Cruising

Ask anyone from the Class of 1963 at Adams Memorial High School who and what they think of when they hear Dion's song "The Wanderer" and all will say “Bob Bacon and his navy blue Studebaker with the crisp white wall tires.” Lorraine Grocki, Alice Jaworski, Bev Banas, Theresa Cwieczniewic, Bev Katzka, Shirley Alibozek, Sandy Zabek or Judy Turoczy would probably agree. I used to go cruising in my Studebaker, listening to rock ‘n’ roll. Late at night you could hear music from Buffalo New York rather than just WPTR in Albany. Do you remember Boom Boom Branigan? Really late at night, your radio could even get music from Wheeling, West Virginia. I know most Studebakers were not that cool. But take a look at my very first car. It was very cool and way ahead of its time for 1953 or even 1961 when it became mine, was it not? I bought it from my cousin Ernie Garofano, one of Auntie Blanche’s sons.


Percy and Blanche Garofano sitting in a convertible. Blanche was my Mother’s oldest sister.

It cost me $75 dollars. That was five trips, riding shotgun aboard a Comeaus Tractor Trailer to the piers of New York City to unload trucks full of 100-pound bags of lime from New England Lime Company. The Studebaker was a fast looking car but it could barely climb Rte 116, the gulf, up to Dukes Pond, beyond Savoy, with its 120-horse power. I bet I changed flats thirty times with that car. When I joined the Navy, I left the car to my brother Mike. When the brakes failed, he and his friends took it to the Adams dump and beat the roof down to the seats with sledgehammers. Remember the Adams dump up on East Road?You would back your car to the cliff of trash and simply throw everything down the hill. Maybe, if you thought of it, you would look up at pristine Mt. Greylock, the highest mountain in Massachusetts, or maybe not.


A view of Mt. Greylock from near the Adams dump.

If you looked down you saw the Hoosac River, which ran through the valley, south towards Lenox and Tanglewood. They burned everything at the dump and the smoke traveled for miles in the valley. I actually like that smell. In beautiful Bermuda they still burn their trash that way. I always think of my Studebaker when I smell that smell. Isn't it strange the association that comes with the sense of smell? My whole young teenage life was in that car. I don't remember being that upset about its destruction.


Here is a photo of my only brother, Mike, and one of his trucks. He died way too early, at 36.

I was just back from Class A Electrical School in Port Hueneme, California and most of my company, both Marines and Navy Sea Bees, were heading for some foreign place called Viet Nam. Rumsey, our company commander, said we had a war there and who wanted to go. Rumsey ended up doing four tours In Country. I remember thinking that was the very first time that I had heard of Viet Nam, but still most of my company stepped forward. I had my orders already and was heading to cushy stationkeeper duty at South Weymouth Naval Air Station, back in Massachusetts.

Dad was an original WWII Seabee . Here he is sitting on this jeep in Okinawa.




Look at this beautiful set of wheels. It was a black 1935 Chevrolet coupe. Mike Golden from Alabama built it. It was owned by some navy captain and spent most of its life in Hawaii. Mike made it into a hot rod. Goldie was a Seabee mechanic who I was stationed with at Weymouth. It had a tire mounted on the back with its name written on the spare wheel on white canvas, " Mothers Wheels." The engine was a 1963 Pontiac GTO. It was five speed, posi-traction, stick of course, and it ran hot the whole time I owned it. We added a surge tank, but to no effect. It purred like a lion and it was a beautiful car, a real head turner. I sold it to get married. To this day even Sandy admits it was a mistake. Selling the car I mean. Or maybe . . . My Navy friends still ask me about it. “Whatever happened to Mothers Wheels?”



