch to the Happy Days, had cordials at Yacht Club
bar. Blake’s was a very very very dry
Martini. A nightcap aboard the
boat. We celebrated POPBN (Pick on poor
Blake night) and everyone went to bed mad.
Blake said he was going to keep drinking, but when nobody gave him an
argument, he hopped into the sack before the rest of us had finished brushing
our teeth.
Saturday,
August 4, 1956, Nantucket
Another gorgeous day. Jayne and I made so bold as to challenge the
fellows to tennis, having recalled beating them last year in Provincetown. Unfortunately I was still afflicted with
servitis, and Jayne would have had more chance of winning if she had taken them
on single-handed. We had lunch at the
Yacht Club, caught the bus to the beach.
Another relaxing afternoon, our only regret being that it’s almost over.
“Nobody worried about me when I
walked home from the Thaxters’ in the middle of the night,” I said.
To which Ed replied inappropriately, “Poor
Jayne!”
Maybe Jayne had something at that, I
thought. On the way back to the
Yacht Club I got lost. I fell
behind Ed and peeked around the corner of a building, watching him stride out
of sight. Then I stood there hugging
myself, imagining his consternation when he discovered he was alone. After a long time I spotted him retracing his
tracks. He was muttering something to
himself, and I don’t think it was “Poor Barbara!” Nevertheless I decided to forgive him, so
next thing he knew, he’d found me again.
Without a word being exchanged, such as “Oh, thank God, darling,
don’t ever leave me again,” we filed Indian style back to the yacht club. The launch took us out to Happy Days where we turned in, not
without the accusation from Ed that I was pretty callous about the Thaxters.
Guess who was snoring when the Thaxters
arrived on the launch at midnight? Not
I, said the captain’s mate, but hearing Jayne’s call in my sleep, I hopped out
of my bunk, sprang up through the porthole, skittered along the railing and
dove into the cockpit just as Jayne was opening the door and calling my name. Still half asleep, I tackled
her, somehow having the notion that if I didn’t, she would close and lock the
door. Or did I dream this part of my
story?
Sunday, August 5, 1956, Nantucket
Another perfect day. One thing we can’t complain about is the
weather. We played tennis, then Thaxters
and I went to Jettie’s Beach while Ed did some chores on the boat. He told us he would probably join us around
2:00, and at 2:00, just as we were wondering where he was, there he was. Ed spent the afternoon constructing a
gigantic triangle made of shells. “If my
father could see me now!” he said, having just talked to Grandpa on the
phone. Grandpa was not pleased to hear
Ed was not returning to work until Tuesday morning. Blake took several pictures of Ed and his
Vitally Important Shell Project.
“This is my annuity,” he explained.
“This is my annuity,” he explained.
Had four delicious Roast Beef Specials at
the Ropewalk, then walked a few blocks to the wharf where the Boathouse
Restaurant is located, with the plan of ordering cordials (three Drambuies and
one Martini, very very very dry for the captain) and introducing ourselves to the piano
player. Eddie O’Hearn, his name was, and
he remembered Cohasset's Charlie Watson and his annual party for musicians very well. He played “If I Loved You” for us, after
which we hastily departed as it was getting near the 10 p.m. launch service
deadline. One startling fact had come to
light as we sipped our cordials: the Thaxters are enthusiastic about Chinese
food and we never realized it.
“I’m flaspergabbered!” Ed said cordially.
Monday,
August 6, 1956, Nantucket.
Ed got up at 6:20 to listen to the weather
report, learned that the wind was 15-20 mph, no small craft warnings. We all took a pill and were under way by
7:00. After taking great care to make
everything secure, it was almost a letdown to get out on the open ocean and
enjoy comfortable sailing and another beautiful sunny day.
One of the engines conked out when we were
halfway home, leaving Ed understandably depressed. He has had more trouble with
those two new engines than he ever did with the old ones. “If I have to be towed in . . . “ he muttered darkly. But the one engine held on and we steamed past Minot’s Light at 5:00 p.m.
