"Well, as far as I am concerned..the summer is over!"

It is fifteen minutes to midnight, on the 4th of July. This declaration concerning the early demise of summer was unsteadily, mumbled by my father-in -law, who, although still standing and somewhat thick of tongue was about to shuffle off to bed.

This was clearly his day! Although a New Englander since birth and known to enjoy all the holidays of the year (which included the partaking of an imbibe or two or three on each celebrated occasion) the 4th of July was not like any other day of the year...to Bob Deane..and when it was over, his disappointment could not be soberly contained.

Few people, if anyone, could cram more activity or enjoyment into one holiday as much as he could..and having practiced his 4th of July rituals over his many years, he had perfected his antics of that day to perfection. In defense of his own enjoyment on that holiday, he admitted that he had a lot of "practical application" over the years.

This particular holiday, for him, started at 4:30 A.M. Only the sea gulls could testify as to the exact starting time but, even at this time, they had not yet started their early morning incessant squawking...Mr. Deane's wardrobe would change many times during the day, each one designed for a specific activity. The first ensemble of the day would only be seen by a few..although anyone who lived in Touisset could have described it in detail based on the many individual opinions and stories which concerned his unusual fishing uniform. In many respects it was legendary but never exaggerated enough to do it real justice.

The ensemble began with khaki, baggy pants, resplendent in the number of tears, odd shaped holes and a plethora of stains, multiple colors and indescribable hieroglyphics...each feature of which was a story or a happening under itself. The pants were highlighted by the various colors of paints and stains that differed in color intensity depending on the year or decade that it was added. Maintaining his trousers at a comfortable height around his rotund mid-drift, slightly south of his belly button was his most recent crafted belt cut from an old piece of clothes line. Next came a sweatshirt that he treated as a treasure. The word "Princeton" was barely visible across the front..a gift from the man next door who graduated from Princeton twenty four years before..and who had presented him with the shirt at that time. One sleeve, almost full length was only missing the cuff. The other was cut off just below the elbow and had a jagged edge with Irish Pennants. It was also well endowed with multiple colors and stains of unknown origin.

His hat was special. Unlike his pants and sweat shirt which were washed frequently, the hat had never tasted soap. One could guess that it was originally white, the floppy kind that fishermen wear. It was appropriately stained around the headband and every where else. The fading initials of "CRYC" were barely discernable: (Coles River Yacht Club). Beneath the letters a small yacht club pennant could be seen.. It was a hat that could be described as "vintage." He bragged of paying thirty-five cents for it before World War II...around ‘38 or ‘ 39," he would say. (It was now 1952.) Two pieces of string hung down besides his ears for securing the cap on windy days.

To complete the unusual array of clothing was a pair of weathered, disfigured moccasins that L.L.Bean would completely disavow. They were held together by magic, colorful magic. The little toe pointing skyward in the left one was offset by the big toe sticking out of the right one.

Reveille for me this same day was five-thirty. He opened my bedroom door and said, "Come on Charlie, the fish are waiting!" Sleepily, I replied, "Be with you in a minute, Charlie."

This exchange is somewhat unusual inasmuch as neither of us were named, "Charlie." It was just convenient that we called each other by that name.. although there was no basis for it.

My dress for this fishing excursion was somewhat conventional, consisting of only a plaid bathing suit. Stopping at the bathroom, I could hear the deep gurgle of the Johnson 2 ½ horse power outboard motor being tested in the rain barrel next to the back porch. Charlie left nothing to chance and a dependable running outboard was essential for a good fishing trip. Long past were those days when he put the outboard on the transom, pushed off from the beach and spent the next fifteen minutes pulling and swearing while trying to start the engine..to no avail. This was a bad way to start his day..but it did motivate and get started a unique vocabulary peculiar only to him.

When I reached the kitchen, on the kitchen table was a can of opened Old Tap Ale, obviously left there for me.I toasted two pieces of bread, grabbed a pork chop from last night's supper out of the ice box, dashed it with some ketchup and I was ready for what would be a long and memorable day.

The grass was wet with early morning dew and it felt good with my bare feet. I didn't have to look to see that it was low tide..I could smell it. The sea gulls were gathering near Charlie's boat which had the name "Duchess" on the stern. The Duchess had a long and proud history. It belonged to my wife ( Charlie's daughter) since she was in the third grade and over the years she (Joy) had won many sailing trophies that decorated their mantel over the fire place.. It was of the "Beetle" class; a very popular sail boat in Narragansett Bay. However, since Joy had gone off to college, Charlie had removed the mast and rigging and used it for just a fishing boat.

