Author: Ray

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Special Times and Foods

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Both my Mom and Dad’s parents were Swedish immigrants. Dad had told me that the Swedish language was not allowed around the children. However his parents would use Swedish in their evening conversations. Only a few words and phrases could Dad remember. He referred to himself as a “Svenska Pojke,” (Swedish Boy) and Mom as a “Svenska Flicka.” He would use “Tack Sa Myket” (thank you very much) often. There were a few more phrases that have slipped away from me.
At Thanksgiving and Christmas time, both parents had favorite Swedish foods. A braided Swedish coffee bread was always on the table at breakfast, sometimes in the shape of a wreath.

 

                        Kanebulla, (cinnamon buns) were also a breakfast treat. 
Spritz cookies were a favorite of mine at Christmas time, and still are.
Swedish Limpa bread (Wort Loaf) would also be made by Mom.
Swedish meatballs with gravy, served over mashed potatoes, was always welcome.
 
A note here: never, never would I let the peas touch the mashed potatoes. Nothing could touch anything! Boy how things have changed. Oh how I remember picking the onions out of spaghetti sauce — no onions for me.
I wrote about Knackebrod, crisp bread, published 2/21/11.
 
It was seldom that this crisp bread wasn’t in the cupboard for a snack with cream cheese or blue cheese as a spread. It was my job to mash the wedge of blue cheese with milk to make it spreadable. To this day, it’s still my job to mash the  blue cheese wedge, and my job to consume the whole damn thing!
At New Years Eve bedtime, my Mom would leave a bowl of porridge for the” Tomte” or “Nisse.” This little creature lived in the cellar and looked over us during night time. I never saw him, nor was I afraid of him. I always wondered where he ate the rest of the year.
Thanks to the “Nisse” our holidays during the Great Depression and WW2, were happy ones.

 

“Nothing is really lost to us as long as we remember it.” – L. M. Montgomery. The Story Girl.
by Ray Freden, Seaview/ Marshfield, 70 years.
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The Longest Winter Coast

In the winter, sled coasting seemed as important as bike riding in the summer.

My sledding story of 1/20/13, “The Winter Days of Sledding,” brought me back to the most memorable coasting I ever had. At age 10 or so, I knew the Flexible Flyer sled was the best of the bestest! I remember outgrowing it and asking Santa for a new bigger Flexible Flyer sled.

 

A Christmas or two came and went, although there were gifts, there was no Flexible Flyer! Yes, there were wet eyes. My Dad explained it was war time and certain things were not available. Oh well, I’ll have to make do with I have.
On a Christmas school vacation week, sledding was most every day. Yes, some kids had new sleds. The New Year’s weekend was coming up, and the coasting was great. On New Year’s morning, as Dad was cooking breakfast, he looked at me and asked, “Why didn’t you put your sled away last night?”
I was puzzled. I responded, “I did.”
“No you didn’t,” Dad said. “Go look.”

As I neared the back door, I could see something sticking up in the snow – it kinda looked like my sled. But then, WOW! I saw a big, shiny sled! 

I ran out of the porch, no jacket or boots, grabbed the sled out of the snow bank, and dragged it into the porch!
It wasn’t a Flexible Flyer, but a big, long, sleek, brand new Champion sled! Oh, I could hardly wait to get to the hill to show off my Champion.
“But wait,” Dad said, “It’s not broken in!” 
“Huh?” I said. “Whata-I-hafta-do, Dad?”

He showed me how to polish the runners and wax them. I rubbed and rubbed them with a broken piece of sharpening stone, and waxed them with paraffin wax.

Oh boy, it sure ran fast on my little back yard hill! Now, off to the big hill on Summer Street.

Skippy and the Champion waiting to go sledding.’

 Yes, it was fast! And it was faster than any sled on the hill that day!

A winter or so later, we had a very snowy winter. A foot or more snow crusted over, so it could be walked on without breaking through. Word got out that Doroni’s hill on Pleasant Street was great sledding, and it sure was.

