HIS RESCUERS ARE READY TO FACE LIONS WITH THORNS. (1)

Sept. 12, 1953
Cohasset to Stellwagen Ledge
     Took thirteen boys and girls, including Kathie and Teddy, out on a shark-fishing expedition in our new Matthews. Wind strong, sea rough, but nevertheless shark sighted by Gaynor Studds, caught on rod and reel by Bob Francis.
     Half the crowd became seasick on the way home. Bob Francis said, “Think of the people who wouldn’t give anything to be with us right now.”
     Caroline Harding asked a friend to fetch her lunch.
     “Where is it, in the galley?”
     “No, it’s in the kitchen
Sept. 13, 1953 Cohasset to Scituate Harbor, Time 11:00, Wind 35mph, Bar.29
     Arrived Scituate Harbor with Pinkhams. Had lunch & drinks, played bridge, napped. Weather very rough, wind from SSE. Returned to Cohasset. Had big boat warming celebration for the Happy Days.
WHAT A PARTY! WHO FELL OVERBOARD?
P.S. (by first mate): Who got locked in the head for an hour and a half? What two people walked home because they couldn’t find their car keys? Who started out in gray flannel trousers and ended up in gray flannel shorts? And whatever became of Sally?
[August 1991]
     At age seventy-nine, I can answer only two of these questions. It was Dottie Remick who got locked in the head. It was Captain Malley who fell overboard while giving upside-down instructions to Dottie through the porthole.
    July 3, 1954, Cohasset to Onset
     Left Cohasset at 5 a.m., arrived Onset 10 a.m. Had lunch, big fight, got gas, and reconciled. The fight was about whether to stay in Onset, as I wanted, or to proceed to Nantucket, as the Captain wanted.
     In Onset we met a couple named Bob and Juan Seth who were moored near us and invited us aboard. They live in Needham but stay in Onset weekends, living on their boat. We found we had lots in common: Matthews boats, horse-crazy daughters, and a fondness for escaping our responsibilities whenever we can. Bob is a commercial airline pilot. Ed said he intends to get his flying license some day. Over my prostrate body, I said.
     We discussed our arrangements for childcare when we are cruising. The Seths have a maid and a governess and three children about the same ages as our four. We told them about our Kathryn Kilpinen, who helps my mother and Vaughan—my childhood caretaker—cope with our youngsters: Kathie, fourteen, Ted, twelve, Vonnie, nine, and Timmy seven. We described them as lively offspring. Especially Timmy.
     The Seths said they were attending a clambake tomorrow at the Independence Yacht Club and Bob wangled last-minute tickets for us.
July 4, 1954
     We invited the Seths for a couple of drinks aboard the Happy Days and arrived at the yacht club an hour late. There was still plenty of food, baked in a pit in the old-fashioned way: lobsters, clams, corn, sweet potato, hot dogs, and watermelon for those who had room left. The Seths wouldn’t let us pay for our tickets or even buy them a beer.
     Went back to Seths’ boat (Jac-Lyn), chatted and drank for hours. Then Juan produced some hamburgers and we called it a day.
July 5, 1954, Onset to Cohasset
     Headed for home, stopping at the east end of the canal to fish for a while.
July 10, 1954, Cohasset to Osterville
     Left with Jill and Bob Whitcomb at 9:15 a.m. Had lobster sandwiches en route, were warned by the U.S. army engineers that we were going too fast through the Canal. Stopped at Onset for gas. On way to Osterville, sighted wreck of 65-foot cruiser on rocks near Woods Hole; later learned it belonged to Marshall Field, THE Marshall Field, who had escaped safely with family and crew.
     Due to a slight miscalculation, we chugged into Cotuit and looked unavailingly for Ray Remick, who had promised to meet us at Osterville. A Cotuit native set us straight and we were on our way out when we were met by Remicks, Walkers, Bob O’Keefe, Keith Staples, and others in a Chris Craft. The remarks made concerning our sense of direction were not flattering.
     Had cocktails at beautiful new home of the O’Keefes, (where Ray and Dottie were spending the weekend), decorated in both senses of the word by Bob’s pretty platinum-blond wife, Juan. Had dinner at Rofmar’s. Were driven to dock by tall, dark bachelor, Keith Staples (Juan’s cousin), who kept us laughing with his droll monologues and no-handies system of driving. He had a rum bottle in one hand and kept gesticulating with the other, managing the steering wheel with his knees.
     Had a number of guests aboard for cocktails after dinner. The Walkers, whose family has a house near the O’Keefes joined us, bringing with them a strange couple. Then they went home, leaving us with the strange couple, who stayed until 3:45.
July 11, 1954, Osterville to Osterville
     Arose at 9:30, played a lethargic game of tennis with the Walkers at the Oyster Harbors Club, a swanky joint with courts on the beach, cool breezes blowing, and even a small orchestra playing nearby. Had a number of guests for lunch: Remicks, O’Keefes, and a friend of O’Keefes--Ellen Toner who knows the Louis Watsons of Cohasset Hardware Store fame.
     Bob O’Keefe and Juan took us all for a cruise in their boat, Juan II (pun intended).. The Remicks and Keith Staples joined us aboard the Happy Days for a charcoal-broiled steak dinner.
July 12, 1954, Osterville to Onset
     Proceeded toward Onset, trolled for a while, caught our usual quota of fish--none. On to Onset, cocktails, and charcoal-broiled lamb chops. Went ashore to see the see the sights of the big city. Had drinks in an exotic beer joint thronged with two old ladies watching television.
July 13, 1954, Onset to Provincetown.
     Today was supposed to be the last day of our cruise with the Whitcombs. We decided to go home via Provincetown, where a school of tuna were allegedly waiting to be canned. We ignored the small craft warning flag at the east end of the Canal and proceeded merrily to Provincetown. It was a grand ride with the wind behind us, but when we turned toward home, tuna fishless, alarming things began to happen.
     I was down in the galley making sandwiches when the frying pan sailed by my head and crashed into the sink. The bottles in the icebox clashed together. A number of articles normally belonging in the saloon came bounding down the gangway. We hastened to secure everything valuable, especially Jill who is doubly valuable at the moment.
     Captain Malley conferred with Mate Whitcomb and decided it would be wise to turn back to PTown and spend the night there. This is the first time we ever turned back because of bad weather. Bob was supposed to be at work tomorrow for sure--had several important appointments--but he said, “What difference will it make fifty years from now?” an attitude we all regarded as admirable. [Still admirable fifty-seven years later -- bbm 9-23-11, happily blogging]
Bob cheered us by opening some quahogs we purchased at Onset. The trick, he says, is not to scare them. If you scare them, they clam up.
July 14, 1954, Provincetown to Cohasset
     Weather much improved today. Did a little fishing outside Provincetown before we headed for home. Caught four bluefish but no sign of tuna. Left PT around 12:30, sighted Lawson’s Tower at 2:15.
     This cruise has been perfect. The Whitcombs were wonderful company--all three of them. Jill was a great sport, diving overboard at all hours of the day and night. When the baby arrives six weeks hence, its middle name should be Neptune.
July 24, 1954, Cohasset to Provincetown
     Left Cohasset at 8:45 with Kathie and Teddy arrived PTown around 11:15. Beautiful, unusually clear day, could see everything but fish. Finally sighted several schools of what may have been bluefish or even tuna. We like to think they were tuna.
     Trolled awhile, then anchored in PTown Harbor at 4:30. Prepared tenderloin steak, potato salad, and fresh tomatoes. Ted cut into his steak a little too energetically, and his dinner slid into his lap.
     “Why do these things always happen to me?” he complained.
     Decided the only way to catch any fish was to get up very early tomorrow morning and catch `em napping.
July 25, 1954, Provincetown to Cohasset
     We all got up very early this morning, went to the head, and returned to bed. Finally arose for good at 8:30. I prepared juice and cereal for the rest of the family, then crisp-fried a little mackerel Ted caught a couple of days ago. No one was interested in it when it lay stone cold dead in the ice box; but the minute I sat down with fork poised over the steaming fish, they all wagged their tails and begged for a sample. I wound up with little more than the backbone.
