“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”---Vera Lynn
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy on old Cape Cod. Sunrise in early August arrives around 5:30 in Provincetown and the first signs of life dot the streets. Several of the early amblers stroll unhurriedly to the just-opened Coffee Pot Restaurant hard by MacMillan Pier, beckoned by the siren’s song of java. Dog walkers, loners, young and old lovers meander well-spaced down the beach in no particular hurry, stopping now and then to investigate some possible treasure in the sand. The ubiquitous old man with the ancient metal detector weaves down his appointed path, searching for glory, wise enough to expect less.
The pre-dawn clouds scatter and fade as the sun rises to rule the sky. The first vehicles drift slowly through the streets, unacknowledged by oblivious pedestrians. A small crowd of yoga enthusiasts slowly assembles on the beach, laying out blankets, stretching their sleepy frames, waiting for directions from their hallowed leader. Workmen in city vehicles set about cleaning the already pristine streets.
At Herring Cove, the first bathers of morn ease up to the water, confident the sympathetic temperatures will encourage a splash or two. Bicycle riders pull into the ample parking lot laughing, laden with beach gear. Small children rush from arriving cars, attacking the modest dunes, certain they have rediscovered Eden. A young couple moseys down the long shoreline in search of privacy. Amateur photographers strive for that perfect angle on the iconic Long Point lighthouse.
The day is young and full of promise. People will fall in love today. Whales will arrive in limousines to entertain their fans. A child will build a Parthenon in the sand. Three ice-cream stores will open on the same street. And before the day is done, Liberace and Peggy Lee will belt out songs in a lovely converted church before scores of adoring supplicants. It’s Provincetown, a lasting paean to the human spirit. May it ever be thus.
Boston Bound
John Scanlon and sisters Kathy and Alice arrived post-breakfast to pick up Siobhan and Bill at the Secret Garden Inn for the 2 1/2-hour drive down Route 6 to Beantown. That’s 2 1/2 hours with no highway interruptions, a laughable impossibility. Due to clever maneuvering around irksome detours, we kept our delay to a reasonable half-hour and arrived at the Buckminster Hotel near Fenway Park a little after noon. Shockingly, our room was ready. The Buckminster will never be mistaken for the Waldorf-Astoria but the latter is not a five-minute walk from the ballpark. Besides, the place has history. The Buckminster is the alleged hatching-grounds of the infamous Black Sox scandal of 1919, where White Sox first-baseman Chick Gandil and bookmaker/gambler Joseph “Sport” Sullivan concocted one of the most notorious crimes in American history, the fixing of that year’s World Series. Say it ain’t so, Chick.
True historians will want to trek Boston’s famous Freedom Trail, a 2.5 mile path through the downtown area which passes by 16 locations significant to the history of the United States. Less ambitious visitors will prefer the famous Duck Tour, which offers a narrated trip through a good bit of the city and a dunk in the Charles River. The narrators are not up to William Jennings Bryan standards and have some corny notions of what fun is but the trip is informative and worth the inflated price.
Boston is incredibly easy to negotiate, with the subways extending to Harvard Square across the river in Cambridge. It’s a walkable city, centered around the Common and Public Gardens, under which is a large parking area. If you have kids (or even if you don’t), a visit to the Museum of Science on the north side of the river is a requisite stop. Start with the boffo Lightning Exhibit and meander on from there. You’ll have to drag the kids away from the place. Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox, offers an inexpensive ballpark tour. They’ll even let you inside the historic left-field scoreboard, where you can sign your name along with the 8 million others scratched into the walls. And for all you mariners, the USS Constitution (secret identity: Old Ironsides) a wooden-hulled, three-masted heavy frigate, is usually hanging out at Pier 1 of the former Charlestown Navy Yard at one end of the Freedom Trail. The Constitution is famous for capturing numerous merchant ships during the War of 1812 against the United Kingdom and also knocking the blocks off five British warships. Maybe you read Oliver Wendell Holmes’ poem about the ship in grade-school. The poem saved the Constitution from being decommissioned and Old Ironsides is now the oldest commissioned ship in the world. You won’t see that in Disney World.
