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GRACE'S FISHING EXPEDITION

Ever since they were a young married couple, Grace Chandler had been pestering her husband Moses Chandler to take her with him on one of his fishing outings. So, one bright sunny day, without a cloud in the sky,and a beautiful calm sea, he finally ran out of excuses.

“Alright,” he signed with resignation in his voice, “Ye can come, but I don’t want no complainin’.  We’re out there to fish, and we ain’t comin’ back ‘til I have my ketch for the day.”

All atwitter, Grace ran to get her big brimmed sun hat, eyes bright with the anticipation of finally spending a day fishing with her husband.

“Betta take a sweata!” Mose shouted at her as she disappeared into the house.

Moments later, Grace emerged from the house with a big heavy shawl around her shoulders and her big brimmed sun hat on her head. She and her husband walked briskly down to the dock where the small fishing boat was moored. Deftly, Moses jumped into the boat, and then held up his hand to his wife to help her down.  Grace looked down from the dock into the small boat wobbling in the water.

“It looks awful far down there, Mose” she said. 

Mose shook head in desperation.  “Tide’s changin’, Grace.  Are you comin’ with me or not?”

Holding her breath, and tightly clasping her husband’s rough hand, Grace jumped down into the boat.

“Now you jest sit and don’t get in my way” he admonished.

Grace was not about to move once they got far out of the sight of land.  She was not so sure now that this had been a good idea, but she had whined for so long she could not now admit that she had made a mistake and that she really had no business being on her husband’s boat way out in the middle of the ocean. Besides, she had not realized how much the little boat would rock and that the waves would splash up over the gunnels of the boat.  Quietly, she started to pray.

Just then, a seagull landed on the railing of the boat.  It had recognized the boat, and knew there would be food when Mose cleaned the fish.  His little black eyes looked hungrily as Mose threw out the lines.

It was a beautiful day. As time passed, Grace became fascinated with the gulls flying over head.  She watched as Mose pulled in the lines, deftly taking the fish off the hooks and tossing them onto the bottom of the boat.

Suddenly, Grace saw something huge and shining in the sun, just to one side the boat.

“Mose,” she cried.  “Look, look quick! There goes a boat bottom side up. I wonder where that came from.”

Mose just shrugged his shoulders and kept on pulling in his lines. He later told his fishermen friends that he had dared not tell his wife that what she had seen was a small whale sunning itself.

“She would’uv jumped right ovaboard if she had known,” he chuckled.

For Grace, it had been a memorable occasion. However, that was to be her first and last fishing expedition.

A PUG NAMED PATSY

My great uncle, Dr. George Percy, married his second wife, Aunt Catherine, late in life, he being two years older than her own mother, a fact that seemed to bother neither of them. He had two grandchildren from his previous marriage, but no children had blessed his union with Catherine. However, Patsy made up for it in more ways than one.

Patsy was an exuberant little brindle-colored pug who pretty much ruled their household.  She had her special chair at the dining room table, and would sit during meals, her paws on the table, her big eyes bright with great expectancy for she knew that, if she looked pitiful enough, tasty tidbits would be tossed in her direction.  Very well-mannered, for a dog that is, she would never speak unless spoken to, and always cleaned her plate.

Patsy also loved to go for an automobile ride. Always sitting up front on the passenger side with George, her paws on dashboard, she would keep a watchful eye on the road as the countryside flew by. Ever first out of the car, she could hardly wait for the others to follow, yipping and yapping and whining, running around in circles, tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, her short little curled tail wagging up a storm.

Everyone in town knew Patsy the Pug, as she was called, and she was a great favorite among the villagers. The little pug knew just how to make friends, and she had many; but her favorite friend was the postmistress, Marguerite McNulty.

In those days, the Post Office, the Grocery Store, and the Apothecary, or Pharmacy if you will, were all housed in the same building. Open doorways would allow people to go from one to the other without having to go outside. Patsy would run up ahead of George and Catherine, scramble up the two steps that led to the covered porch, and trot up and down the walkway, impatiently waiting to be let in. Once the door was opened, she would bound into the building with gusto heading straight for the Post Office, for Patsy knew that somewhere in that small little office a delicious treat was waiting just for her.

Patsy would run up to the postmistress and place her little paws up on Marguerite’s lap.  Her little pug face would break into a smile, eyes bright, and her little stubby tail wagging furiously in anticipation.  Then she would let out the tiniest little bark and cock her head sideways. That was always the clincher.  The Postmistress would laugh with delight, reaching into the drawer and producing a biscuit which Patsy would delicately take from her hand and eat with relish.