Out of the Navy with no children, we bought this 1967 Spitfire right off the show room floor at Nicks Foreign Auto on Independence Avenue in Quincy, Massachusetts for $2,100. Nicks is or was directly across from John and Abigail's first house, before he became the second president of our United States. Sandy and I had five jobs between us. We would go cruising, even in winter, dressed warmly with the heat turned up full blast and the top down. We wore poopee suit boots that the Airdales, who rode the planes that flew the East Coast, wore. They had a valve on the side that you blew air into and they kept your feet toasty. It got cold in those P2V’s (sonar patrol planes). Those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end; we'd sing and dance forever and a day. Gee, that could be made into a song. Up till then, no one we knew drove foreign cars, except my cousin Paula. We kept that car until Marnie was on the way, so that was 1974ish. We sold it, sadly, to some kids from the Cape, out of our Stagecoach two-car garage one winter night.





At the same time we owned the Spitfire, we also owned this Pontiac Grand Prix and this Ford. I cannot explain why two people needed three cars, but throughout our married life, we have almost always owned three cars. You can’t make up stuff like this.

One day when I was driving I fell asleep at the wheel in the middle of the afternoon. It was 1970. I don't remember which car I was driving at the time. I was on a major highway traveling at least 60 to 70 mph. Way back then I was an assistant manager at Friendlys Ice Cream. We worked for two days to get the Friendlys in Roslindale on American Legion Highway in shape for the annual inspection called "Spruce Up." After the store closed at 11 pm, we would do the final cleaning through the night and finally be finished at 2 pm, after the lunchtime inspection. So I was awake for about 32 hours. When I decided to run my first Ultra, my friend Norm Tuttle said, "Never mind the 100 miles, when was the last time you were awake for this long?" This was it, I guess. We were inspected from top to bottom. It was even more thorough than a Boot Camp inspection, if that is possible.

I was 18 and Sandy was 17 the very first time we went to a Friendlys. It was in Pittsfield Massachusetts in 1962 and it was with Jackie and Gerry Nimmons of Adams. I got a hamburger, roll toasted on the grill, with onions and a vanilla Fribble. I forget what Sandy got. Jackie and Gerry got married. Eventually. No one I know in Adams has ever been divorced. What's up with that? No divorces in Adams. You can't make up stuff like this!

When was the last time you were up for more than 24 hours?

Today I was on my way home to Marshfield on route three south when the song "American Woman" came on the radio. It was then that I had my flashback to 1970. Interestingly enough it was at the same spot, more or less, where I had fallen asleep, almost forty years ago. I had just passed the Derby street exit and had only one more exit to go to get home to our apartment in Rockland. It was sunny out. Then I fell asleep. I remember hearing a very loud voice holler HEY! There were no cars around me. I woke up and looked in my rearview mirror and saw no one. Some one was looking out for me that day, but I could never figure out who it was. Was it you? Well, thanks!

I cannot remember what was next. I drove company station wagons while selling fence for six years.







Oh, I remember! I turned the Reliable Fence Company car back to them and joined South Shore Gunite Swimming Pool Company in the end of 1975. I had to provide my own wheels. It was this Buick that looked like a Cadillac.



There were two Buick Electras on the Hanover car lot that day. Both were used. One was blue and owned by a man who couldn't use his legs, so everything was hand controlled. It was blue. I bought this grey one, previously owned by a priest. It had a curious noise coming from the transmission but I drove it 185,000 miles before buying a brand new one whose engine exploded at 50,000 miles.



Are you keeping track of what I am saying here? This is all good stuff. Call me with questions. A year later I had a swimming pool appointment in Marshfield and there sat my Electra. I said hello to my prospective clients and then walked over to my old Buick and stroked it.

It was a great car. Once I lost a water pump in New Hampshire while on a pool call. The customer gave me every container she had. We filled them with water and I made it home by constantly refilling the radiator. Ask any mechanic and they will say that when your water pump goes, that’s it. Another time I was driving along Atlantic Avenue on the Cohasset/Hull line. I went over a little hill into Hull and all my belts snapped. I drifted into a gas station, and within an hour I was back on the road again. Years later Willie Nelson, inspired by my story, would write a famous song that I never bothered to cash in on.

So anyway, I blurted out I drove this car for 185,000 miles! You see I have always taken special care of my cars, and the Electra was no exception. It still looked really good. To this day I keep my vehicles spotless. Sandy says, “It’s a Monk thing.“ I remember my Dad saying, "When you are married and have a family you won't be able to take care of a car the way you do now." Isn't it funny what stays in your brain?