Take Me Out To The Ball Game
I was five years old the first time I saw Fenway Park. My father had us up early, and after a brisk fifteen-minute walk we were on a Boston & Maine railroad train to The Hub’s North Station. The subway took us to Park Street, under Boston Common, where we changed trains for Kenmore Square. My first impressions of the ballpark were tempered. I was looking at a sedate red-brick wall with several entrance gates. I looked up at my father and asked “Where’s the field?” He gave a little chuckle, as if ready to pull the rabbit out of the hat. “Don’t worry,” he said, “It’s in there.”
There are some first sightings in life you will never forget. The majesty of the Atlantic Ocean. The top sides of clouds. Your young wife in full wedding regalia. And right up there with them is the vision you get when you reach the top of the stadium ramp and see the field at Fenway Park. It’s like a Technicolor movie with all the colors turned up to full volume. The grass is impossibly green. The home uniforms so brilliantly white they must have been laundered in heaven. The players move about with faultless grace, gliding like spirits over the emerald carpet. I stood there transfixed for what seemed like forever. My dad tugged me on the shoulder and led us to our seats.
The Red Sox fell behind the Cleveland Indians almost immediately. It was 8-1 when my father took off his straw hat, mopped his bald pate, looked at me and said, “Well, Billy, it’s not looking good. I wish the Red Sox did better for your first game.” Five-years-old and foolishly optimistic from birth, I wasn’t a bit concerned. “There’s a lot of time left, Dad, we could still catch up.” My father smiled the smile of the knowing. And as if that was their cue, the Red Sox immediately began hammering the vaunted Indian pitching staff. Bob Feller, Bob Lemon, Mike Garcia, Gene Bearden, it made no difference. The Sox pummeled all of them and when the dust cleared the old scoreboard read: Boston 15, Cleveland 14. I looked up at my disbelieving father and said, “See, I told you. “No matter what happens, you can always catch up.” He looked back at me with the wisdom of experience. “Billy,” he cautioned, “you’re going to be disappointed if you expect this to happen ALL the time.” Life proved him right, of course, but I’m still an incurable optimist. Maybe it would have been different if the Red Sox had lost that game so long ago.
Take Us Out To The Ball Game
The restaurants in the environs of Fenway Park will never be mistaken for candidates for the Michelin Guide, nor would the army of blue-collar fans who turn up for home games 81 times a year wish it so. They’re perfectly happy with the cavernous Cask ‘N Flagon right next door, a Fenway fixture for over 40 years and dubbed by ESPN “The second-best baseball bar in America.” Over 150 photographs, many of them ancient, fill the walls of the place and the patrons are 98% Sox fans on their way to the game. The CNF offers a much broader menu than your average sports bar and they don’t skimp on the servings. Needless to say, your favorite beer is readily available. It’s possible that the people in Texas drink more beer than New Englanders, but the latter group will fight you if you suggest as much. Even so, the visitors’ fans from Kansas City are treated civilly, with a minimum of insults. New York Yankee fans, on the other hand, opt to eat in less dangerous territory. The Cask ‘N Flagon started out as a small neighborhood bar known as Oliver’s four decades ago, but its hard-by-the-park location caused a massive eruption. The place now caters to as many as 5000 patrons on a busy day. There are times when a civilized person does not want to be there.
After setting a team record with 119 wins (including the post-season) and winning the World Series last year, the Red Sox fell on hard times in 2019. The team had lost eight straight games heading into our fracas with the Kansas City Royals on August 5th, at which time they turned on the Billsignal and beckoned me. My sister Kathy and husband John are big Red Sox fans and were delighted to go to the game, whereas sister Alice, the prodigal Dodger booster, went along for laughs. Noticing the Killeens in the stands, the Sox started off with a bang, wavered a little, but hung on for a satisfying 7-5 victory, to the relief of all.
On a normal night, the next step would be diving into the subway with thousands of other sweaty fans or vainly searching for an unoccupied taxi. This night, we had merely a skip and a hop back to the charming Buckminster, right around the corner. Siobhan and I were off to Florida in the morning, the others to Kathy’s place in Salem, N.H. A day later, Alice would return home to Camarillo, California. It had been three years since the three of us had comingled at the Ellison-Killeen nuptials in Las Vegas, a good reunion since none of us (except possibly me) are getting any younger. They say that parting is such sweet sorrow, but then again you don’t want to be getting on anyone’s nerves. And as Vera Lynn promised above, “Don’t know where, don’t know when, but we’ll meet again some sunny day.” Assuming, you know, that nobody screws up.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