     It was a damp, glowering sort of day, no sign of fish. Nothing to do but eat again. For lunch we had cheeseburgers, the serving of which is a complicated procedure in my family. They are all damn particular about their condiments. Teddy insists on ketchup, no relish.; Kathie hates ketchup but likes mustard with plenty of relish; Ed ordered ketchup with just a little relish. Me? I settled for the mistakes.

JACK WITH CLOTHES ON AND EDGAR HILL

     On our way home early in the afternoon, we stopped and looked for sharks out by the draggers. They weren't there. Arrived Cohasset 2:30.
July 31, 1954, Cohasset to Onset
     I still don’t believe it. Here we are, halfway to Onset with prone-to-be seasick Jack Barnard and cruise-shy Sally Brewer. Also on board are Jack’s wife Connie and Sally’s husband Whitey. Already a couple of exciting things have occurred, the most exciting being when I barged in on Jack when he was changing into his bathing trunks. My, what a fine looking young man he is. Great legs. Then Sally lost her hat and we didn’t go back for it and the captain lost his and we did. A man in a speedboat kindly retrieved it, tossed it over, missed, retrieved it again, this time succeeded in returning it. This is the biggest fishing event we have had all summer.
     Met Seths in Canal on way out to meet us. Arrived Onset 3:30, had swim among the jellyfish, dove for scallops and an escaped beer mug. The boys took turns wearing Ed’s skin-diving helmet, which made their faces look mashed, as if they’d pulled nylon stockings over their heads.
     The Seths joined us in a Happy Hour, made even happier by Sally’s false-teeth joke. I wish I could remember it. Then we all set out for Rofmer’s, and with Marsha Seth’s guidance, soon got lost. Finally arrived at 8:00 and dinner was served promptly at 12:00. In the interim we sang quite a number of songs and drank quite a number of cocktails. Someone said something very funny which we all agreed to remember for the Log and perhaps someday we will, along with the false-teeth joke.
     Had a nightcap aboard Happy Days with the Seths. After they left, Connie, Jack, and Whitey had a swim in their birthday suits. Sally, Ed, and I peeked through the portholes to make sure they were behaving themselves.
August 1, 1954, Onset to Cohasset
     Had breakfast at yacht club snack bar. Spent most of morning trying to decide what to do, when, and where. The weather being unsettled, we decided to head for home. Stopped at Scituate Harbor so Sally could be “seen.” What was the point in going on a cruise if you couldn’t make people envious? To our surprise, whom did we run into but young Teddy Malley and Robby McGoodwin. They had outboard-motored the dinghy all the way from Cohasset to Scituate Harbor and had a fine haul of fish hanging over the side. It's humbling when a dinghy out performs a 40-foot Matthews.
Aug.4, 1954, Cohasset to Draggers
     Sue and Wally Hogan, Alden and Florence Pinkham, and Kathie left Cohasset at 10:00 a.m. in search of SHARK! Sighted beach ball and captured same with dip-net. Kathie first to see dragger. Alden scooped up some dead fish discarded by the dragger to use as bait, and these turned out to be our catch for the day. Cold boiled lobsters made an excellent lunch. We had a small flurry of activity at the beginning of our meal when a shark snapped up half our bait.
     Prepared to head for Cohasset, but one engine was balky. Captain Malley tinkered with it until he got it to sputtering irritably. One of the outriggers suddenly crashed down with a rumble and a roar, giving us all a start. On the way home Wally was reading “Of Whales and Men” but soon switched to our copy of “Sextra Special” because it was more educational, he said.
August 7, 1954, Cohasset to Menemsha
     Ed and I left Cohasset at 9:30, destination Menemsha, where we were meeting Ann and Ball Walker. Arrived 4:45, the trip taking much longer than we expected. Small, tricky harbor, had to do a lot of maneuvering to find an anchorage. Hastened to buy three dozen Little Necks from Poole’s Fish Market. Saw the Walkers waving to us from shore, so Ed went in to collect them while I showered and changed.     
     Heard Ed yelling for Ball—a seagull had snatched at a piece of bait lying on the deck of a cruiser tied to the dock. As the bait was still attached to a hook, the seagull couldn’t have been unhappier. It took Ed, Ball, and the owner of the boat to free him, although he wasn't as cooperative as Aesop’s lion with the thorn in his foot. The gull took off and hasn’t been seen since. His rescuers are now ready to face lions with thorns.
     With the Walkers aboard, the first item on the agenda was Happy Hour. Ann had been drinking Martinis all afternoon, and Martinis, she said, always made her thirsty. This condition remedied, we started the charcoal broiler, and Ball taught me how to open Little Necks.
August 8, 1954, Menemsha to Cohasset
     Up at 6:30, got breakfast while Ed worked on troublesome engine. Went out to No Man’s Land and after hours of fruitless and fishless trolling, a fin was sighted by Ball. Ed rushed to get the harpoon ready for the first heave “because of being more experienced,” and I got the skillet ready for fried swordfish. As we crept up on the fin, it flapped its wings and flew away.
     On our way home, suddenly recalled it was Ted’s twelfth birthday. Called him at Grandpa Malley’s, where he is spending the weekend.
August 15, 1954, Cohasset to Cohasset
Kathie and friends Priscilla Lincoln, Wendy Walton, Roy McDonald, and Don Damon out for SHARK. 
Weather lumpy but no one interested in taking a pill until Wendy got seasick; then we had a hasty run on the Dramamine.
     Caught one very small shark on rod and reel.
August 18, 1954, Cohasset to Cohasset
     Today—Wednesday—Ed is stealing another mid-week holiday, and we have with us the Marshes and the Townsends.
     Caught one teen-age shark on rod and reel. After lunch I went below for a nap, and it is reported that the following incident took place:
     Marion suddenly began to sputter and point frantically at a spot near the boat. “Wh-wh-WHALE! S-S-SEAL!” she shouted.
     “Hmm?” Ed and Wes responded lackadaisically.“Where?”
     Then they spotted the alleged beast, which I understand was twice as long as the boat from tail to horns. A great deal of stopping and starting of engines and stomping around on the deck then took place—not conducive to napping.
     I gave up and emerged to see what all the excitement was about. There was nothing in sight but waves. I think they made the whole thing up to make me jealous.
     Discovered the answer to a mystery. This morning, at home, I came upon Kathryn and Marion, plotting in the kitchen.
     “What are you two whispering about?” I asked.
     “Oh, I’m just singing to myself, Mrs Malley,” said Kathryn. “Tra-la-la.”

BACK: ED, EDGAR HILL, ALDEN PINKHAM, JOE BOWEN
FRONT: BBM, NANCY BOWEN, FLORENCE PINKHAM, MARG HILL

     I later learned she was passing some candles to Marion for the cake she’d brought. (Yesterday was  my 33rd birthday.)
August 20, 1954, Cohasset to Provincetown
     Bowens, Pinkhams, and Malleys got under way at 6:30 p.m. Nan brought a thermos jug of steaming meatballs and spaghetti. This, plus French bread and Florence’s tossed salad was a delightful climax to Happy Hour.
     The girls surprised me with a birthday cake, apologizing because it was a little late. I said it was my fault for being three days premature.
     Provincetown at night looked like the Fourth of July. The sea was flat, the air balmy. Ed, Alden, Nan and I had a swim, and Florence said the phosphorescence in the water turned us into animated sparklers.
August 21, 1954, Provincetown
     Before we left Cohasset last evening, we appropriated a dozen smelts Ted had been catching at the  dock. They made a tasty breakfast. Joe Bowen said he liked any kind of fish except smelt, then helped himself to more than his share.
     We actually saw some tuna today, a good many of them. Not only that, but several were caught by neighboring cruisers. Alden suddenly called that he’d hooked something, and we all clustered around to watch him haul in a black rubber glove. Not discouraged, he kept trolling but never did catch the mate.