My prospective pool customer said I was mistaken. When they purchased this Buick it had only 85,000 miles. Back then car odometers only went to 99,999 then started new again. The car had 185,000 miles on it and I proved it to the customer by pointing out little things like the crack in one of the taillights, and how the driver’s seat was worn. I proved my point and lost the sale because the potential pool customer was so upset by the unscrupulous used car dealer. You can't make stuff like this up.



Somewhere in here we owned a blue Fiat Spider convertible. Sandy cried when some young girl drove it out of our driveway.



I really do not remember much about it. Isn't that strange?

When my second Buick engine blew at 50,000 miles, it was just under warranty and the service manager said that I should sell it and that maybe I should buy a BMW. A real German road car. They were the rage at the time -- in Boston anyway. We ended up owning three. Here’s the first one.



It was a 321 BMW. I drove it into the ground and then sold it to Sandy’s brother Brian Zabek, who drove it forever. Look at the CSI that we had next.



I had no business owning a $65,000 vehicle in 1987, and I am sure it cost me some sales. As a salesman you always check out what the potential customer is driving and what if any stickers they have or organizations they belong to. If they have a golf membership that would be a good thing, or some aviation letters, which could mean they have money, maybe even an airplane. Another selling sign was if they had a Walpole Woodworkers mailbox -- then money was no object. However if they had a sticker on the car that said, "If this car’s rockin’, don't come knockin’,” maybe it was not that good of a sales call. Buyers checked me out instead and probably wondered how much money I was making as a pool designer.

Shortly after that there was a recession, which lasted for a number of years. The BMW dealer in Norwood could not believe that I was turning in the most beautiful car I probably ever would own -- but I did. BMWs were lousy in snow, so I bought the x series with All Wheel Drive next. No photo available at this time.

Sometimes I wonder where all my commission money went. I have 8x10s of the best automobiles that we owned on one wall of my Garage Mahal. As a salesman, it was important to look successful, and besides a nice car just made you feel good about yourself. This is important when you earn money by commission only. You don't sell, you don't eat.

Business turned around again. Sandy’s Alexandra's European Skin Care Salon was making its mark on the South Shore. That is just about the time she told me that she NEEDED a black 9ll Porsche coupe, no spoiler, for her fiftieth birthday. I said some thing like, "It is too much money and a waste of money at that.” Here is a photo of it. She said “ I will look funny driving it when I am 60.” I need it NOW!





That car could fly. “If it had a set of wings I know it could fly.“ We owned it for ten years, but sold it to finance the purchase of a small island in the Caribbean. I could always tell when Sandy pulled into her garage stall because the whole house would just rumble. Twelve-year-old boys would give you "thumbs up” as you rode by. I miss polishing it, and looking at it, resting in the garage, especially through all of the New England winter. Yah, I had a cover for it! Well gee, you don't want it to get dirty do you? We would drive it only about 5,000 miles a year.

Now we own a Volkswagen Jetta, which has been at the dealership for the last thirty days. We have a loaner. A big gray box that doesn’t fit in the garage. My tie rods just went on my almost-new Dodge pick up truck.







My grandparents, Hattie and Frank Bacon, owned a weird-color, olive green, four-door, really large DeSoto. We held a family reunion in it one year. It barely fit in the third stall of the cinder block garage that my father and grandfather built on 90 and 92 Howland Avenue. I do not remember my grandfather ever driving it, but I am sure he did. I have in my office a glass quart container with a metal top that screws on -- it was Frank Bacon’s. It's delightful, it’s de-lovely, it's DeSoto. You can tell at a glance that this swell car is full of romance. You can hear the engine murmuring low, GET UP AND GO! That was the jingle for DeSoto in the fifties. If you watched Groucho Marx’s “You Bet Your Life, “ then you have heard the ad.