With that little routine over, the little pug would start her inspection of the small building just to make sure there wasn’t anything interesting to find.  Sometimes the grocer would have a tidbit for her, but he was usually too busy with his clients, or restacking the shelves, or sweeping the sand off the floor. The Apothecary was friendly enough, but Patsy didn’t really like the strange smells that emanated from his store. Next, Patsy would go out on the porch and spend the rest her time greeting her villager friends as they came and went. Most of them would greet her cordially with a “Hello, Patsy! How are you today?” to which Patsy would at times sit and raise one paw. The children also loved Patsy and would often sit with her while their parents tended to their business inside the store.

When her daily visit was complete, Patsy would sit by the car and bark until George and Catherine would reluctantly end their daily visit with their friends. Yes, visiting time was over: Patsy the Pug was ready to go home.

JUDD, THE CHAUFFEUR

Judd, my grandfather’s chauffeur, was a part of our family for many years.  Completely devoted to my grandfather, whom he always called “Doctor”, Judd accompanied him everywhere he went. 

When my grandfather visited a patient, Judd stayed in the car and took a snooze.  My grandfather took great pleasure in leaving a patient’s house and tapping rapidly on the car window to wake him up.  Judd would jump to attention, saying: “Yes, Doctor. I’m awake.  Where do we go next?.”    

When we would go to our summer home in Popham, Maine, Judd would go with us and take part in all our activities.

On the 4^th of July, we would creep up to his cabin and light firecrackers outside.  It never failed: Judd would come out of the cabin in his pajamas and chase us away, calling us “Impudent little rascals!” But we knew, he never really meant it.

On Saturdays, he was the one to call all the square dances while Marguerite McNulty would pound out the music on an old upright piano.  Judd always knew just how to call out the dances so that I would have the nicest boy to dance with. Judd and Marguerite were an item for many years.  She was a widow and looked forward to the summer when he would return to Popham.

One summer the highways had been resurfaced with concrete in many places.  This produced a thumping sound when the car’s tires passed over the joints. My grandfather, hearing the unfamiliar sound, insisted that something was wrong. “Judd,” he said, “one of the tires is flat. We’d best stop so you can take a look.”

To which Judd patiently replied: “No, Doctor. It’s the new pavement.”

Of course, my grandfather insisted that they stop, so both could get out to inspect the tires. This went on all the way from Boston to Popham, a long trip in those days.

No matter what time of day or night, Judd was always right there to accompany my grandfather.  He was also there when my grandfather died, faithfully watching over him right until the very end. After my grandfather’s death, Judd moved on. Summers at Popham were never the same without him.

THE FAMILY PICNIC

One of our family summer traditions was the annual picnic at my great uncle George’s houseboat.

Usually we went by car; but this particular weekend, it was decided that we were to go by boat.  When my grandmother, Maude, heard this she merely sighed: “Oh dear”, for she knew that outings with her brother-in-law typically meant that some kind of mishap was sure to happen. My grandmother had been city bred in New York City, so these seafaring excursions were always a frightening event for her.

So we all piled into the two family cars: my grandfather, grandmother, Minot and myself in one car; Uncle George, Aunt Catherine, my cousins Richard Matherson, also known as “Dickey”, and his brother George, whom we nicknamed “Matt”,  in the other, and drove over to the Coast Guard station where the boat was moored.

It was a large open boat that the Coast Guard had used for rescues. When they retired it, Uncle George had bought it with the intention of “sailing the ocean blue”.  He had recently had an old Packard motor installed in order to make trips just like this one possible.  The trip to the old houseboat meant that we had to head out to sea for about three miles, and then follow the coast line south to Meadowbrook, turn into an inlet for about one mile until we finally reached the old houseboat which stood forlornly up on a rocky jut of land.

Everyone had to jump onto the boat.  First, my grandfather hopped on board. My grandmother followed, wearing her large sun hat, gingerly holding out her hand to my grandfather and, with much trepidation, managing to scurry onto the boat. Next came we four grandchildren; then, our Aunt Catherine, and finally, after handing us the picnic baskets, my Uncle George.

Once we were all settled, Uncle George primed the motor, pulled the starter chain and the Percy clan was off to another adventure.

All went well until we were three miles out on the open ocean. Then the motor sputtered and died.  Neither my grandfather nor Uncle George knew anything at all about motors and, of course, there was neither radio nor any other kind of connection with shore.  Matt, Minot, Dickey and I sat huddled in the stern of the boat, trying to decide what our fate was going to be. Finally, we came to the conclusion that, since the tide was going out, we were headed for England or France.

After what seemed like an eternity, we heard the sound of a boat chugging through the waves. It was the Coast Guard coming to the rescue. They were used to my Uncle George always getting into some kind of difficulty so, the minute we had left the dock, they had prepared their boat to come to our rescue.

After the Coast Guard had towed us back to shore and we were all safely back on land, my grandmother turned to her brother-in-law and said, in no uncertain terms, that “As long as she lived, there would be no more excursions out onto the bounding main.”