     At last we had a genuine thrill when Eddie saw a huge black fin idling through the water. He got the harpoon ready for this tuna, which must have weighed about 600 pounds. Imagine our excitement when he gave a heave and it was accurate; Ed modestly said the fish was so enormous he couldn’t miss.
     Joe and Alden had the tuna within twenty feet of the boat, and I was dangling from the ladder with camera poised for this historic occasion when we lost him.
     After a fine steak dinner, went ashore to see the sights of Provincetown. Had nightcaps in several dives, then somehow the Pinkhams and Bowens lost the Malleys. They later informed us they marched through town shouting, “Calling Captain Malley, calling Happy Days, over and out, we’re not receiving you very well, do you read us, Captain Malley?”
     We have added Provincetown to our list of Towns We’ll Never Dare Visit Again.
The Home Front
September 2, 1954
     On August 31st, Hurricane Carol hit New England. Cohasset Harbor didn’t suffer too much, and all we lost was our outriggers. But Onset, like many other harbors including Scituate, was hard hit. The Seths found nothing of the Jac-Lyn but the icebox, the steering wheel, and one fishing rod. What can we say to comfort them? We don’t know any other couple who got more enjoyment out of their boat.
Famous Last Words by Robert E. Seth:
Marsha—“Are you going to put an extra line on the boat?”
Bob—“Oh no, we’re not going to get that storm.”
September 18, 1954, Cohasset
     Cold, windy, and rough. Seths, Thaxters, and Malleys ventured out a little beyond Minot’s, decided it wasn’t worth it, returned to Cohasset Harbor where we had lunch and exchanged confidences. We learned that Bob Seth has a weakness for poker on Friday afternoons, Ed Malley has a weakness for too many Martinis on weekends, and Blake Thaxter is crazy about peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches -- has several trunks full of them.
     It being Jayne’s birthday, Marion and I decided we would give her boxes inside boxes to open, the last one containing a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich. Blake ate her birthday present.

A HUG FROM BLAKE, ED'S BEST BUDDY TO MY OCCASIONAL
DESPAIR

     As I reread the Logs, I had an epiphany: Ed and I were the Scott
and Zelda Fitzgerald of our era. That was probably when I began losing my hair.
    I was not suited for the role of Zelda, being an insomniac and a party pooper after 2:00 a.m. But with my husband infatuated with the Thaxters, what choice did I have?
    Blake and Jayne gleefully named our crowd “The Hard Core.” Our live-it-up friends were the best thing that ever happened to Ed’s social life and the worst to happen to mine. It wasn't easy pretending to be having as much fun as everyone else.

ED SAT SODDENLY IN THE SKIFF (2)

     It was a delightful breezy Saturday when I went for a sail with Dottie and Ray Remick on their sloop, the Marionette. Ed was at the office all morning, but early that afternoon he followed us out in the Matthews. Approaching a sailboat safely with a motor cruiser was not a simple maneuver. Ed made several vain attempts to throw Ray a line.

     This was a challenge, so Ed devised a new strategy. He cut the motor and climbed into the dinghy, holding the line attached to the Happy Days. The plan was for Ray to keep making passes at the skiff until Ed succeeded in throwing him the line.
      The first few passes failed. “Let’s try once more!” Ray shouted. A captain for Northeast Airlines, he was not the type to give up easily.
     This time Ray caught the line. As it curved out in a great arc between the Happy Days and the Marionette, I cheered. Ray quickly secured his end, and as it grew taut, guess who was caught in the middle?
                                        

     A few feet above the water, the line whipped across the skiff like a knife. To avoid being decapitated, Captain Malley grabbed it with both hands and BOING!—he flipped through the air like a stone from a slingshot.
     We now had the Happy Days in tow, as planned, but her skipper was rapidly receding in the distance. I was wringing my hands and babbling that I wanted my husband back.
     “Calm down!” barked Ray, another one of those guys who think they’re Captain Bligh just because they own a boat.
     We came about and plowed toward Ed, who was sitting soddenly in the skiff. Ray released the Happy Days, and Ed clambered aboard, shouting that he’d had it, he was going home.
     “Don’t let him go without me, Ray!”
    It was decided that Ed would bring our cruiser alongside the Marionette. If he could get near enough without damaging the boats, I was to transfer from one to the other—about as easy as transferring from one galloping horse to another—but the only one worried about damage to me was I.
     Ed eased the Happy Days toward the Marionette until the two boats were plunging along neck and neck, with Dottie at the tiller of the Marionette. Ray was standing by me at the rail to help me across, and I was saying uneasily, “Hey, can’t you slow this thing down?”
     Busy concentrating on the necessary split-second leap, Ray ignored my question, yelled, “Okay, now!”—and gave me a push.
     I grabbed for the Happy Days with one hand, still gripping Ray firmly with the other. Result:
Ray and I both wound up on the Matthews. This failed to improve Ray's disposition.
     Ed and Dottie soon had the two boats plowing along side by side again,, Ray transferred back. He didn’t wave.
     I often wondered how Dottie coped with the strain of being married to a pilot. Boating provided more than enough excitement for the Malleys, thank you.

     Unlike many sailors and yachtsmen, Ed rarely took himself or his boating mishaps seriously. There were those who felt sorry for him when they saw Darrell McClure's illustrations for my articles. "Poor Ed! Is he speaking to you yet? When is the divorce?" Their sympathy was wasted. Ed thought Darrell’s cartoons were hilarious.
     I did have qualms when Little, Brown’s editors wanted to include the illustrations in the first chapter of  Take My Ex-Husband, Please—But Not Too Far. I called Ed and said, "Now that you're a few decades older and a man of maturity and dignity, how do you feel about Darrell McClure's sketches of you in various disastrous situations? I'll be glad to omit them if they strike you as the least bit offensive."

WITH DARRELL AND WIFE SANDY IN FORT
LAUDERDALE 1969

     Ed answered emphatically, "Don't do it! I wouldn't care if Darrell drew a picture of me sitting in the head, reading the funny papers. Leave those cartoons in, Barb, and don't worry about me. I still think they're a riot."
~~~~
     Feet propped up on a footstool, I was sitting in the living room, leafing through the Sunday papers. Ed and Ray Remick were sprawled on the carpet, absorbed in a welter of charts.
     Ray had recently purchased a 52-foot Chris-Craft Conqueror named Witch Way. I was hazily aware that with the approach of the boating season, Witch Way would somehow have to be transported to Cohasset from Pennsylvania.
     “ . . . and the way I figure it, Ed,” Ray was saying, “we’ll fly down to Galesville on a Saturday. With good weather and a little luck, we should have Witch Way in Cohasset by Monday night.”
     “Oh, wonderful!” I said, flinging aside the papers. “I didn’t know we were going!”
     Ray looked at Ed and Ed looked at Ray. “Old radar ears,” Ed said, an endearment I’d heard before.
     Ray broke it to me gently. “Maybe I’m being corny and sentimental, but the fact is, I think Dottie should be the first woman to set foot on Witch Way.”
     “What’s the problem?” I asked. “Dottie can go aboard first and I’ll tag along behind. I won’t peek at a single thing until Dottie—“
     “You don’t understand,” Ray said. “Dottie doesn’t want to go.” The announcement was a shock. What was the matter with Dottie?

     I learned over coffee the next morning that Dottie took a dim view of all things pertaining to boats and the open ocean. An afternoon’s sail within hailing distance of terra firma provided all the excitement her nervous system could handle. I had a critical mission to fulfill: I must persuade Dottie that an overnight cruise on a yacht would be more of a treat than a trauma. 

       Dottie and I stepped aboard the Witch-Way and into the saloon. (According to Webster, a saloon can be “a large cabin on ship-board,” as well as a place to beware of.) While our husbands were heaving luggage and cartons through the companionway, we went on a tour. The master stateroom had built-in hanging lockers, mirrored bulkheads, and a private shower. A companion- way between the bureaus led aft to the shore-side equivalent of a back piazza where a couple might sit of an evening under their lucky stars. The guest stateroom was equally spacious.