Because he had thrown out a few pieces of stale bread, the air was soon filled with gulls migrating from all over Cole's River. It was a cheerful noise associated with salt water life.

Without any discussion, I became the operator of the outboard..not that I minded..I preferred it that way. This left Charlie free to handle the essential task of baiting the hooks.

The word "bait" brings to my mind a part of the story that cannot be overlooked...if one was to understand the true and unusual character of "Bob Deane..the fisherman."

"Bait" is such an important part of fishing, one might think that Charlie would have some unusual way of procuring this essential commodity in a special way...which indeed he did.

First of all, the bait had to be obtained the day before the fishing event given the early morning starting time. He usually asked me to come along and I would drive him over to Shorty's Bait Shop on the Lee's River. Most of the fishermen would go into the store and help themselves to a dozen or two of red worms which were pre-packaged in the refrigerator and pay the price of sixty cents a dozen on the way out. This was not Charlie's style. He and Shorty had made an agreement... a long time ago, that in order to get the just right worms, Shorty gave Charlie access to his big, black red worm storage box in the back room. Charlie carried his own worm container which was a well used bruised and dented black lunch box; the kind with a domed top, a collapsible handle with two latches on the side. Opening his lunch box, he would reach into the storage box and take a handful of sea weed. With this, he would cover the bottom of the lunch box with a thin layer of the sea weed..then he would carefully select three of what he considered to be the biggest and to him, the most worthy worms of all and spread them length wise over the sea weed. More sea weed and three more worms. Twice more sea weed and six more worms. Then for good measure, more sea weed and three more worms. This totaled to fifteen worms. As we were getting ready to leave, Charlie would say, "Got fifteen worms, Shorty." To the uninitiated, one would expect Shorty to say, "That will be seventy-five cents." But not so. Shorty would reply "Sixty cents aught to do it." And with that, the buying of worms ritual was concluded. So off we would go with three extra worms, legally contracted for and carefully packed away. However, before we reached the car, all the worms would end up collectively in a ball and the careful packaging performance was just a futile exercise in the temporary, organization of the worms.

As our Johnson outboard propelled us through the water at a purring five knots, we were heading east towards the tip of land known as Gardner's Neck. The sun is half high and the skyline of the City of Fall River is still slightly covered with a thin layer of fog. I can clearly make out the outline of the BMC Durfee High School and several spires of the large Catholic Churches on the south end of the city. But there is every indication of a beautiful day ahead. I point the Duchess towards "No Name Rock" which is an oxymoron.. since the protruding rock, just a few yards off shore, has a name. It permits the tide to alter the size and shape of that part above water throughout the day... as it has done for a millennium. It is like a familiar friend.

"Harry is getting his boat ready," Charlie mutters. I look back towards the Touisset shoreline and can make out two figures loading fishing gear into a boat. It was Harry Dodsworth and Mr. Ferguson. Charlie considered these two to be his fishing antagonists (but otherwise his closest friends.) The fishing game, which was about to be played out on this day, had been going on for years. Although, I had no reason to be part of the game, I was required to be a player in order that the role played by Charlie could be carried out.

There was no animosity between the three fishing individuals. And, as I indicated, they were the best of friends..they had lived close by each other for many years and their paths would cross frequently on this day, the 4thof July. But fishing was another matter. For whatever reason, it took on a semblance of a cat and mouse game. The object was to catch striped sea bass as frequently and as often as one could ..but not letting the fishermen in the other boat know that fish were being caught..and particularly to hide the spot where the catch was made.

A few minutes later, Harry came abreast of us and slowed to remark what a nice day it was and to wish us fishing success. Mr. Ferguson said something similar and off they sped. (Harry owned a Sears and Roebuck outlet in Fall River and he had a relatively expensive rowboat and bigger outboard.)

"Like hell they wish us luck," Charlie says as he waves and smiles at their departure. "He's got to go all the way to Shorty's to get bait, so that gives us a least thirty-five minutes of peace and quiet!"

Our next landmark(although it was in the water) was the old wooden shipwreck that had been partially submerged off the tip of Gardner's Neck since the turn of the century. Only a few planks and ribs are visible, but the wreck provides a fishing purpose. It is here that we start fishing for the "anadromous food called morone saxatillis of the Percicthyides family" ..better known as the striped sea bass. I'll never forget the first time Charlie suggested we go fishing and he used the above tongue-tying description. I was to hear it again on each fishing expedition and he was known to say it in mixed company just to watch for people's confused reaction. I should add here that as "down home" as I may describe Charlie, he was a remarkable and very intelligent man. He was particularly well read and was able to quote Shakespear or some well known complicated poem without hesitation. (Omar Khayam was a favorite.) This particular poem was usually recited if our lines got snarled. He would start muttering something about "Oh! What a tangled web we weave..."