Sunday,
August 12, 1956, Cohasset
Left harbor at 10:00, Wes and Marion Marsh
aboard. On way out to draggers, saw one
shark, but he nose-dived as Wes was about to throw the harpoon. Had beer all around, then I served crab meat
soup made with green peas, mushrooms and tomato soup. Oh, and crabmeat. Marion contributed corned beef on
pumpernickel sandwiches.
It was warm and beautiful out until around
2:00 when a strong wind came up. On our
way back to Cohasset, a rain squall drove us below, but it soon blew over. Passed Minot’s at 4:00 p.m.
Tuesday,
August 17, 1956, Cohasset
I can say with authority that a good place
to get some rest is definitely not on a boat tied up to the yacht club float on
a mid-summer Friday night. We heard the
Heaths and the Merrills disembarking with hilarity from Sherbie’s boat. No sooner had they gone than a couple came
down the stairway to the dock and had an intimate conversation in voices that were just
hushed enough so that we couldn’t quite hear what they were saying. Very frustrating. Then the couple saw a car drive up to the
club, and they hastily leaped into the water.
“Now remember, we’ve been swimming
for half an hour,” the girl instructed her companion. Their friends came down to the dock, the
couple assured them they’d been swimming for half an hour, and it took all the
will power I could muster to keep from calling through the porthole: “They have
not!”
It was after 2 a.m. when Cinderella Remick
and her Prince tiptoed aboard. Dottie
promptly hit the sack and Ray joined Ed
at the topside controls. Ed started the
engines, the controls were in reverse, and we almost ran aground.
Another thing that made it impossible to
sleep was the noise of the engines and the vibrations. I was vibrating along with the engines. If I hadn’t kept my feet tucked under me, I
might have bored a hole right through the boat.
Like the guy who was so screwy, he went through the floor if he turned
around three times.
Saturday, August 18, 1956, Provincetown
Saturday, August 18, 1956, Provincetown
After our arrival at 7:30 a.m., I kept
waiting for Ed and Ray to go to bed like sensible people, by 8:30 realized I
was being naive and got up. Beautiful
morning. Ray wanted to prove to Dottie
how simple it is to keep house aboard a boat, so he prepared breakfast, taking
only a minute or two over an hour. At
10:30 a.m., we all went to bed like sensible people.
At 1:15 Ed called Grandpa and Tina, arranged to meet them at Town Landing at 6:00
p.m.
Remicks and Malleys went ashore, half
swamping dinghy on the way, much to Dottie’s alarm—we assured her that her shorts would
be dry in no time. There seemed to be no
suitable place to leave the dinghy, so Ed asked permission of owner of private
landing to tie up, offering a couple of dollars.
“It
won’t cost you,” the fellow said, but Ed stuffed the money in his benefactor’s
back pocket. We walked to the Towne
House and made a reservation for dinner this evening. Poked along the narrow street, bought fried
clams, ice cream, etc. because we’re all on diets and can’t eat lunch. All except Ray, who ordinarily has two
full-course dinners a day to nourish his tapeworm.
“Dottie is the only person I know,” he
says, “who ate so many Ayds, she gained weight.” This comment made while he wolfed down two
cheeseburgers and an order of French fries.
Took a tour of Provincetown’s Historical
Museum. Dottie and I were so exhausted
that every time we saw an antique chair that looked as if it wouldn’t fall
apart, we sat down. It was sort of like
musical chairs with no music.
Dottie and I had quick naps before Happy
Hour. Ed picked up Grandpa and Tina in
the dinghy, Pinkhams and Reeds rowed over from Seabird. With ten of us in
the saloon, there wasn’t much room for dancing or even much elbow room. Ray needs half an acre, as you would know if
you have ever seen him raise a drink.
The wind had come up (what else could we
expect in Provincetown?), and getting us ashore in the choppy sea presented a
problem. Someone had the brilliant idea--in all modesty I can’t mention who--of
pulling up the anchor and dropping us at the dock directly from Happy Days. This worked out very
well, as Ed was able to talk another private dock owner into letting him tie up
while we had dinner.
Sunday,
August 18, 1956, Provincetown to Cohasset
The boat pitched and tossed all
night. We arose at the crack of 9:30 and
I made a bargain with Ray. I would
prepare breakfast and he would finish writing up the Log for August
17th. He got as
far as “Barbara and Ed were sleeping deeply,” and then I was unable to interpret his subsequent
handwriting. Perhaps it described the
marvelous party that was thrown for me on my 35th birthday.