     Early Sunday morning, Ray and Ed hopped out of their bunks, took a look at the weather, and hopped back in again. A thick gray mist had rolled in during the night and settled over the harbor.


I MANAGED TO CONVINCE DOTTIE WE SHOULD GO.

     When we set out later, the fog hovered impassively in the distance, as if to let us know we were under surveillance. No sooner did we clear the breakwater than our enemy closed in, shrouding us in an unearthly gloom.
     Ray cut the engine speed to 2000 rpm. This was 2000 rpm too fast in my opinion. There's no creepier sensation in the world than thrusting blindly through a fog into the unknown. You wonder if you are on course. You wonder if there are other boats nearby. The sound of your own craft’s fog signal blasting the eerie silence makes you nearly leap from your sneakers.
     “Hey, Captain,” I said uneasily, “aren’t we going a little fast?”
     “Yes,” Dottie chimed in. “Isn’t this like being on a plane—if you see the other plane coming, it’s too late?”
     “Now girls, take it easy,” said Captain Remick. “If there are any other boats out here, they’ll be blowing their signals every two minutes just as we are. We’ll hear them coming before we see them.”
     “Suppose what’s coming is a rock or a lighthouse or something?” I said. “All you’ll hear is a big fat crash.”
     “There isn’t a thing ahead of us between here and Sandy Hook. We couldn’t get into trouble if we tried. Let’s show the girls the chart, Ed.”
   


      “Here we are, right about here." Ray said. "We’re heading north, following a course parallel to the coast. There are no obstacles for us to bump into except—let’s see—how about these two piers at Atlantic City? We’ll have to watch for them.  The big one is the Steel Pier. Juts out half a mile. As long as we keep well away from the shore, we have nothing to worry about.”
     We picked up the Hereford Inlet Buoy, six miles from Cape May, but it was more than 28 miles to the marker off Atlantic City—28 miles of dead reckoning through pea-soup fog.


"WE HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT."

    What happened was really no one’s fault. If the fellows had realized the automatic pilot was out of kilter and pulling us slightly to port with every mile, they could have steered by hand. If the depth finder had been operating, Ray would have noticed the water getting shallower as we neared Atlantic City. If the radio direction finder had been more cooperative, Ray would have learned we were off course.
     A little after 2:00 p.m. the captain picked up the portable R.D.F. and fiddled expertly with the knobs. He shook it and cradled it close to his ear. “Shh, wait—I think I have something.” He listened intently and then pointed through the murk. “The Atlantic City Radio Station,” he announced, “is right over there.”
     Ed and Ray saw the breakers simultaneously. Their eyes bugged out and they uttered a series of gurgling noises as they bumped into each other in the race to the wheel. Ed got there first and spun it hard to starboard. Opening the throttles, he began putting as much distance between us and the breakers as he could without wings.
     Minutes later the fog begins to lift. The shrouded buildings along the shore commenced a dignified strip tease, revealing a chimney here, a gable there. Less than a quarter mile astern, we perceived the outline of a large black metal structure extending into the water from shore.
     “Must be the Steel Pier,” Ray said. “Phew! We just missed it! Keep her headed east, Ed.”
     “Ray, old buddy,” Ed said a moment later, “if that’s the Steel Pier in back of us, what do we have here?”
     Ahead, enveloped in mist, was another enormous black structure, twice as long as the first one.
     “The place is lousy with piers!” Ray spluttered. “Hard right rudder, Ed!”
     The fog was dispersing with dramatic rapidity, and the sun was setting as we passed Sandy Hook and entered New York Harbor. Ray didn’t slow down one jot as we joined the confusing mass of traffic. When Dottie and I politely suggested that it might be prudent to decrease our speed, Ray politely suggested that we go below and take a nap.
     Captain Remick stood at the helm while Ed crouched on the deck at his feet, figuring our course with the aid of a flashlight. If we had been going dead slow, I would have seen less madness in their method. At 2000 rpm it was like being on a runaway bus with a lunatic at the wheel shouting repeatedly, “Now which way, now which way?” to a flustered passenger with a road map.
     I had to keep reminding myself that no one had entreated me on bended knee to come along on this bus ride.
      “Which way now, Ed?” Ray shouted urgently.
      “We’re looking for Romer Shoal!” Ed shouted with the same urgency. “Watch for a Group Flashing 2 on the starboard side. We ought to see it any minute now.”
     Dottie and I strained our eyes, searching for the light, trying to distinguish it from 40,000 other lights glowing in the dark—red, blue, green, white—some stationary, some flashing, some attached to other boats progressing through the harbor.
     “Better not get too close to it,” Ed warned. “It shows four feet, but let’s not test it.”
     “Don’t see it, don’t see it!” Ray said, craning his neck. “Whoops, we just passed it. Which way now, Ed?”
     The traffic situation became acute; the East River swarmed with ferries and barges.
     “Whaddya think, Ed, should we leave Blackwell’s Island to port or starboard?” At that moment, a dazzling array of lights appeared in front of us.
     “Looks like a floating Christmas tree,” said Ed.
     “Never mind the poetry, which way do I go?”
     “With all those lights, there must be two boats, Ray. Looks like they’re coming right for us.”
     “Let’s go between them,” Ray said. His attempt to go between them was greeted by a hysterical blast from the Christmas tree, which we now perceived was a tug, bearing railroad-car floats on either side. Witch Way swerved abruptly, but we passed close enough to the tug to catch the Captain’s incredulous expression.
     We spent the night in a marina. After breakfast the next morning, Ray snapped a picture of Ed, looking self consciously at Dottie's coffee pot. He knew from experience that he might show up in a boating article by his  first mate.

                               IS THAT A COFFEEPOT I SEE BEFORE ME?

     Then Ray went below for a nap, leaving Dottie and me at the helm. Ed stretched out on the cushioned bench and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
       There was something therapeutic about being on a boat. I could feel the pressures of everyday problems and worries draining away from me; I emptied my mind of everything except enjoyment of the sea, the sky, the soft spring breeze.
       "Do you smell something burning?" Dottie asked.
       At that moment, Ray came bounding up the companionway. He shook Ed awake. “One of the engines sounds funny, Ed, will you take a look at it?”
     Ed was already halfway down to the engine room. He flung open the companionway leading to the galley and a cloud of smoke billowed out from the engine room.
     “Shut off the starboard engine!” he shouted.
     At this crucial hour I didn’t lose my head. “Take the wheel, Dottie,” I said, grabbing the camera.
     Hovering in the doorway I took movies and dodged the furniture our grim-faced husbands were heaving up on the bridge. Ed kicked the rug out of the way, and smoke seeped through the cracks in the hatches. He knelt down to raise the hatch over the starboard engine, then hesitated. “It may burst into flames when the air hits it,” he said.
     Ray snatched up the CO2 extinguisher, removed the pin, and stood tensely prepared.  Fire! Would the extinguisher work? Would it be adequate? As Ed flipped open the hatch, a black cloud mushroomed into his face and a stream of CO2 whooshed into his left ear. Ray had gripped the handle of the extinguisher just firmly enough to give his buddy a shampoo.
     Late in the afternoon we cruised out of Cape Cod Canal and swung into Cape Cod Bay on the final leg of our 445-mile voyage to Cohasset. A cold east wind had come up; the bay was choppy, the skies overcast.
     Off Marshfield, an hour short of our destination, the engines began to falter. It was drizzling now and once again we were trailed by our old enemy, fog. Witch Way tossed fretfully in the rough seas.
     “I hate to tell you this, Ray,” said Ed, “but those engines are starving for gas.”
     “They can’t be!” Ray said, reaching for his computer. “We have at least 60 gallons left and we’re using only twenty-two an hour!”
     “Take a look at those tachometers and listen to those engines. They must be losing gas as the boat rolls from side to side.”
     Morosely, Ray pulled at one ear and reflected. The chances were probably a hundred to one we could make it to Cohasset with gasoline to spare. On the other hand, if the engines did happen to quit altogether, we’d be in a pretty kettle of fish, Ollie. Wouldn’t we be a glorious sight limping into Cohasset behind some eager-beaver kid from the Coast Guard. Ray shuddered.
