I thought that today I'd relate a lighthearted anecdote from the Jewelry City's days of yore. It first happened one bright summer day in 1962, and the principals in our tale are three 14-year-old Attleboro boys, all of whom were no better or worse than any of their contemporaries of the day, though possibly a tad more brazen.
Now I may or may not have been one of the boys involved. But since I don't believe that information adds or detracts from the story one bit, I'll just let it hang out there in limbo.
So it was that on that sultry August afternoon the three boys, returning from a few hours of basketball at the YMCA were taking a shortcut from Sanford Street over to Bank by walking the diagonal across the parking lot at the rear of Woolworth's, or the 5 & 10 as it was better known. This route took our protagonists past the open rear door of Johnny's Men's Bar, which fronted on Academy Street.
That door opened onto a hallway about 15 feet long, leading eventually to the bar itself. Any former or current bouncer will tell you that they try to keep the stock and merchandise relatively close by so that restocking the coolers at the end of the night doesn't become an ordeal.
Two of the boys just continued moseying along, with Charlieburgers or three-pound bags of Bill and Betty Donahue's steaming french fries from Watson's taking form in their minds.
But the third boy, oh yes, that third boy, the odd one who turned company into a crowd, his darting eyes never missed an opportunity, and as the boys approached the Northeast corner of Woolworth's he hissed out," Hey, did you guys see that?"
And the reply from the others was simply, "See what?"
And so the third boy, well schooled by several older brothers, merely pointed to Johnny's open rear door and the cases of bottles which were stacked along the length of it. The other two boys had no way of knowing what those bottles contained, but their leader set them straight quickly with, "Let's help ourselves to a few cases of that booze, what you say?"
What was said was absolutely nothing, as the pair of accomplices moved in behind the one who stepped from the bright sunshine into the cooler shade of the hallway, well aware that their roles were to put cross body blocks on any pursuers.
The first bright cardboard case was handed out, then another, and finally, just as the leader of the pack was stepping from the hallway with a third case, from somewhere within a gruff voice loudly demanded, "Hey, just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
Wow, this guy must really be mad - he was swearing and everything! Our lads knew only that within a few seconds, overwhelming numbers of angry men, (half in the bag to boot) would be pouring out of that hallway to: 1) reclaim their purloined property; and 2) beat the living tar out of any snot-nosed kid that foolishly who it necessary for them and their friends to get up off their barstools, leave the cool comfort of the air-conditioned bar and then (something they hadn't done since HIGH SCHOOL, fer gawd sakes!!!), RUN...
As with most of the stunts which my pals and I pulled back in the day, beyond the act itself, things were pretty much left up in the air. What I mean is, there was no plan whatsoever.
About 10 or 20 years later when I became involved in the Wheaton College drama scene and Attleboro Little Theater productions, my directors usually praised my improvisational skills - I never did reveal that they were finally honed running the streets of the Eastside, and I think probably only Alex Aponte would have understood.
But on this day, for these three boys, the one single rule of thumb was only to pick 'em up and put 'em down, son, quickly, oh so very quickly. The only direction of their flight was elementary - away, away from the pursuing pack of mad dogs (and maybe even an Englishman here or there!)
Actually, the main idea behind flight was always to put as much space as possible between you and the pursuing pack, and to make it to a hidey-hole before the police radio transmissions got ahead of you and cut you off.
Understand now that as our heroes ran each was carrying a case of full 12-ounce bottles three cases grabbed in the dark hallway then tucked beneath the arm like a Wilson game ball!
This crew hooked a sharp right on Peck Street, then up the dirt access road to the switching tower, which ran opposite Benefit Street, to the tracks about where the Mansfield/Boston line splits into the Taunton branch line.
This was home of the topographical depression known to us kids as "The Hollow," a place where several people could lie down and escape detection by people a mere 10 feet away.
But I guess on that day even The Hollow didn't seem a truly safe haven, and the trio continued their weary sprint down the Taunton branch line, behind Shields manufacturing and over the Forest Street bridge. At that point, TI was spread out on your left and the great scrap metal mountains stretched out from the rear of Schuster Metal all the way to the distant tree line.
Within the dark forest behind that tree line and the Chartley Pond crossing are all the hideouts, campsites, places dark and secret, treehouses old and abandoned then reoccupied and again abandoned, and also the best secret spot of all - my Pop Pop's highbush blueberry patch.
Back in the 1940s, '50s and '60s the boys living in the surrounding neighborhoods of Park, Emory, Holman, Falmouth, Forest, Eddy, Maynard, Horton, Gustin and Cambridge streets knew those woods like their mother's faces.
The area between the mountains of scrap and the tree line was sprinkled with several boulders nearly the size of houses, pipes with great diameters and old shipping crates large enough to hold a half-dozen boys very comfortably.
If anyone were to saunter through this area, 99 out of 100 would probably find nothing worthy of remark. But a closer examination reveals that every single thing here which is not glacier rock is pockmarked and riddled with bullet holes, hundreds of thousands of bullet holes of all caliber.