Kezia’s husband Chris is a car nut. To date he has owned 41 cars. That number doesn’t include motorcycles or tractors. Both his brothers are mechanics. My grandson, Abel, is only three, but he is already crazy about wheels, trucks and bull sodas. I don’t think he will ever get over it. His Dad never did.





Abel’s favorite movie is Cars. Have you watched it? It is pretty cool. It reminds Sandy and I of Moab, Utah.



I once had a psychic as a fence client. She told me I would try to climb an icy hill with a station wagon and end up sliding backwards down the hill, wedging the car between a tree and a rock wall. It had happened to me in Cohasset the year before! But that wasn't the worst accident.

Two Jettas ago, while vacationing at Brant Lake, New York, Sandy and I decided to day trip to Saratoga. Not the spa. Not the racetrack. My ultra running friend, Rich Busa, (we met at the Essex Junction, Vermont 50 miler) had told me not to miss the battlefield where the tide finally turned in our favor during the Revolutionary War. Do you remember? We were on top of a hill, listening to a talk amongst the cannon, when suddenly we were told that a fierce storm was to hit anytime and we should exit the park immediately. As we drove down the hill to an exit, the wind started to howl and the sky turned yellow/black. The wind blew the heavy rain absolutely sideways. We reached a fork in the road. Sandy asked which way. I said, "Go right." One, two, three, four, five, six, seven deer ran in front of us, being driven out of the woods by the strong winds. I said, "Go slow. Don't hit the deer." The next thing we knew, two trees had fallen on and crushed the Jetta, and stopped us dead. "Are you OK?" we asked each other. Sandy was covered in glass. It was pouring rain. We were encapsulated and could not get out of the car. Park personnel cut us out with chain saws rather quickly. Someone behind us had a cell phone and called the incident in. Later Sandy said, "Now can we get cell phones?" We were back at the cabin on the lake three hours later, unscathed, driving some rental with Vermont license plates. We were to go to a concert that night, but instead we just huddled together, drank wine, and talked about how lucky we were to be alive.

I turn no heads with the blue Jetta, nor in my present red Dodge Ram pick up truck. No one ever says, “What year is that?” Or “WOW! Nice car.” No one waves or gives me the thumbs up. No girls want to ride with me because of my wheels. But they certainly did to years ago when I would go cruising.

Bobby Bacon, 2009

Lake George Memories

The original draft of this family story was outlined one summer night in 2008 in the boat house at Brant Lake, which is just north of Lake George, owned by Prudence, the significant other of Sandy's brother Brian. The tale has been simmering ever since. I finished this story in one sitting on March 29, 2009.

The first time I saw Lake George, named after the English king of the time, I was five years old. It was 1950. The Bacon family went on vacation every single year, but it was always to Lake George. We would drive up, hauling the trailer and watching the station wagon engine temperature. Whenever Dad would stop the car, he would raise the hood to cool the engine. There was no Adirondack Northway then. It was all back roads. We went through North Adams, Williamstown and Pownal, Vermont and into New York State.

We would always stop at a kind of hot dog stand/bar on the left that had really HOT relish. Hoosac Falls? Dad liked the hot stuff. You see, that’s what I like about family stories. They wouldn't put that on a headstone, but it is cool to know. Dad’s eyes were blue, and so were my cousin Craig's. Auntie Blanche, his Mom, loved raspberries. If I didn't write that now, then no one would ever know. You can't make up stuff like this.

Looking back, I am glad that Lake George was all we did for vacations. We went there from when I was five until I was eighteen. The very first time we went, we stayed at Lake Luzerne where Dad’s best friend from childhood had a camp. Matt Kustra was a United States Navy veteran like Dad. Matt was with Dad when he met Mom for the very first time, at a roller skating rink. He served aboard the aircraft carrier Hornet, and if you know anything about World War II, you know that these sailors saw all the action that one could possibly see.


Matt Kustra in later days.

I wish that I could speak to Matt and Dad about their adventures in the South Pacific, and thank them, but they are long gone now. The greatest generation, I agree. My friend Charles likes the word "served" -- served your country, they sure did. Have you? Did you serve? Do you attend town meetings or pick up trash or coach a little league team? Really? Good for you!