     We groped our way into Scituate Harbor and gassed up. As if in recognition of our ultimate victory, the fog retreated sulkily. Three quarters of an hour later, Witch Way steamed triumphantly into our homeport.
     When we were packed and ready to leave the boat, Ray and Ed lowered Witch Way’s dinghy (By Broom) from its davits and guided it over to the boarding ladder. Hop in, Ray said, giving us a hand. What he should have given us was the plug to the dinghy’s drain.
     “See what I mean about boats?” Dottie said, as water poured over the gunwale.

     In addition to writing in the Log, another of my responsibilities as First Mate was to take movies of any action and to be sure not to run out of film. To do so was to incur a stern reproach from her captain.
     On one occasion, all the Log-worthy excitement took place in Nantucket Harbor, a favorite destination. We were there for the third season with Jayne and Blake Thaxter. . .

August 1958 

     Bought groceries, returned to the  Happy Days. Changed into our fancy duds, the fellows looking natty in their Madras jackets. Had cocktails—and suddenly it was almost eight. Since the Yacht Club launch service ended at 10:00, it was time to go ashore for dinner. Ed said two or three times that someone ought to put the “T” flag up to signal the launch, but Blake just sat in the cabin reading his book. He doubtless figured the launch had already received our message, since we had blown the horn a number of times and waved. This procedure wasn’t official enough for Captain Malley. When Blake didn't take the hint, he hurried out to the bow to put the flag up himself.
     I was below getting a sweater when I heard a noise I couldn’t identify. Then Jayne said in a matter-of-fact voice: “Barbara, Ed fell overboard.” The noise, I realized, was a splash. Jayne and Blake rushed out to the cockpit to make sure Ed was all right; I rushed to get the movie camera. I wasn’t on the scene in time to film his first emergence, when he came up spewing water and snapping instructions: “Get the ladder! No! No! Not this side, the other side!” Then he disappeared.
     He told us later he was so anxious not to be seen by the approaching launch that he considered diving under the boat instead of swimming around it to the ladder. On second thought, he might get trapped under there and drown. Then again, maybe drowning was preferable to being seen swimming in Nantucket Harbor in his Madras jacket. Deciding to make for the bow of the boat as fast as he could, he launched into an American crawl. Seeing his colorfully clad arms thrusting through the air, he was sure everyone in the harbor could see them, too. He took a deep breath and dove underwater.
     Meanwhile Blake hung the ladder to port, instructed Jayne to signal the launch that we’d changed our minds; then, cracking up, he staggered toward the steps of the deckhouse.
     “Out of my way!” I said, colliding with him in the doorway. I stood on the starboard side of the cockpit, adjusted the camera, and waited for the captain to make his reappearance. Jayne was semaphoring to the launch, which was approaching with a load of passengers.
     “No, no!” she called, waving her arms and shaking her head. “Next trip!”
     No sign of Ed. I became concerned because it was getting dark.  I was afraid the movies would be under-exposed. I walked over to the ladder and peered into the water. At that moment Ed’s head popped up. “I was never so embarrassed in all my—” Spotting the camera he ducked under again.
     I returned to my post and waited. Naturally the last thing my husband wanted to see was a camera, but someday we’d all have a good laugh over the movies. Ed caught me off guard, though, when he suddenly scrambled over the side of the boat and crashed to the floor on all fours. He scuttled past me like a giant crab and scurried down to the deckhouse, where Blake had yet to recover from his paroxysms. He raised his head, laughing and gasping, and saw his buddy crawling through the doorway, sputtering: “Clear the way! I’m coming through!”
     Blake doubled up again, and this time Jayne and I joined him. Ed, however, was still taking the matter with dead seriousness. “Absolutely the worst blunder a skipper can make!” he moaned, starting to peel off his dripping clothing. “Completely unforgivable! We’ll never be able to come to Nantucket again!”
     If you could have seen your face!” Blake managed to gasp. “When you were going through the air, arms flailing, in a sitting position—”
     “Did you actually see it happen?” Jayne asked.
     “Every nanosecond,” Blake said. “I happened to be looking through the Venetian blinds as Ed was sidling by carrying the flag. One second later I see him leaning backwards, the next second he’s making a wild grab for the boat, and then—oh, Ed, the expression on your face!”
     We three dry ones broke up again. The Captain, the kind of chap who believes in keeping his dignity when all about him are losing theirs, said he hoped we were having fun.
     “And then when I saw you coming through enemy lines. . .” Blake said, wiping away tears.
     The situation plainly called for another drink. When the launch boy came to collect us, we kept peeking at him to see if his manner betrayed any awareness of our recent aquabatics. Either he missed the show or he was a very tactful young man.

Friday, August 29, 1958, Cohasset to Gloucester
     Hurricane Daisy did her contrary female darndest to foul up our Labor Day cruise with the Marshes. According to the forecast she was going to be violent, so Thursday night the Yacht Club swarmed with boat owners battening down their property. She would peak at noon, but Ed said before he left for work that he doubted the seas would calm down much before Monday. It was depressing because I’d never felt more like getting away from it all, and I knew Marion and Wes felt the same way. Daisy came and went on schedule but didn’t amount to much—Timmy was furious; and Vonnie, who practically spent the night at the Yacht Club in order to be at the scene of the havoc, came home sputtering insults at the weather man.
     Called Ed around two, told him it didn’t look very rough to me. Well, Ed allowed, maybe we could start tomorrow around eleven. Called Marion, relayed message. At four o’clock called Ed again, told him it looked flat out there, couldn’t we at least go to Scituate?
      We left the harbor at 6:50. It was such a lovely evening that Ed suggested we run on over to Gloucester. There was some sea-swell to remind us of Daisy’s visit, but not enough to deter us.
     Arrived Gloucester at 9:20, two and a half hours later. Warmed up baked ham, browned frozen potato patties, heated corn on the cob left from children’s dinner. If we’d gone to bed right after dinner it would have been the end of a perfect day—but dull.
      My husband and I had a lively little—well not argument exactly, it was more like a fight—about his drinking. I carried on like Carrie Nation herself, wanting to know why he always had to guzzle two drinks for everyone else’s one. Ed’s response was that he was going to divorce me but would put off the action in order not to spoil the Marshes’ trip.
     We called the house to let the family know we’d arrived safely. Timmy came on the line and I went through an involved explanation about saying “over” whenever you were through speaking.
     “I’m through now,” I said, “and when I say `over,’ it will be your turn to talk. Over.”
     There was a brief silence, then, “Over,” said Timmy.
Saturday, August 30, 1958, Gloucester
     Up at nine, with Marion preparing a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and coffeecake. Ed was in a forgiving mood and announced I could breathe easy about the divorce, he was going to give me one more chance. Sob. (That’s a sigh of relief, not an abbreviated description of my husband)
     We couldn’t make up our minds whether to go ashore and then fish, or fish and then go ashore. It was a case of “I want to do what everyone else wants to do,” or “You decide, you’re the Skipper,” or “You decide, you’re the guests.” Finally Ed mumbled something about going ashore, so Marion and I went below to change into our going-ashore clothes. No sooner had we presented ourselves than Ed said, “Guess we’ll go fishing, this good weather might not hold.”
     Went out to the Stellwagon Ledge and found it a-bustle with dozens of sport fishermen. During the several hours we trolled, only one boat hauled in a fish. Listening to the ship-to-shore radio, the fellows learned that tuna had appeared in droves just outside Gloucester Harbor, of all places. So we raced back, along with several other boats who also had their radios on. We spotted a school of the elusive creatures—or at least Ed and Wes did; Marion and I were busy reading. Surprising as it may seem, we didn’t hook a single one.
    Charcoal-broiled a roast-beef sized porterhouse steak, retired at 9:00.
August 31, 1958, Gloucester
     After our good night’s sleep we were up at the crack of 8:30, lured from our bunks by the aroma of frying sausages. Marion was on the job, preparing another sumptuous breakfast. The tolling bell that had interrupted our slumbers for several hours was not calling the faithful to church, as we thought, but clanging a monotonous warning: fog. This gave Ed the excuse he needed to postpone the fishing and read the Sunday papers.
