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Strangers

If you have read my last blog, you know what an expert I was at knowing who was coming up and down Summer Street in their cars. There was one sound that I dreaded: the bell.

Sometime in the summer before World War II, I could faintly hear a bell up Summer Street past the Seaview Garage. I would run out to the edge of the street and see, just coming over the hill, a horse and wagon. Its bell would ding-ding-ding as the horse stepped along.

The Gypsies were coming! I would hightail it out to the Station Street side of our house and hide in the corner outside the porch. As I heard the bell pass by on Summer Street, I would peek past the corner of the house and watch them pass the Bonneys’ and then out of site. I would be a wreck!

My Dad thought they came to town for the Marshfield Fair, to sell wares, read palms, cards and other Gypsy tricks. My Mom told me the gypsies stole children!

My Dad said that they came every year at fair time, and they camped down at the Round’s farm. That was the dirt road beside 91 Summer Street. I was told to stay in the yard, and to make sure Mom knew where I was. I did and did!

After supper, at dusk, I could hear chanting and singing faintly off toward the farm. When the wind was just right, I could smell a fire burning. As the next few years went by, the gypsies came and went. One year — I must have been 12 or 13 — I was now old enough to be a Boy Scout and had a compass. It was with me most of my time not in school, as taking it to school was forbidden, as there were some bullies that would take it.

One afternoon I was sitting on the stone wall beside our house, trying to learn all of the directions and degrees for a merit badge, and then I heard the bell coming. I jumped up to look up Summer Street and sure enough, the Gypsies were coming. I was much older now, not a child anymore. I knew I could hide behind the big maple tree beside the house. I was about as big around as a pencil and the big tree would hide me. I would be able to see them up close as they passed.

As they approached, I had to slide around so as not to be seen, It worked — they went past, I could see the lady on the right side of the seat, the bright trim on the canvas cover, some tools attached to the wagon. I could even smell the horse.
As I came out on the south side of the tree and watched, the lady’s arm dropped down and she waved her finger. OH S—! She saw me! What to do?

I told my parents, and my Dad said not to worry. “They have been coming for years and no one has had any problems with them.”

I don’t remember when they stopped coming, nor did I ever find their campsite. My friend, the late Phil Randall, told me they camped not too far from the spring and not too far from his shop.
I recently spoke with a former Seaview resident, 90 year old Helen. She too remembers the Gypsies. Where they came from, or who they were, remains a mystery to me.

“Inside Every Older Person
Is A Younger Person Wondering
What The Hell Happened!”
Ray Freden, Marshfield, 70 years.

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Cars and Drivers

Before World War II, there was not much traffic on Summer Street. I learned at a young age to recognize the sound of a neighbors’ car before it came into sight.

There were two neighbors with 1930s Model A Fords that had a very distinctive sound. Harry Rogers from the “Hills” had a Model A Ford that he used to deliver spring water (Canoe Tree Springs) to neighbors, as well to “Steads” and Clarks’ store. Ralph Hatch’s ’36 Ford had a rattle somewhere underneath — it drove me crazy! Why doesn’t he fix it? Mrs. Stiles’ ’37 Plymouth would emit a huge cloud of smoke when she accelerated it! In the early 50s, she would stop at the Seaview Garage once a week for a dollar’s worth of gas, and every other day for a quart of oil! She left with a cloud of smoke behind.

Many drivers coming down Summer Street would shift to neutral at Seaview Ave. and coast past the Seaview Garage, then clear down to Keene’s Pond. My Dad would coast down Summer Street from the Lampson Estate to about the Hitchcocks’ house, (663 Summer Street). I have always wondered how much gas was saved.

From Memorial Day and into the summer, it would be a challenge to identify who was coming down the street, because of the arrival of the summer folks. Many bigger and newer models — Packards, Caddies, Buicks and an Auburn. These, made my game difficult.

The most noisy were Gino Rugani’s Sterling trucks. They were huge, 1930s green and red painted monsters with a chain drive. There were 3 or 4 of them. One was used to haul his bulldozer or shovel on a low bed trailer. All of them sounded different and the drivers drove them differently.

These were first kept across from the Rugani home on Dog Lane at Pleasant Street. I would hear them climb the hill on Summer Street; from Pleasant Street to Seaview Ave, their chains would grind, then as the truck coasted passed my house, the chains would make a slapping sound with no load on them.

                                                        1940 Sterling Dump Truck

I could tell when Louie, Gino’s son, was driving — his shifting was different than Buddy’s, their truck driver and mechanic.

I could hear these trucks on Church Street on their way home in the late afternoon, slowing at Church, Elm and Summer Street — there was no stop sign in those days — then start up Summer Street at Randall’s under the strain of the long grade uphill.

Occasionally, Louie would take me on a short trip in the dump truck. It was so noisy inside you would have to holler to be heard! Louie was the foreman of the operation, which was the biggest in Marshfield. Louie drove a Ford 100 green pickup, and wore a baseball cap with a Heinz pickle pin attached to the front. Louie loved that pin.

One afternoon about five, I was pushing my bike up the hill on Summer Street from Pleasant Street. About halfway up, Louie came over the hill towards me, in his ’47 Ford pickup. I waved to him. Just as he passed, he backfired that Ford at me! It scared the bejesus out of me! I thought I was shot! I shook all the way home!