All this started in 1950, and almost no one is left to say whether this is true or not, but I will tell it as I remember it for the family history. The police say eyewitnesses are often wrong, but here goes. This could be boring for you, so you can cut out now and text some one and I really won't care. My girl cousins Paula, Greta, Ruth and Leda, will vouch for what their cousin Bobby says.

We only stayed at Matt's for two years, and then moved on to knotty pine type cabins at the northern end of the 36-mile-long lake at Bolton Landing, and then next to Lake George Village at Diamond Point. But the real vacations began when we first started tent camping at Battle Ground Campground, just south of Lake George village. It is still there. We had tents. Two of them. The one my brother Mike and I slept in was sewed together by Mom and Dad in our backyard at 90 Howland Avenue in Adams, Massachusetts. Scenes are stuck in my brain with my Mom, Nora, sewing on some special sewing machine outside, in between our tiny house and the three-car cinder block garage.

My Grandfather Frank Bacon poured all these blocks in the cellar of 92 Howland Avenue. Mom said that is probably where he got the cancer, in the dampness of that stone walled cellar. It's funny what you remember, isn't it? Before Dad got a chance to pour the floor to the garage, it rained and filled the foundation. He was thrilled. Now all he had to do was mark the height of the water and he would have a perfectly flat garage floor. Dad wasn't afraid to tackle anything or anybody -- from a North Adams, Drury High School half back, to the repair of a fifth wheel on one of Rene Comea's tractor trailers, or to putting a slate roof on the two story BIG house where Grampa and Gramma Bacon lived, ten feet away from our tiny doll house that Mom kept.

I remember my brother’s and my tent as being fairly unbreathable, but solid and rainproof. The tent had no windows. The beds had wool blankets, probably from some Army/Navy store. They were white with a big blue stripe. Are there still real Army/Navy stores? One day it did rain, and we went shopping to Glens Falls. Mom bought me a book written by Audie Murphy, the Medal of Honor winner from WWII. It was called To Hell and Back. I read it in our tent in one night. It was the very first book I ever read.


Nora Bacon at the Million Dollar Beach, Lake George.

In between the two tents was the trailer that Dad built – parked, the wheels chocked -- that held everything that we would need for the two or three weeks that we were at Lake George. It doubled as a food storage area. We never ate out -- Mom was a great cook. We had metal bed frames that folded up (but the mattresses were very comfortable) with real pillows. Dad and Mom called the trailer the "Chuck Wagon," because it was connected to the two tents with a tarpaulin (a piece of waterproof canvas used for protecting exposed objects) that kept all three tents dry and cozy, with a picnic table and fireplace in the middle --and it held all the food. So it did not really matter whether it rained or not. It rarely did rain as I remember.

Dad showed us all the knots to tie the tents and the tarpaulin down -- he had learned them in the Navy SeaBees -- and of course we had to dig all the trenches for the rainwater to run off and away from the compound. And to collect firewood. Vendors would come through, selling ice and vegetables. There was no electricity.

If you drive through the Battle Ground Campground this summer you will see what I mean. Everything looks smaller now, but if you allow me, I will show you every single tent site that we stayed at. But why bother -- you won't come. People from Boston have never even heard of Lake George. They want to just go to the Cape and eat chowdah. We don't want you and your Red Sox Nation hats there any way. Mostly the tourists here are from New York or New Jersey or Can-ah-dah. Aye!

Battle Ground Campground has that name because of all the history that has happened right here. Hawkeye and the Last of the Mohicans, the French and Indian War and the Revolutionary War. Montcalm, Forts William Henry and Ticonderoga, The Green Mountain Boys, Rogers’ Rangers, Bloody Brook, Forts Edward and Ann. Nearby Saratoga, the battlefield not the horse racing stadium or the springs or the spa. I guess this is why I am a history fanatic -- but at least I am not a shopaholic or a serial killer. Okay, so I am a little bit of a shopaholic, but I got it from Mom and her sisters of the Hoosac Valley, who made it a team sport. Maggie Risley, from Pittsfield and a true Navy friend for 44 years, is one but she's still a good person. You make it sound like it is a bad thing.