A strange combination of high winds and
fog made it appear that we might be weather-bound for some time to come. Ray called Northeast Crew Scheduling and told
Pete not to count on him to fly tomorrow.
Went ashore, Stopped at Sorcerer’s
Apprentice to look at their hand-made jewelry and pottery. Dottie bought a pair
of seashell earrings that open to reveal a sea monster bearing an uncanny
resemblance to Ray. As we walked toward
center of town, noticed a crowd and a couple of ambulances outside a rooming
house. Ed, Ray, and Dottie walked by
with hardly a second glance, but I loitered long enough to observe an empty
stretcher being carried out of the house with the impression of a head in the
pillow. I deduced that the patient had
died on the stretcher, so the ambulance crew unloaded him back on the bed--or
wherever he had been--and now he belonged to the coroner. No one appreciated my report.
The wind had gone down and it was almost
flat calm when we reached the dock at 3:30.
“We’re leaving!” Ed and Ray decided, and before the Pinkhams could say,
“Hey, wait for us!” we were off.
Fastest trip back ever. Less than three hours. Ray claims his navigating skill is responsible for
our record time and hopes this will be made clear in the Log. I repeat: Ray claims his navigating skill is responsible for ete. etc.
Saturday,
August 25, 1956, Cohasset to Provincetown
After a hot shower and a couple of
highballs we felt revived enough to face the trip ashore for dinner at the
Towne House. We bounced over to the Town
Landing in the dinghy, not without shipping a splash of water every now and
then. After dinner we purchased a bottle
of Drambuie and returned to Happy
Days.
We played Rummy for a while, and I was
comfortably ahead when Ed said, “I don’t think much of this game, let’s play
Hearts.” After I won four games out of five, he didn’t think much of that game
either, how about a few hands of poker?
At 1:30 a.m. we called it a draw.
Sunday,
August 26, 1956, Provincetown to Cohasset
Had breakfast ashore, met Grandpa and Tina
at dock at 10:00. Took them out for a day’s sail, no sign of fish. Dropped them off at 2:30, headed for home.
Sunday,
September 2, 1956, Cohasset to Barnstable
This
morning the visibility was still very poor, and Logan Airport reported that the
fog would be “up and down” during the day.
Maybe we could sneak across to Barnstable when it was “up.”
We were rowing out to Happy Days around 9:00 a.m. when who should come out of the fog yet again
but Bill Brown, who has this disconcerting habit of putting in an appearance
when you least expect him. Like waving
at you from the picture window of your house in Fort Lauderdale.
Most of these events trigger not even a glimmer of recollection. How did he get into the house? Had we gone out and left the door unlocked? Who is Bill Brown, anyway? Oh wait, I remember he was a classmate of Whitey Brewer’s.
Ed followed Bill out beyond Minot’s and we found ourselves in the Never-Never Land of Fog. Fog hovered over us and pressed around us and we were alone in a heavily shrouded silence. We wandered slowly about like lost souls, and out of the mist occasionally drifted other lost souls--sailboats soundlessly appearing and disappearing; three fishermen in a rowboat, doomed to drift and fish through all Eternity; Bill Brown yelling “Soupy out here, isn’t it!” and ruining my reverie.
Most of these events trigger not even a glimmer of recollection. How did he get into the house? Had we gone out and left the door unlocked? Who is Bill Brown, anyway? Oh wait, I remember he was a classmate of Whitey Brewer’s.
Ed followed Bill out beyond Minot’s and we found ourselves in the Never-Never Land of Fog. Fog hovered over us and pressed around us and we were alone in a heavily shrouded silence. We wandered slowly about like lost souls, and out of the mist occasionally drifted other lost souls--sailboats soundlessly appearing and disappearing; three fishermen in a rowboat, doomed to drift and fish through all Eternity; Bill Brown yelling “Soupy out here, isn’t it!” and ruining my reverie.
