Click on the title to link to a Wikipedia entry for Wollaston Beach, called Adamsville Beach in the sketch, including a picture for those who have moved away from the area. Damn, thanks Internet technology on this one.
Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:
Okay, okay in an earlier sketch entitled "Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach," this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at North Adamsville Beach. I went on and on about things like impatiently waiting to check out the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end of the beach; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what we then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end.
Furthermore, all be-bop blushing aside I, heroically, allowed us to suffer once against by describing the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. With the sound of the high tide waves roaring against the sand splashed shore. That last bit, my friends, is shorthand for the "parking" ritual and "submarine races," a localism for activities, automobile activities, going on in the deep night, the deep teen hormonal night that we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around.
But now I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that sketch. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Adamsville Beach in the clear bright light of day, warts and all. We all must or should respect Mother Nature, or she will beat us, mercilessly beat us down, but let’s at least not mumble gibberish in old age like some star-struck teeny-boppers.
Last year , as part of the ill-advised trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about with these sketches I walked, hard sneaker-driven walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Adamsville Beach from the Squaw Rock Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts" for the modern reader, I don’t know what frame of reference site would do for the older reader, maybe the old Squaw Rock Elementary School or the long-abandoned Naval Air Base entrance) to the bridge at Adamsville Shore Drive (and the entrance to, the dividing line which should have been etched in high gloss granite stone native to the area stone that separated we pure at heart raider red diehards from the dreaded Adamsville High heathen warriors). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Adamsville Beach in my youth.
Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Squaw Rock and Adamsville Heights Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read: girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" local beach gin mill drunken throw-up night horrors in much the same condition and with that same rutted unpaved parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get into at whatever non-legal age we tried, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean.
What I noticed were things like the odd sulfuric smell of low-tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves in almost every conceivable locale on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic, especially those blasting-engine motorcycles, those Harley hog things and their mad men drivers. Things that, frankly, I was oblivious to back in the days.
There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Adamsville as describe in "Visions" and the Adamsville of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.
.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.
Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:
Okay, okay in an earlier sketch entitled "Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach," this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at North Adamsville Beach. I went on and on about things like impatiently waiting to check out the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end of the beach; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what we then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end.
Furthermore, all be-bop blushing aside I, heroically, allowed us to suffer once against by describing the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. With the sound of the high tide waves roaring against the sand splashed shore. That last bit, my friends, is shorthand for the "parking" ritual and "submarine races," a localism for activities, automobile activities, going on in the deep night, the deep teen hormonal night that we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around.
But now I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that sketch. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Adamsville Beach in the clear bright light of day, warts and all. We all must or should respect Mother Nature, or she will beat us, mercilessly beat us down, but let’s at least not mumble gibberish in old age like some star-struck teeny-boppers.
Last year , as part of the ill-advised trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about with these sketches I walked, hard sneaker-driven walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Adamsville Beach from the Squaw Rock Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts" for the modern reader, I don’t know what frame of reference site would do for the older reader, maybe the old Squaw Rock Elementary School or the long-abandoned Naval Air Base entrance) to the bridge at Adamsville Shore Drive (and the entrance to, the dividing line which should have been etched in high gloss granite stone native to the area stone that separated we pure at heart raider red diehards from the dreaded Adamsville High heathen warriors). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Adamsville Beach in my youth.
Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Squaw Rock and Adamsville Heights Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read: girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" local beach gin mill drunken throw-up night horrors in much the same condition and with that same rutted unpaved parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get into at whatever non-legal age we tried, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean.
What I noticed were things like the odd sulfuric smell of low-tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves in almost every conceivable locale on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic, especially those blasting-engine motorcycles, those Harley hog things and their mad men drivers. Things that, frankly, I was oblivious to back in the days.
There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Adamsville as describe in "Visions" and the Adamsville of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.
.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.
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