This statue of a Mohawk and Colonist was inside the campground.

It drives Sandy crazy when I say that the Bacon Family was there before Fort William Henry, but we were. Sort of. Well, let me explain. The French and especially the Indians burned down the original fort, just like in the movie Last of the Mohicans, but it was rebuilt during the years that we vacationed there. Get it?

The Breens ran the Battle Ground Park, along with their two daughters, who we kind of pined over, but Mr. Breen kept them working and away from the wild Massachusetts boys. For laughs we would go to the outhouses and move the mixer pipe back and forth and holler out, "Help me, I'm drowning!" Okay, so maybe you had to be there, but it was very funny at the time. No, there were no toilets in the tent. Jeez. City people. Come to think of it, there weren't any showers . . . hmmm. There was no electricity, so we had to use white gas lanterns that you had to pump up before you lit.

When we were really young, my brother and I dug a four foot hole at the entrance to our campsite, and covered over with branches and pine needles to catch raccoons -- but we caught two pretty Canadian girls instead. Mom, Dad, Why did you let us do that? Our parents held, as Grandfather Frank said, very loose reins on us. Grampa also used to say, "If we didn't knock it off he would put tin ears on us." He had the very same composure that our friend Allan Sylvester has. You know what I mean -- you would have liked him right away.

The fifties brought the music of the Everly Brothers, Frankie Avalon, Chubby Checker, Bobby Rydell, Fabian Forte, Buddy Holly and Fats Domino.

Let's twist again
Like we did last summer
Let's twist again
Like we did last year

("Let's Twist Again" was actually a bigger hit than its predecessor from a year earlier, "The Twist.")

Someone would find a guitar and we would all sit around the campfires and sing and toast marshmallows and do drugs. Only kidding -- the only drugs were rye whiskey and beer, and I do not remember anyone, even Dad , overdoing it.

We never used the car, except for Grand Union grocery shopping. We would walk to the village to swim, or to wander at night, or go for ice cream, play shuffle board, or miniature golf. Yah, the Grand Union still stands -- and with most of the same staff. Only kidding. It seemed like a long way to walk to town then, but it really isn't. At first we would swim at the Million Dollar Beach at the south end of the lake, but soon we became regulars at the town pier near the Jolly Roger with all the other regulars to Lake George. Handsome John was the lifeguard at the town pier. He was muscular and always wore sunglasses. His nose was always coverd in white zinc oxide, to protect it from the sun. He always gave us a great Welcome Back. I still have a two-inch gash in my right foot that I got from landing on broken glass, jumping off the pier there. Mom taped it together and told me it was fine. Today I would have needed seven stitches and therapy. I tell young people that I got the wound at the battle of Gettysburg.

Lake George is a fairly cool-temperature lake, being thirty six miles long and four hundred feet deep. Paddlewheel boats that you see on the mighty Mississippi still carry passengers from one end to the other, but now they are diesel and not coal- or wood-burning. There are many boats on the lake, mostly power boats. There are many islands that you can camp on. Tom and Jeanette Egan and family have done it for years. Tom was born and raised in Providence -- it is in Rhode Island - and visited here as much as I ever did when he was young. This is only one of the things we have in common that holds our friendship together.


A paddlewheel boat on Lake George

Folks from the Italian section of our hometown would come up, mostly at exactly the same time. The Volpes, Demastris, Ballardinis and Bianchis. I don't actually remember them being there, but I have photos to prove that my grandparents, Frank and Hattie Bacon, were there, as well as my grandfather’s brother, Uncle George, his wife Georgina, and all my girl cousins -- plus their mothers, my father’s sisters, Cyrella and Dorothy.


Hattie and Frank Bacon.