In fact, the very first time I was brought to that area as a little boy, I was told that this place was called "The Shooting Range," and it was the sanctuary of The Shooting Range which sang its siren song to our three young boys.
By second grade the kids of the neighborhood knew that on dry dusty days all one needed to do was to seek the safety of a pipe or a packing crate and keep an eye on the road in from Schuster's. If you spot a telltale "rooster tail" of road dust, there is a cruiser coming in.
Well, on that sweltering August afternoon the trio never stopped until a packing crate in the range assured them that they were safe. And then these boys, bathed in sweat from their hectic two-mile run, could enjoy their spoils of plunder.
Of course, the tenderness of their years assured their naïvete on the subject of alcoholic beverages, but Paladin, Cheyenne, Matt Dillon, the Rifleman - all bellied up to the bar and ordered either whiskey or beer! What would their hard-won prize be?
For the very first time the unholy three cracked open all three cases, and each dog-thirsty boy removed a bottle - of Schweppes tonic water. On occasion, the Cosmic Joker exacts penance for our sins.
Parting thoughts
Sympathy to the family of Mary E. Pichi, the widow of the late Roxy Pichi, who was a lifelong family friend and former owner/manager of Attleboro's Union Theater. Condolences to her children and their spouses: Susan Ryder-Lewis and husband Jeff, Ellen Trullo and Randy, Lucinda Elston and Dirk, and David Ryder and wife Yuko.
Sympathy also to the siblings, Catherine Sheehan, Edward Dunn, and the late John Dunn and also to her loving grandchildren: Alissa Sweetman, Ashley Sweetman, Christian Bailey, Talia Bailey, Joanna Roxy-Lewis and Kara Ryder; and also to Mary's sister-in-law Anna King.
It's condolences to the family of my good friend Lloyd C. "Stretch" Vasterling, in particular his former wife, Claire (Brown) Vasterling, and his son and daughter-in-law, David L. and Suzanne Vasterling, son Lloyd C. "Skip" Vasterling Jr.; also his daughter and son-in-law Holly (Vasterling) Avakian and Robert and also to his sister Laura Hodges. Sympathy also to his grandchildren, Nicole Avakian and Victoria, Andra and Mercedes Vasterling.
"Stretch" was owner/operator of Classic Auto at Briggs Corner for many years. I bought a number of cars from him and the man never failed to stand behind his work or his merchandise; he was good and fair, an honest man in a business notorious for the scarcity of such individuals. Rest in peace, "Stretch".
Our sympathy to the family of Françoise (Croce) Shevchuk, especially to her stepson who lives in my recall from his play on the basketball court for AHS in the early '60s, George Shevchuk, and also to her stepdaughter, Dorothy Bachand, brother Jean Lucien Croce and Carla Croce, grandnephew Cyrell Croce and two godchildren, Frederick Villeneuve, and Lynn Paulson.
Condolences to the family of Normand E. Boudreau, especially to his wife, Patricia (Cameron) Boudreau, and the late Dorothy (Bosh) Boudreau, and also his two sons - my old friend Ray Boudreau and his wife Claire, and Peter Boudreau and his wife Wendy.
Also condolences to Normand's three daughters: Norma Gariepy and husband Bill, Cynthia Santos and husband Joe, and Robin and Donald Courbron. Sympathy also to his son-in-law, John Emilios, and also to his five stepchildren, nine grandchildren and seven great grandchildren.
Sympathy to the family of Patricia T. Russell, particularly her loving mother, Pauline (Cabral) Serode, her daughter Tricia and her husband, my longtime friend Michael Vivieros. Sympathy also to her brothers, Arthur Serode, Michael Serode and James Serode, and wife Cathy and grandsons Jackson and Gavin Vivieros and her best friend Jacqueline DaSilva.
Our condolences to the family of Joyce E. Lovely. Joyce was the widow of my late boyhood friend, Billy Lovely. We extend our sympathies to her three sons, Michael, Arthur and Roger Ducharme; her daughter, Tammy Svendson; her brother, Roger Ramsey; and seven grandchildren, Nick, Jacob Erin Chad and Courtney Ducharme and Brett and Jessica Svendson.
Finally, I would be remiss to allow the passage of the great Ray Bradbury from our midst without comment. Bradbury was an Edgar Allen Poe for the contemporary American scene and the magnificence of the work he turned out simply speaks for itself: The Martian Chronicles, Mars is Heaven!, Fahrenheit 451, A Peal of Thunder, and my personal favorite, Dandelion Wine.
I could easily write on and fill several more paragraphs with examples of his exemplary work - he may well be one-of-a-kind. Vaya con Dios, Star Traveler...
Let's be good to one another out there and try to do someone a good turn daily. Let's do what we can to assist the less fortunate, the hungry and the homeless, and let's remember that our way of life and our hometown are worth defending.
Peace...