That was the first time that happened, but not the last. I expected it to happen again, anytime he passed me. I learned that trick well. Later in life I used that trick many times. My favorite spot was going past Sonny Oxner’s garage on Ferry Street, letting out a blast when Sonny’s doors were open. Sonny cursed me many times.

Centre Marshfield Garage, AKA, Oxner’s, Sonny’s.

Photo complements of Ned Dubois.

 

W. Ray Freden, Marshfield, 70 years.

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Ho Jo’s

Our shopping trips always seemed to take us past a Howard Johnson’s. In the 40s, I don’t remember calling Howard Johnson’s “HoJo’s.”

Howard Johnsons, Route 14,  & then – Rte 3. Pembroke, Ma.

On our trips to Brockton, we would leave Seaview, finding our way to Water Street in Pembroke, turn left on what was then Route 3, then right on Route 14. A Howard Johnson’s was on that corner, next to the Gilbert West Box Mill. There were long windows in front and on the south side. I remember sitting inside on the south side and how bright and warm it was.

The 2×4 Ho Jo’s on Bedford St., Whitman ma.

c. 1940.

As we wound our way through Whitman, there was a Howard Johnson’s snack bar, an eat-outside only. It was a 2×4, as my Dad called it. Many years later I found out what a 2×4 building was!

Over the railroad tracks in the Montello section of Brockton, another HJ’s. I remember having our lunch there. We always had the same thing . . . that I will reveal later.

Late in the afternoon, after shopping, we headed home on Route 123. When we did not take Neal Gate Street to 3A, I knew that Dad had a plan. He would go to the lights in Greenbush, turn right, and then take another right into the nicest Howard Johnson’s I can remember seeing: a beautiful building, manicured grounds, and a paved parking lot.

 

There was always room to park. The front of the building was full of windows that ran from the ceiling to the floor. Above the orange roof, on a cupola, was my favorite weather-vane, ”Simple Simon and The Pieman,” with a dog. How I wished we could have one on our garage.

Simple Simon met a pieman going to the fair;
Said Simple Simon to the pieman “Let me taste your ware”
Said the pieman to Simple Simon “Show me first your penny”
Said Simple Simon to the pieman “Sir, I have not any!”

Simple Simon went a-fishing for to catch a whale;
All the water he had got was in his mother’s pail.
Simple Simon went to look if plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much which made poor Simon whistle.
He went for water in a sieve but soon it all fell through;
And now poor Simple Simon bids you all “Adieu”

I seem to remember a ”Simple Simon” weathervane whirly gig. The pieman’s tray would move, Simon’s finger or arm moved, and the dog’s tail wagged up and down. I’m not sure if this was on the Greenbush HJs. I also remember a Lamplighter weathervane on a HJs somewhere.

 

Most of the time I would sit on one of the red stools at the soda fountain and order a frankfurt, now known as a hot dog — plus an orangeade. My Mom and Dad would sit in a booth; they always ordered fried clams, french fries, and tea or coffee.

 

The frankfurts were sliced across on two sides, and fried on two sides. The bun was also fried on both sides (now called grilled). This was put in a cardboard container with “Simple Simon and The Pieman,” with his dog printed on both sides. Two straws came in a cardboard container for the soda.

 

I would always beg a few french fries, then look over the Howard Johnson toy trucks on the shelf that were for sale and way beyond my parents’ budget. I would save the paper place-mats from the table. During the war, the mats had a fighter plane, a tank and a war ship printed on them. Also there was a mat with the 28 flavors of ice cream with a bumble bee flying with a spoon. I often wonder what ever happened to all that stuff?

When I was lucky, I could have a ten cent ice cream. Most of the time it would be a chocolate one, sometimes coffee. All of that would cost my Dad about $1.70.

We would visit other Howard Johnson’s in Scituate, Hingham, Wollaston Beach & Wollaston. There are only three Howard Johnson restaurants left.

Howard Johnsons, Hatherly Rd. Scituate.

 

 

The O’Brien family owned  the ”Greenbush” Howard Johnson’s  for more than 80 years.

Geoffrey O’Brien’s father, Philip James (aka PJ’s), bought the restaurant from his father Edward when the restaurant was a Howard Johnson’s

It started out as Dutchland Farms in 1935 when 3A was the only major road from Boston to Cape Cod.

DUTCHLAND FARMS 

C.1935

When Dutchland Farms went out of business O’Briens joined Howard Johnson’s complete with the orange roof

In 1963, the O’Brien’s opened the Tack Room, now the main dining area, and offered a more diversified menu than the standard Howard Johnson’s offering lunch and dinner six days a week.

After seeing the handwriting on the wall with the opening of the new highway, the O’Brien’s reached an agreement with HJ’s and opened PJ’s Country House.

PJ’s, reasearch, Compliments of Rob Mitchell.  8/2019.

PJ’s, Greenbush, Ma.

Hook & Harvest  2019

Photo by Fred Freitas.

Good bye to Howard Johnson’s, aka, HJ’s. & Ho Jo’s.

 

I am looking for an early 1930’s 40’s photo of Howard Johnsons, Greenbush.

 

 

By, W. Ray Freden, Marshfield/ Seaview, 70 years.