     In addition to picking up the papers, Marion was bound we would have lobster for lunch. Wes ferried her ashore, then came back for Ed and me. As we approached the dock, I could hear the bus droning toward its final stop at Rocky Neck and told Ed he'd better make it snappy. I leaped from the dinghy, raced up the gangway over a painted sign that said “Do not run,” and out to the street. There was the bus, but where was Marion? It seemed she was standing directly across the street behind the bus, and by the time it started up again, Wes, Ed, and I were walking in the general direction of Gloucester. We figured Marion might have ambled along to see Mr. Wilkins’s famous rose garden. When we didn’t find her there, we walked back to the dock and there she was, patiently waiting for us.
     Were able to buy papers and provisions at the corner store instead of waiting for next bus to Gloucester. As for the lobster, Wes had noticed a wholesale place not far from where the boat was anchored.  He dropped us off and returned half an hour later with a steaming bag of hot boiled lobsters and a quart of fresh clams.
      I dumped the lobsters into the sink and gaped at Wes’s extravagance—eight of them.
     “We’ll put four in the ice box and have them cold tomorrow,” I decreed.
     Marion gave me a look but said nothing. She washed the clams and dropped them into boiling water. We gathered in the cockpit to tackle the lobsters and after sampling the first few morsels, dripping with butter, I said, “Maybe we can handle two apiece at that.”
     Marion laughed. “I was thinking the very same thing but couldn't think how to say tactfully, `That cheap-skate, Barbara.’”
     We polished off seven of the lobsters and all the clams. The eighth lobster was Ed’s, who said he was still on a diet. At 2:00, the captain headed out to sea. It was rough, small craft warnings were up, so he decided we’d be a lot more comfortable back in the harbor, reading our books.
     Had ham sandwiches for supper, watched TV until 9:30. Called the house, Kathie was worn out from arbitrating disputes between Vonnie and Timmy, but didn’t have any serious complaints. Ted, although he failed to confide where he was going, came in at a reasonable hour every night, she said.
      I wished I knew what the right attitude was with a sixteen-year-old boy. Should a parent insist on knowing these things, thus indicating a lack of trust—or what the teenager regards as plain nosiness? Or should we cross our fingers and hope—hope we wouldn’t wake up some morning to headlines about scandalous orgies, our son among the participants. Maybe by the time Tim reached this age, we’d have a better of idea of what to do.
    Marion said if she had it all to do over again, she wouldn’t knock herself out worrying.
Monday, September 1, 1958, Gloucester to Cohasset
     The wind had gone down but the fog rolled in as we were having breakfast. It was clear again by 9:30, so Captain Malley decided we’d head for Cohasset while the weather was cooperative.
     10:30—correction: I thought we were heading for home but instead, we’re on our way to the Stellwagon Ledge. Marion and I picked the meat out of our remaining lobster (note that Ed’s lobster was now “ours”) and then settled down in the deckhouse with our books, as it was too cold to go up to the flying bridge. A little before noon Marion and I began to hanker for that seafood treat. Ed said he didn’t want any lunch, not one bite, but when I handed up a hamburger and a half, telling him the half was for him, he hollered down, “Where are the onions?”
     Marion prepared two huge salads: escarole, chicory, celery, Bermuda onion, crowned with a sizable mound of lobster meat. We were just digging in when Marion said, “Oh-oh, here comes Ed!” and covered her plate with her napkin.
     “Just as I thought!” Ed said. “Look at you! Doesn’t your conscience bother you?”
     “Not a bit,” I said, as he helped himself to some of my salad but had the good sense to stay clear of the lobster.
     At that moment there were yells from Wes up on the flying bridge. The line was zipping out from one of the reels and there was no further talk of lunch. It was a timely interruption, as I had been girding myself to defend my lobster with my life.
     After putting my salad in a safe place (me), I helped Ed lower the dinghy to get it out of the way. The rod, which was in one of the topside sockets, was gingerly transferred by the captain to the swiveling rod-holder in the fishing chair below. Wes sat down and began reeling.
     An hour later he was still battling his tuna. The Browns cruised by and congratulated us with a hands-clenched-overhead gesture.
     “That’s one thing about Eddie,” Marion said, “he’s always so generous about sharing his luck with his friends. Isn’t he wonderful to let Wes be the one to catch the tuna?”
     “Yes,” I said, looking at Wes, who was stripped to the waist, sweating and groaning over his labors. “Ed’s very generous that way.”
     Suddenly we saw a spectacular sight in the distance: several tremendous fish leaping out of the water, then slamming down with a cascading splash of such dimensions, it was like the Fourth of July all over again. Time after time they surged into the air, poised for a moment on their tails, then crashed into the sea again. At first we thought they were huge tuna, but Ed said they were whales. Other skippers, unencumbered by a tuna on the line off the stern, rushed over to view the sight at closer quarters, and judging by their exchanges over the radio, those big dancing fish were indeed whales.
     After more than two hours of playing tug-of-war with his catch, Wes began to tire not only of the tuna, but also of the way the Skipper was maneuvering the boat (all wrong), also of his wife (she suggested Ed take over for awhile, and Wes told her to stay in the cabin and be quiet), and even poor little me. All I did was keep asking him questions in order to have a complete and authentic account of this historic occasion in the Log.
      “Don’t back up!” Wes would roar at Ed. “You ruin me every time you back up!” Then, “Don’t go ahead so fast!” “Hard right rudder!” “Get the gaff!” (Only it sounded like “Gurbligab!”) Then, “Never mind, the &!%&#.took off again!” Zip, zip, zip, out spun inch after inch of hard-won line.
     I might mention here that, worse luck, we used up the last of the movie film yesterday—on something asinine, too, the platter of boiled lobsters.
     Three hours after Wes first commenced his fight, catastrophe! A foot and a half length broke off from the end of the rod, making it impossible to fight the fish. Wes was too bushed to struggle with the mutilated equipment, so he passed the rod to Ed and stood for a moment, shaking with exhaustion. But he wasn’t allowed to rest for long. “Quick, Wes, hard right rudder!” and the battle was joined again.
     The tuna had developed a zigzagging technique that required a real master at the wheel to keep the line in back of our stern. Wes hadn’t had the experience of handling the controls under these circumstances, but there was someone on board who had. I was topside (it was warm out now) reading my book and keeping my mouth shut. Both men had the same inspiration at the same time, and shouted, “Come on down and take over!”
     Since I was stuck with the job I figured I might as well try to do well at it, so first of all I made one thing clear: Don't give me any of this “starboard” and “port” business. "If you want me to turn right, just come out and say so without getting nautical about it."
      The only time I goofed was when Ed yelled, “Quick! Turn hard to the left.” I pushed up the throttle, and nothing happened except a roaring of the engines. Ed yelled, “You’ve got it in neutral!”
     After a while, more bad luck. The remaining guide tore off from what was left of the rod, and Ed found himself with nothing to work with except line and reel. At the end he was reduced to pulling the fish in by hand (wearing gloves) while Wes reeled. If our quarry had made one last major effort he could easily have broken the line at this point; but fortunately—in our eyes, at least—he was too tuckered out to do much besides zigzag back and forth on the gradually shortening line.
     At last the leader came into sight. Wes grabbed the gaff as Ed reached out for the wire leader.
     “Are you ready, Wes?” Ed asked tensely.
     Wes was ready, and the noble tuna was doomed. The men hauled the wildly thrashing chunky creature aboard and we all set up a cheer, although I was privately feeling sorry for the fish, as I always do, even if it’s  a mackerel. Reading my mind, Ed said it wasn’t too late to let it go if it wasn’t too badly gaffed, so we hung it in the water with a line tied around its tail. The idea was, if it revived, we would free it. The poor creature was done for, though. Alden Pinkham came alongside, and his son Warren took pictures of Wes and Ed with their catch. Then Ed gave the fish to Alden to give to the Scituate Coastguard rather than waste it, and Alden called that he would slice off a couple of steaks for our freezer before relinquishing it to the Coastguard.