We were on our way in when the fog seemed
to lift at bit. Ed was literally going
around in circles, trying to make up his mind whether to go ashore and drive to
Barnstable (where his folks had been expecting us for lo these last five days)
or wait awhile longer for improved visibility.
“Oh come on, let’s go!” I said recklessly.
By this time the fog was so dissipated, we could practically see Barnstable, so
Cautious Conrad clenched his jaw, straightened his cap, and we were on our way out again..
Arrived 2:30, Grandpa and Tina on hand to
greet us. New slips for visiting yachts
offered a safe, inexpensive haven for the
Happy Days and tempt us to return again more often. If only Provincetown had similar
facilities. On the other hand, one of Darrell McClure’s best illustrations for my “Water on the Brain” article shows Ed hanging from the Provincetown pier.
Monday,
September 3,1956, Barnstable to Cohasset.
Enjoyed our day and a half visit with the
folks. Last night before dinner Ed and I
had a swim in Pleasant Bay to wake us up and sharpen our appetites. Wonderful steak dinner followed by wonderful
bed.
Piled into the jeep and took a run over to
Nauset Beach. Ed was dismayed by his
father’s manner of driving and volunteered a running stream of advice and
reproofs from the back seat. “Take it
easy, what a cowboy, watch out for those kids, slow down,” etc.
He
sounded exactly like Grandpa two years ago when Ed was driving
the jeep, but neither of the men would believe this. “Whose side are you on?” Grandpa demanded,
and I told him, “I’m agin both of you.”
Ed had a swim in the icy surf, I snoozed
in the hot sun. Back to the house for
early cocktails and dinner. Left
Barnstable Harbor 6:45. Beautiful evening,
flat sea, no problems until we passed Minot’s light and couldn’t find
Whitehead. Whitehead’s beacon wasn’t
working, but Ed finally spotted it looming up in the dark and we tied up to the dock at
10:45.
Friday,
September 7, 1956, Cohasset to Provincetown
“Why are you all dressed up?” Vonnie asked Marion.
“I came right from school, Wes wouldn’t let me change,” Marion explained. She had to go to a meeting after school, and when the lady in charge concluded by asking if anyone had any questions, no one uttered a sound. No one dared with Marion’s bullwhip over their heads.
“Kiss, kiss!” cried the kids. “Peeppeeppeep,” squeaked our pet seagull,
flying up on the hood of the Marshes car and splattering it, to Marion’s
chagrin. “Goobye, goobye, goobye,” Ed
said, roaring out of the driveway.
We were on our way at 4:20, arrived three
hours and twenty minutes later as the last red glow of the sun faded behind the
Provincetown tower and surrounded the skyline.
I missed most of the sunset, having gone below for a nap. Marion hated to turn on the lights, she was
so absorbed in the view. The water was
flat calm, a condition we never expected to see in Provincetown.
After Happy Hour and dinner, went ashore
for cordials at the Ace of Spades. The
people there all looked disappointingly normal—season’s over, I guess--except
for one girl who was with a character that could have been either male or
female, and also a man who was accompanied by a cat. Leave it to Marion to strike up a friendship
with the cat. She found it waiting in
line outside the Ladies’ Room, picked it up, brought it over to our table where
we nervously admired it (the beast’s owner was looking very jealous).
The young couple at the table next to ours
were located so close to us, you’d have thought they were our bosom
buddies. Leave it to Marion, in five
minutes they were. She learned they were from Philadelphia, had three children,
two boys and a girl, and were spending the week in Provincetown--their names,
Janet and John DeMoll.
The DeMolls announced they were making the
Atlantic House their next port of call, so as soon as we finished our second
round of drinks, we followed them. The
bar was jammed with men and I wondered if Marion and I would be allowed to
enter; then I spotted Janet and her husband leaning against the wall, sipping
their drinks. We didn’t stay long as
there was no place to sit except on the floor, and there you got stepped on.
Our next stop was our old favorite, the
Towne House. Shortly after we arrived,
the female impersonator went into his act, wearing various wigs as he played
the piano and sang comical songs. We all
enjoyed his routine except Wes, who was busy trying to make time with the
hostess.