Left to right: Dorothy Gotzens, Greta Gotzens, Paula Gotzens, Nora Bacon, Turk Gotzens, Bob Bacon, Hattie Bacon, Francis Bacon


My Uncle George Washington Bacon and Aunt Georgina at Campsite 31. Uncle George retired in 1955 and traveled extensively all over the US, Mexico and South America in his trailer (shown in photo at right).


My cousins, the Gotzens girls, Greta, Ruth, Paula, and Leda.

My childhood friend Bucky Volpe is already gone, but his mom, Gertrude, is still living in Adams. Monsuelo Ballardini’s wife, my Mom's best friend, Betty passed away in 2008. Now my cousins and I are the only ones left to tell the story. I swear this is all true. I would never lie to you mi amor.


Bucky Volpe

Thank you, Mom and Dad. Sometimes I go down to Lake George Village by myself when I am at Brant Lake and think of you both and of those wonderful, carefree times. The park near the town pier still looks the same. They still have free concerts there. Recently Sandy and I saw Gino Delafose from Louisiana play Zydeco music there. The Million Dollar Beach is worth ten million now. Fort William Henry still shoots off her cannon now and then. Yah, they still have the fireworks. There is a really good Polish restaurant on General Montcalm Avenue. Can you believe it? I actually feel closer to you there than when I am in Adams, near our house on Howland Avenue or at the Bellevue cemetery. I know you would be tickled to know that Sandy and I still visit -- and it all started with our family vacations so long ago. Yup, the girls come too. Abel hasn't been yet. Oh, I forgot, he is your great grandson. He is Kezia and Chris's son. He looks just like Kezia but somehow he has Dad's blue eyes.

There was an old TV show that said at the end, "Thanks for the memories" and that is how I feel.

Love,
Bobby

A 'Steve Riley Happening' on Isla Mujeres!

It was our last full day on Isla Mujeres, Mexico until next year.




We had just come off the Playa Norte and were turning in our beach towels at the front desk of Maria Del Mar (Cabanas). It was another perfect day of sunning and floating and salty margaritas in the Windex-colored water. Well, you've been there so you know! What, you haven't been yet?

Sandy was wearing a pareo over her bathing suit, her sombrero, and on top, her amarillo "Bob's 60th" tee shirt. Do you remember it? On the back it says "Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys" and "Lil Anne & Hot Cayenne."



It is hard for me to believe that tee shirt will be four years old this July.

All of a sudden this couple walked in, spied the names on the back of Sandy's shirt, and both started talking a mile a minute. "How do you know Steve Riley? What a great band! Do you go to New Orleans? Have you been to Mulate's, Michelle's, Haven Brothers, the Maple Leaf, Tipitina's, the Rock and Bowl, Mamou, Baton Rouge, Lake Charles, Church Point, Lafayette, the Mardi Gras?"

Charles and Cactus Cathy, our friends from Albuquerque, were wearing their tee shirts in Tucson when just about the same thing happened to them. A couple originally from New England -- but now living in Arizona -- said that they love the music and really, really missed the Cajun/Zydeco dance scene.

Our new Isla friends were from Dallas -- it's in Texas. I think. They have been to Mexico a million times but Isla is their favorite place to go. "Did we know of the Pine Leaf Boys?" They happen to be Sandy's second favorite Cajun Band. At his 60th they had the Pine Leaf Boys come to play. Holy Frogs! Where have I heard this story before?

We mentioned that we were seeing Steve and the Playboys at Johnny D's in Boston the very next Thursday night



and then again Saturday night, along with the Creole Cowboys (Boozoo Chavis doubles) and C.J.Chenier, Clifton's son, at the Mardi Gras Ball in Rhode Island.

Steve Riley asked "Did you get their names?" NO! And they didn't ask for (or get) ours.

You just don't think about these things when you are in the middle of a STEVE RILEY HAPPENING.



Sincerely,
Roberto Tocino
Mayor of La Isla Mujeres
(I was a write-in on the ballot.)

A Short Story About A Small Town

Jimmy Zabek, his real name was Adolph, was Sandy's father. He died when Sandy was six months pregnant with Kezia. I basically typed this up for Kezia for the family tree. The following was a little article in the North Adams Transcript. Cioci Florence sent this news clipping to Sandy and I today.