                                                                   

     “Never mind the steaks!” called Marion, “just see that we get copies of those snapshots!

     On the way back to Cohasset we passed two schools of tuna. “I wouldn’t give you a nickel for either one,” said Wes.

"QUICK, MUMMY, YOU'RE BURNING THE PANCAKES!!" (3)

(flashback)
November 26, 1951

     Timmy brought a drawing home from school and patiently explained it to me.  The big square was an old broken-down house, and the jagged red and blue scrawl in the center was a broken window.  A tilted post turned out to be a tree and the slanting black lines represented rain.

     “What’s this thing in the corner?” I asked, pointing to what appeared to be a croquet wicket.

     Timmy stared at me.  “It’s a boy!” he hooted.  “What did you think it was?”

December 15, 1951

     Last night Ed brought home a couple of small two-wheelers in the back of the Buick.  The children ran out to greet him, and I heard him snap, “Get right back into the house!”

     The next thing I heard were heartbroken sobs from Vonnie’s room.  I knew she didn’t understand why she had been yelled at, so I went upstairs and explained that Daddy had brought home a surprise for her for Christmas and didn’t want her to see it.  The skies cleared immediately, and Vonnie went downstairs to tell Kathie that Daddy had brought home a present for her.

     Ed, not realizing the havoc he had wrought, growled, “If you don’t behave, there’ll be no presents at all for you!”

     “Gee, honey,” I said, “Christmas is supposed to be a happy time for the kids.  I had her all cheered up and now she’s upstairs crying her heart out again.”   

       Ed didn’t say anything, but a few minutes later I heard him go into her room and there was some murmuring and Vonnie tried to hold out, but in the end the old Malley charm triumphed, and all was forgiven.   

      I’m writing this while the turkey is cooking and the children are playing with their Christmas toys.  I gave Kathie a hatbox with a plaid lining to use as an overnight case.  Inside, I tucked a pair of jodhpurs as an extra surprise.  Kathie zipped open the case and held up the jodhpurs. 

     “What are these things supposed to be?” she asked, puzzled.  Then she cried, “Horse-pants!” and flew across the room to hug me.

     What Kathie really wanted was a black stallion with a white star on his forehead, but she seemed thrilled with the compromise.  I have promised her she can take riding lessons next spring.

Later:

     The garbage disposal stopped working today of all days.  It took Ed half the afternoon to take it apart and figure out what was wrong with it.

     “I’m a fine plumber,” he sighed, picking up the wastebasket, which I noticed was half full of stuff that looked like wadded-up paper.  “Why did I ever try to put paper-Mache down the disposal?”

     “OH!” I exclaimed, suddenly understanding why he had been so uncomplaining all this time after blaming me for stuffing the machine with grapefruit rinds.  Then I looked at his perspiring face, streaked with black grease, and held my peace.  Ed went upstairs for a shower while I made gravy and asked Kathie to set the table. Teddy carried in the turkey.

     The children banged on their plates and shouted their requests for plenty of this and just a little of that and none of that awful cranberry sauce.

     “Ladies before gentlemen!” Vonnie crowed, while her father carved the turkey.

     “There are no ladies around here,” he said, “so that presents no problem.”

     Vonnie was off on another tack.  “Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice, take off your britches and slide on the ice!”

     Timmy joined in the second chorus.  I was too tired for a lecture about modulating voices, so I turned off my receiver and let them whoop it up.

     After dinner, Ed started rinsing the dishes off in the pantry and bringing them in to the dishwasher.  I figured he was avoiding the sink because he didn’t want any more garbage to go in the disposal, but I thought it would be all right to rinse off a few glasses.  Water poured out from where the disposal used to be and flooded the floor.

     Eddie explained that the sink couldn’t be used until the disposal was connected up.  Then he got out the mop.

     “Wives!  Children!” he said.  “Once I was young and gay and free!”

     “Christmas!” he said, warming to his subject.  “Bah!  Humbug!”  He pushed Teddy’s cowboy further back on his head and mopped.   

KATHIE AT 11, READS TO SIBLINGS
TO KEEP THEM OUT OF MISCHIEF.

February 21, 1952

     It’s vacation week, so I was annoyed when Kathie tapped on my door yesterday morning and told me it was eight o’clock.  (She has spoiled me by being a substitute mother so often, I'm prone to take her services for granted.)

     I got out of bed, dressed, and went into the boys’ room to rouse them.  Teddy lay breathing heavily, his eyes closed, but Timmy peeked roguishly from beneath his blankets.

     “Uncover me, Mummy!  Uncover me the way you always do!”

     I pulled back the blankets and discovered that he was fully clothed.

     My astonishment delighted Timmy.  “Uncover Teddy!” he cried, bouncing on his bed.

     I made a great show of surprise when Teddy, too, proved to be awake and dressed.  Now I understood Kathie’s eagerness to get me up.  She wanted me to see what she had accomplished so quietly and efficiently while I enjoyed an extra hour’s sleep.

     Vonnie, ever the actress, rubbed her eyes when I entered her room.  “Is it time to get up, Mummy?”

     “Yes, you lazy bones,” I said.  “The boys are already up and dressed.  Then Vonnie threw off her blankets and went into gales of laughter at my expression.

     I went through the same performance with Kathie, who was grinning at me in conspiratorial fashion from the other bed.

     While I brushed my hair and put on my face, Timmy kept tugging at me arm.  “Hurry up, Mummy, I’m hungry.”

     We all trouped down to the kitchen and at Timmy’s request, I plugged in the waffle iron.  When the first waffle had stopped steaming, the children clustered around me as I lifted the cover.  Their faces fell, as did mine, when the waffle tore in two as if glued to the iron.  I dug at it futilely with a fork, then said,  “Well, children, how about pancakes instead?”   Oh sure, they chorused, they loved pancakes.

      I put the burner on High, and with Teddy’s appetite in mind, added extra flour and milk to the batter.  I gave the first blackened batch to him, figuring he’d eat anything.  I turned down the heat, and the next three pancakes looked a little better.  Kathie agreed to take them off my hands if I’d let her leave the crusts.

     “I don’t like them that brown,” Vonnie said.  “I want mine a sort of golden color, like Kathryn’s.”

     “I don’t eat them if they’re brown,” Timmy warned.

     I made three more pancakes.  Vonnie allowed they were edible, but still not like Kathryn’s. Timmy, increasingly concerned, pulled up a stool to supervise his pancakes.
     “Not too brown, now,” he said, hovering over the pan.  “That side must be done—look, Mummy, the bubbles are coming through.  Kathryn says when the bubbles come through, that side is done.  Quick, Mummy, turn them over, you’re burning them!”

      I beetled my brows at him and said, “Listen, son, I was making pancakes before you were born!”

     He twisted around on his stood and peered into my face to see if I was serious.  “You . . . were . . . not!” he said.  “How could you?  How could I eat `em?”

      When Timmy’s cakes were done to his satisfaction, I offered to make a few more for Teddy.

     “No thank you,” he said politely.  “I’m awfully full.”  The household’s pancake-eating champion searched around in his mind for a tactful explanation.  “You see, Mummy, the reason I ate only three of your pancakes—well, they’re just as good as Kathryn’s, but they’re so much bigger.”

     “Oh,” I said.

     A few minutes later Teddy asked casually, “Mummy—did Kathryn ever go to cooking school?”

 March 15, 1952

     Our trip to Havana with the Remicks was a lot of fun.  Cuban men are fascinating.  They stared openly at Dottie and me (mostly Dottie, who is petite, very blonde, and very pretty).  They nudged each other and discussed us in rapid Spanish, assuming correctly that we could only guess at what they were saying.

     One afternoon we were lounging around the pool, and I decided to go to the Ladies Room.  Not wanting to become involved with a waiter on its whereabouts, I approached a woman who was having a drink at the pool bar.