A couple of middle-aged ladies got up and
did a dance--leave it to Marion to plunk herself down in the booth with their
husbands, only we were never able to convince her the men were married. One man told her confidentially that the
other fellow was a lesbian. Now
there’s a queer one for you. [Sorry,
that’s the way our minds worked in those days of ignorant and complacent
bigotry.] Mr. Lesbian claimed
to be a waiter at the Ritz-Carlton and urged Marion to stop in and see him next
time she was in Boston.
We invited our new friends to come out for
a nightcap on the Happy Days. At first the DeMolls demurred, but they
accompanied us to the dock and after a little more coaxing, accepted our
invitation.
At 3:30 a.m., Janet was saying, “We really
ought to go.” We then invited them to spend what was left of the night with us,
but they preferred to go on their way. Ed climbed over the side of the Happy Days cockpit and stepped into
what he thought was the middle of the dinghy.
Unhappily, it was the gunwale, and if he had deliberately set out to
sink the craft, he couldn’t have done a better job. He sat there laughing like a baby in a
bathtub as he descended into the drink.
Judging by the bubbles that came up after the waters closed over his
head, I think he must have been still laughing.
The dinghy disappeared completely, but Ed
eventually rose to the surface, full of chuckles and salt water.
“Ed Malley,” I said crossly, “you better find that dinghy right now! How are the DeMolls going to get ashore?” Ed made a few half-hearted surface dives but was unable to locate the dinghy.
“Ed Malley,” I said crossly, “you better find that dinghy right now! How are the DeMolls going to get ashore?” Ed made a few half-hearted surface dives but was unable to locate the dinghy.
After Ed hauled himself aboard, I
suggested we pull up the anchor and take the DeMolls to the dock in the Happy Days. Wes vetoed the idea and on second thought I
could see his point. A man who could swamp a dinghy without half trying could
hardly be expected to maneuver a 40-foot boat at 3:00 a.m.
Saturday,
September 8, 1956, Provincetown
“As I was saying,” Janet DeMoll said
wearily this morning, “we really ought to be going.”
Marion and I, very much in each other’s way
in the galley, at length put scrambled eggs and bacon on the table. We breakfasted and reviewed the events of the
night before. This morning John had
retrieved the dinghy with the boat-hook, having spotted it floating under the
surface, conveniently within reach. I didn’t
hear Ed berating himself, as he had berated me on a similar occasion: “You
swamped the dinghy? Oh, my
outboard motor, it’ll be ruined!”
We invited the DeMolls to go tuna fishing
with us, but strange to say, they seemed eager to quit our presence. Dropped them at the dock, went out looking
for tuna, but it was rough and we were tired.
Returned to the harbor at 1:00 and slept the afternoon away.
Went ashore after Happy Hour, had dinner
at the Towne House. The hostess
remembered us but let us in anyway. Wes
gave her a cigarette lighter he had picked up the night before, as it was
exactly like his own. The hostess said
it belonged to one of the ladies who went home early last night after Marion
moved in on her escort. We asked her if
Marion’s friend was really a waiter at the Ritz Carlton. “Oh no, he’s a millionaire.”
After dinner we all piled into the dinghy
and headed cheerily for the Happy Days. Suddenly Wes shouted, “Hey Ed, slow down,
whoaa!” The bow of the dinghy had dipped
into the sea and scooped up several gallons of water. Too many steak dinners. But we made it all
right, with Ed rowing because the outboard conked out. Still no self-reproaches from the dinghy
swamper. Four pairs of wet feet to show for our
trip.
Sunday,
September 9, 1956, Provincetown
The local fishermen made an awful racket
starting before sunrise. Marion, Wes,
and I got up around seven and had breakfast, but Ed didn’t put in an appearance
for another hour, mumbling something about the crack of dawn.
He
asked the Boston Marine Operator for a repeat of the 6:20 forecast. It didn’t
sound good--increasingly high winds from the northeast. “We’d better get going,” the fellows decided.
Saturday,
September 15, 1956, Cohasset to Scituate Harbor and back
Just Ed and I on a day-trip, looking for
tuna. Chilly out, a bit rough. No tuna.
Bemoaned the briefness of summer, now nearly gone.
[And
now, all of a sudden, a half-century is gone. bbm, May 3, 2014]
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