Jimmy Zabek, who died Sunday while playing golf at the Forest Park Country Club, a friend for many years, was a member of the crack St. Stanislaus basketball team that won the Polish National Alliance tournament, held at Adams in 1949, defeating St. Peter and Paul of Chicago, 54 - 49 in the final at the C.T. Plunkett Junior High gym. Others on the team were Jimmy's brother Chester, Stan Senecki, Mike McAndrews, Eddie Anton, Bushy Nowak, Johnny Zaloga, Chester Menczywor, and Johnny Jasinski.

Chester was my high school football coach in 1960. Stan Senecki dated my mother’s sister Stephie, who never married, for several years. Rumor was he was a heavy gambler. I have a photograph of him looking very dapper.



Mike McAndrews opened an insurance company in Adams that still exists. Chester Menczywor married Sandy's Cioci Cecelia, who just passed away last month.

This was all after World War Two. All nine men were United States Navy sailors.

Do things still go on like this in small towns in the United States? I hope so.


Frances & Jimmy Zabek on their wedding day, with St. Stanislaus Kostka Church in the background.


A billboard in Adams, MA. St. Stan's was recently closed. Parishioners are maintaining a 24-hour vigil/occupation of the church.

The Vermont 100-mile Endurance Run, 1990

Hey, I was up for 40 hours at this point! Brian did a great job crewing and he knows it.
I slept in the sun room on the night after the race. John Stewart said, "You must sleep soundly after a 24-hour run." I said, "You feel like you have been in a car wreck."

I WON'T FORGET: VERMONT 100, 1990

Pinky: A volunteer at an aid station in the middle of nowhere handing out her homemade brownies.

A Young Man: the volunteer I saw so many times at various aid stations. He must have been up for two days straight – Did I mention that he only had one leg?

Young Girls: on the horse farm, the start and finish points of the race, who live and breathe horses.

Bob: who was told by a doctor not to run until his eye surgery healed – so he walked 88 miles. You are awesome.

Bev: who had a couple of nasty falls and still finished under 30 hours. Her grandchildren will be proud.

Ross: the 60-something dentist from Oklahoma who blew by me at 93 miles. I forgot to tell you that I admire you.

Dale: from San Diego. On your advice to a rookie on how to run 100 – “start off fast” – Are you sure?

Brian: my handler; who, for 30 hours supplied me with socks, pizza, sunglasses, etc. and an immense diary of notes.

Linda: whom I met at her first 50 in Maine. She’s already a Western States 100 veteran. It was so nice to see your smiling face again.

Medical Volunteers: How many times did you have to say “What was your weight when you checked in?” I forgot to thank you.

Jack: my new running friend. We had some 60 miles of conversation. It’s good to know you.

The Gentleman Who Rode Arabelle: I hope I have your zest for life when I am your age.

California Group and Groupies: I knew from looking at them that they weren’t from New England. They had a lot of fun. I’ve never seen the wave done anywhere besides at ballgames! Please come back again.

The Young Woman Who Came in Second, and Her New Husband/Handler: I say “new” because they were on their honeymoon – honest!

Laura: The State of Vermont’s Ambassador. A salute to you, your caring volunteers, and your beautiful state. It was a wonderful race. Thank you so much for the most exciting weekend of my summer.

The Trail: covered bridges, fresh air, blue sky, green Green Mountains, trickling brooks, dirt roads, horses running free, warm sun, the Northern Lights.

Those green marker lights, Ten Bear Camp, my flashlight dying at 10:30 PM in the middle of the woods, the taste of Coca-Cola (but not for a while).

They say that the course is so well marked (and it is) that Stevie Wonder couldn’t get lost. But I did – twice!

The last leg is 3.2 miles? No way, Laura!

By Bob Bacon

Bob Bacon, 45, from Marshfield, Massachusetts, finished the 1990 Vermont 100-mile Endurance Ride and Run; it was his first (completed) 100.

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