     “The Ladies Room?  I have no idea,” she said.  She beckoned to a waiter.  “Qui es la dama?”

     “La dama?”  He smiled and pointed to me.  “La dama.”

     “Oh, no!”  The lady frowned and said aside to me, “My Spanish isn’t very good.”

      She tried again. “Qui es—Las Damas?”    

       “Oh—las damas!” the young man smiled.  He pointed to both of us.  “Las damas.”

       “No, no, no!”  The lady leaned toward him and whispered, “The Ladies’ Room, where is the Ladies’ Room?”

      “Ohhh,” grinned the waiter, “—the Ladies’ Room!  It's right over there, M’am.”

       On Tuesday, our last night in Havana, Ed and I decided to step out by ourselves, as the Remicks were tired.  Of us, perhaps.  Our taxi driver, a handsome fellow named Lorenzo, took us to several “dives,” including an open-air bar that sold rum drinks for ten cents each.  In spite of the reasonable price, Eddie ran out of money, which is a clue to our state when we got back to the hotel.  He left me in the cab while he went up to our room to get dinero for Lorenzo.

     Lorenzo had a soft rich voice and a charming accent.  He turned around to me and said softly, “Thees mon—eez he your hozbon or . . . eez he your fran?”

     I was tempted to reply that Eddie was my fran.  It seemed almost indecent to be night-clubbing in Havana with one’s husband.  Or perhaps I should say he was my father.  There were a number of young girls staying at the hotel with older gentlemen who were, I presume, their fathers.  However, I confessed truthfully to Lorenzo that my companion was not only the father of my children, he was also my husband.

     He stared at me in the half-darkness of the cab.  “I like you, Senora.  You are attracteev woo-mon.”

     “Er—thank you, Lorenzo,” I said.  “Uh—do you have a family, too?”

     “Oh no, Senora, I am bachelore.”  He leaned toward me over the back of the seat and lowered his voice.  “When you hozbon sleeps, you weel come weeth me and I weel make lov to you, yes?”

     Back in Boston, in a similar situation, I would have exited the cab in a panic.  But there is something about the air in Cuba and something about the men.  They are so serious, so sincere about their propositions. 

     “Thank you, Lorenzo,” I said, “but it is much too late and we’re leaving early in the morning.  And besides, my husband is a light sleeper.”

     He spoke softly, rapidly.  “I am passionate man, Senora.  You are passionate wommon, I can tell.  Come weeth me, I make you very hoppy.  We ask your hozbon eef he let you go, eh?”

     “My goodness!” I gulped.  “That—why that’s out of the question, Lorenzo.  My husband is extremely jealous!”  I drew an arc on my neck to make my point clear.

     At that point Eddie opened the door of the cab and my would-be lover addressed him.

     “Senor. Your wife, she ees attracteev wooman.  You let her come with me, I make her very hoppy—yes?”

     Ed said, “Certainly, if you’ll find a girl for me.”  I folded my arms and glared at him.

     “I weel find a girl for you!” Lorenzo agreed enthusiastically.

     “You’re too willing,” Ed laughed, paying our fare.  He unclenched my arms and pulled me from the cab.

     
     The children were no problem during the two weeks we were gone, Kathryn told us, although Vonnie started throwing up as soon as she saw us.  Too much excitement, I guess, because she was all right the next morning. 

      Kathryn is off today, and I find I am so rested and in love with my children that they can do no wrong.    
      “Why are you so nice?” they keep asking me. 
October 16, 1952

     Last night, after a trying day when Timmy and Vonnie had been particularly exasperating, Timmy put his arm around my neck and said, “I’m sorry for all the naughty things I did today, Mummy.”

     Then he looked thoughtfully into space.  “And I’m sorry,” he added, “for all the naughty things I’m going to do tomorrow.”

November 24, 1952

     Kathie continues to care for her horse with unfailing conscientiousness.  She has developed a unique way of getting herself going.  She doesn’t set the alarm for 6:30, she explains, because she’s so sleepy when she first wakes up, she’s afraid she’ll doze off again.  Instead, she sets the clock for 5:45; when it rings, she gets up, washes her face and brushes her teeth.  Then she sets the clock for 6:00 and goes back to sleep. At 6:00 she takes off her pajamas and puts on her underclothes.  Back to bed until 6:15, when she combs her hair.  At 6:30 she shuts off the alarm and is ready for her chores.  It’s a complicated way to start the day, but it works for Kathie.

     Before breakfast she feeds and waters Sugar, gallops him up and down the beach, then brushes him.  Ed and I had thought that caring for a horse might dampen Kathie’s enthusiasm, but such is not the case.  As my early schildhood nurse, Catherine Minton, remarked during her last visit, “She must have horses somewhere in her background, somewhere in your husband’s field of ancestors there must have been cows and horses, you see, so Kathie just naturally likes horses.”

 January 2, 1953

      I found a woman in Beechwood, Madeline Stover, who has two horses of her own and offered to board Sugar this month and next for $30 a month.  Kathie had been caring for him so faithfully and getting up so early that she was beginning to look peaked.  Now she goes over to Stovers’ directly from school, and I pick her up at 4:30.  She and Mrs. Stover are the greatest of pals, having so much in common:  Madeline would rather be with horses than do housework and Kathie would rather be with horses than do homework.

     As we drove home yesterday afternoon Kathie said, “You know, Mom, most of my friends are ambitious, they want to be singers or ballet dancers when they grow up.  Not me.  All I want to do is get married, settle down, and have a couple of horses.”

     Timmy tickles me, too.  The other night I must have told him at least 20 times to shut his little mouth and go to sleep.  Later, as his father and I were getting ready for bed, I cleared my throat.

     “What did you say, Mummy?” asked a wide-awake voice.

     “I didn’t say anything, Timmy,” I said.

     “Oh.  I guess it was just my conscience.”

February 27, 1953

     Vonnie tells me she is going to marry a rich man with a thousand dollars when she grows up.  They will live on a ranch in Texas, sit on a bench together and sing songs, ride horseback standing up in the saddle, and have four children.

     As for her older brother, he couldn’t be more unoriginal.  This erstwhile tousle-head who used to love a comb and brush the way a cat loves water, now sports a patent-leather hairdo reminiscent of Ramon Navarro.  All thanks to Vaseline Hair Tonic and a belle by the name of Jean Macdonald.

     In Teddy’s desk drawer is a card bearing the name Jean Macdonald and the legend, “I like Jean Macdonald because she is so pretty.” (I was tidying his room, not snooping.  I just happened to notice it in a back corner of the drawer.)

     We are forbidden to mention her name.  The slightest innuendo, the most innocent allusion is met by scowls and kickings of doors.  It’s amazing, though, how often Ted himself manages to weave the sacred personage of Jean Macdonald into a conversation.  He wouldn’t ever want to move to Florida, he tells me, because, well, how does he know he’d like the people down there?  Maybe the boys aren’t good fellows, maybe the girls aren’t as nice as. . .you know who, Mom.

     When I’m a spectator at dancing school, I love to watch Teddy dance with you-know-who.  He wheels her about, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glowing.  On the other hand, I cringe when he is obliged to dance with another.  His feet drag, his shoulders slump, he clutches the back of his victim’s dress for support, and his eyes roll upward in despair.

     Teddy is worried because he is two inches shorter than his ladylove.  This is an improvement on his favorite partner of last year, who was at least a head taller.  I used to watch him dance with this giantess and wonder what he saw in her besides her right shoulder.  I would point out various girls closer to his height, including Jean Macdonald, but he would have none of them.

     I reminded him of this the other day.  “How come you never wanted to dance with Jean last year?”

     Ted looked at me as if I’d said:  “Remember the time we had Eisenhower to dinner?”

     “Jean Macdonald wasn’t in my dancing class last year!” .

     “Oh yes she was!” I laughed.  “You were so fascinated by the giantess, you didn’t have eyes for anyone else.”