SUNDAY RITUAL

My grandfather always preferred to have a leisurely Sunday morning.  His brother George, on the other hand, was not of like mind. His idea of a Sunday morning was to rise early, and walk from his house to his brother’s house next door.  After he had tended to business in the outhouse that served both houses, and roll of toilet paper under his arm, he would enter his brother’s house, and head straight for the music room and the 75-year-old baby grand piano. Placing the roll of toilet on the piano bench beside him, Uncle George would begin his Sunday morning serenade.  Pounding out the scales to begin with, he would follow them by bellowing out old hymns. There was no use asking him to arrive a little later:  Uncle George had his routine, and he followed it every Sunday.

My grandparents having been jarred awake by the loud music and off-key singing, Tom would sight upright in bed and turn to Maude saying, “Gorry, how in the world can I stop this intrusion every Sunday?  No matter what I do or say, my brother insists on his routine.  Someday I am going to hit him over the head with one of my golf clubs!  Even when we were young George had a way of intruding on other people’s privacy.  This idea of his that it is amusing to come over to bring us a roll of toilet paper, and wake us with his serenading, which is no more than unbearable caterwauling, is absolutely ridiculous.  If he feels the need to take the toilet paper, he is welcome to it, but in the name of all that is holy, let us sleep in on Sunday morning!”

After George had belted out the last hymn, he would leave slamming the front door behind him.

By now the whole household was up, and we all would gather on the side porch for a peaceful Sunday morning breakfast.  Judd always prepared a wonderful feast of hot popovers, eggs, coffee for the adults and milk for the children.  I have never since had such wonderful popovers with fresh butter straight from the nearest dairy farm, cooked on an old fashioned iron wood stove. Of course, the more we ate, the happier Judd was, and the larger the grin on his face.

No swimming until one hour after breakfast was my grandfather’s steadfast rule, and that hour always seemed to take forever.  Matt, Minot, and I would sit on the front porch watching the ocean. The waves would be beckoning to us; the smooth warm sand would be beckoning to us; and the minutes would tick away ever so slowly.

Fortunately, my grandfather usually had some chore or other to occupy us. At times, he would have us play rings with him in the sand plot next to the house, which was a whole lot better than chasing golf balls on the beach; other times, he would gather us together and we would walk down to the beach to look for seashells which would then be used as ashtrays or ornaments on the shelf after he had painted them his favorite color: green.

At long last, my grandfather would glance at his watch and say, “Well, I guess that is enough for one day.”

This was the signal that we were discharged from duty and free to go play on the beach and frolic in the waves.

In those days, no one worried about us.  We would play in the waves, get knocked down and rolled over. We would come up sputtering, wiping sea water from our eyes, and start all over again.  With time, we learned how to judge the waves. We knew which ones would knock us down and which ones we could safely ride back to the beach and start over.

Outsiders were very often fooled by the sight of we children playing so care-freely in the waves; however, when they would try it, they would quickly get a good lesson from the seemingly harmless waves.

THE FURNACE MAN

My grandparents home was heated by a coal furnace which meant there had to be someone to attend the furnace, and that was Mr. Flynn, a kindly old Irishman who faithfully came twice a day to clean out the ashes, load up the coal, and light the fire.

I was four years old at the time, and was delighted to talk to Mr. Flynn from the register in the bathroom. I could hear him down in the basement shaking the furnace, whistling all the while. He and I would have our little conversations together.

“Hello. Mr. Flynn, is that you?” I would call.

“Yes, baby, tis me cum t’ fix the furnace so ye won’t be cold,” he would reply in his singsong Irish brogue.

“Do you bring the coal with you?”

“No, baby, ye grandfather has it brought here so it be waiting for me.”

“Mr. Flynn, my Mummy is going to let me go to nursery school.  I am a big girl now. I’m four.”

“Four, now, are ye? Well, ye be getting mighty big then.”

“Yes. I am going to learn lots of things in school, too”

My visits with Mr. Flynn were the highlight of my days. We would talk about all the things that grown-ups were not interested in. I would talk to him about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and he would talk to me about fairies and leprechauns. I always thought we had the best conversations.

One December day I called down to him:

“Mr. Flynn, it’s almost Christmas, and Santa Claus will be coming. Do you think he will bring me presents?”

“Of course he will bring ye presents, baby. I know ye have been a truly good little lass.”

I thought about what he had just said for a moment and then called back down the register:

“Santa Claus, is that you fixing the furnace?”

“Yes, little one, tis me, Santa Claus. But ye aren’t to tell no one now. That be our little secret.”

”Yes, Santa Claus. Our secret.”

A year later, my grandparents put in an oil burning furnace. There were no more visits with Mr. Flynn. No more talks about Santa Claus and leprechauns. The register was now sadly empty and silent.