One weekend, the area kids gathered to race down that tomato field on top of a frozen crust. Franky C. had a long rope attached to his tractor and would pull us back up after a run. Not only did we have a sled tow, but on break, we could run across the street for an ice cream at the Peacock Tearoom. (See my blog of 4/21/08.)

 Late on Sunday afternoon, I prepared for my last run. I waxed the runners, ran, and flopped on my Champion. I sped down that hill, a right turn onto Pleasant Street, down Pleasant Street, a sharp corner to the left and a long straight run to Summer Street.

 

And a long straight run to Summer Street

 Back then, the roads were not sanded. It seemed I’d never stop coasting! When I approached Summer Street, I slid to a stop into Gino Rugani’s parking lot. I sat up, looking back at the hill in disbelief. It seemed like I just coasted a mile! That never happened again in my days of coasting.

by Ray Freden

 

Seaview, Marshfield 70 years

“Write what should not be forgotten.” – Isabel Allende.

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The Winter Days of Sledding

I think every kid that grows up with winter snow looks forward to that storm that brings enough snow to cover their favorite hill.

I was one of those kids. There was a hill just across the street, and just enough hill for a little kid. My Dad would haul my sled up the hill, get on the sled with me in front, and away we would go!

We would whiz to the bottom in no time, time and time again, until my little legs could take no more!
“That’s enough for me too,” Dad would say.

A short walk back across Station Street, up the back stairs onto the porch to shake off the snow. Leaving my boots behind along with my snowsuit, into the kitchen I ran to sit on the radiator until I thawed!

As I got older I could go sledding alone — that is, alone with my dog Skippy. He was my companion. Up the hill dragging my sled, Skippy leaping back and forth dipping his nose into the snow. At the top, I would coax him close enough to get him into my lap, then off we would go. He would wiggle away from me, preferring to run alongside and bark!

Off the sled I went, as Skippy races back.’
We outgrew that hill. A little farther away was the old lower road that led down from Seager’s Hill. At one time it was kept in good condition. It was once used by David Seager’s farm to bring goods to the railroad to ship to Boston. In the mid 40s it was showing deterioration. A good snowfall hid all the ruts and washouts. It was a long, great ride down that old road. But it was a longer pull up!  Sometimes half way was enough.
The upper road to Seager’s farm (now Deer Hill Lane) was even better to slide on because of its good condition . . . but one would have to watch for Mr. or Mrs. Seager returning home. Only once did I encounter Mrs. Seager coming up the hill as I was going down. Up and over the banking I went as she drove slowly by with a smile and wave — phew!

Another great hill was behind Torrey Little’s Auction Barn, (formerly Hoods Milk, 575 Summer Street). This was a wide path that ran up to Canoe Tree Lane. It was steep and fast.

A long tug uphill.

Christmas and New Year’s would bring a big gathering of kids and adults from that area. There were a few times a kid we called “Ham Bone” brought the six-foot-long double runner his grandfather made. It took three or four of us to pull and push it to the top. On we would get, then shove off, and down we would go.

We would be at the speed of sound as we approached the bump at the opening in the stone wall. Into the air we would go!  Every time I can remember, we would come crashing down on the sled’s side. We always made it without a scratch!
Bill Frugoli of Summer Street remembers, “The slide started at Donald Hagar’s house and came down the path just north of the barn between a small opening in the stone wall. It stopped out in front of the barn. Before you got to this point, you would go off the embankment by the rear of the barn — it was about a three-foot jump. It knocked the hell out of your lungs and guts.” (circa 1948)
Bill said of Florence Tilden, (Harry Tilden’s wife) who also lived on Summer Street, ”She told us of stories when her kids were young, they would come down the hill on toboggans and continue to the left down Summer Street and come to a stop at about  Eddie  Hitchcock’s house (663 Summer Street).”

“Back then, Summer Street was a dirt road. The snow was packed down as hard as ice.”

“Strange—what brings these past things so vividly back to us—sometimes.”
– Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin

by Ray Freden  
Seaview/ Marshfield 70 years

<ray@wrayfreden.com>