As we approached the wreck, I slowed the engine to a trolling speed. If it was not quite right, he would say, "Nudge it!" Speed for catching sea bass was critical he claimed and that speed could be determined only by him. Meanwhile, he was busily baiting the hooks which was an art in itself. I watched him do it a hundred times but somehow the worm ended up in what resembled a musical clef..a design I was never able to duplicate. Just forward of the worm was a spinning silver lure. The combination he claimed was irresistible to stripers.

"Gotta feeling we're going to have a big day," he said passing the fishing pole to me. Now we had both lines in the water..the speed was correct ..so it was time for a warm Old Tap Ale. One of the permanent fixtures to his rope line belt was a dangling can opener. (This was long before today's flip top type can and certainly a can opener was as essential on a fishing trip.. just as essential, as having a fishing pole.) Old Tap Ale was brewed in Fall River and cost sixty cents a six pack. Charlie had made an allowance that we would consume a six pack on this trip. Although it was warm to the taste, it was perfect for the moment...and there would be two similar moments ahead..although one can would be saved for the trip home.

Just about the time I set the brake on my reel, I had a strike. It was a real good tug. "Got one," I said. "Get the net ready!"

"Can't," Charlie replied. "I got one, too!"

The next few minutes were anxious ones but made easier because Harry had not yet returned. We were free to boat the fish and move around without being surreptitious. I put my legs over the reel to hold the pole and grabbed the net to help Charlie bring in the fish.. Like everything else, the fishing net was special. Instead of the usual three foot handle, Charlie had reduced it to eight inches. This allowed for the net to go into the water to capture a fish without the lengthy handle sticking up and being waved around in the air. This would have been a dead give away, if anyone was watching, that we were hauling in a fish.....

The fish was good size..about four pounds..and like all the stripers, it had provided Charlie with some exciting fishing fun. With his fish in the boat, I reeled my catch in and it was just about the same size. Charlie then took a line which had a four inch piece of copper on the end. He pushed the copper part through the gills and having snared each fish, he dropped them back into the water and secured the line.

"Turn around," he said. "We got the spot!"

Sure enough, on the next pass, we caught two more. Once on the string, it was time for another Old Tap Ale. I noticed that Charlie was puffing a little, (he was in his mid fifties) and I was glad that we had a reprieve for a few minutes.

The next pass was uneventful and at the same time Harry showed up.

"Catch anything?" he hollered.

"Nothing around here today, " Charlie lied. "Why don't you go back around the corner in front of the Roundville's house?"

"Guess we will," said Harry.

Now you would think that after all these years of lying to each other, that Harry would have known we had found the right place. But, he turned around and began trolling away from us.

A few minutes later, just near the wreck, I hooked another one. "Boy," I exclaimed softly, "This is a big one!"

"Don't let them see," Charlie whispered. I looked over my shoulder and Harry was still insight. Let the game begin!

My fishing pole was made for trolling. Strong and not very long. Even so the fish I have is causing the pole to bend.

"Lower your pole in the water," Charlie says, "And head for the shore." This turns the boat away from Harry and allows me to pull the striper in somewhat nonchalantly.

"What a beauty!" Charlie says as he pulls a six pounder into the boat. "That's worth a drink!" So much for the drink being saved for going home.

We have now over twenty pounds of fish and it's not yet eight-thirty..

"Got enough for now," Charlie says. "Follow Harry."

With the five fish inside the boat, I kick the engine up a bit and head for the Roundsville house, knowing full well what is going to happen.

"Anything over here?" Charlie says as we pull closer to Harry.

"Not yet,"Harry replies.

"We got a couple after you left," Charlie says, not batting an eye. He then reaches down and holds up the five stripers. "Don't give up," he adds and then motions for me to head for home. "Wish we another six pack," he says waving at his friends. Harry's mouth was still open as he tipped his hat; always a gentleman. Mr. Ferguson pays no attention. The game, for this day, was over.

As the Duchess made her way home, Charlie performed one more of his fishing rituals. Each ale can was punctured on the bottom side and thrown overboard. He was convinced that each can would provide some new home for a sea urchin and, therefore, it was a sensible, environmental thing to do. My own thought was that he was doing away with the early morning alcoholic evidence.

I could see Mrs, Deane kneeling on the divan and looking out the large bay window as we returned. The Deane's house was only a few yards above the sea wall but despite the close proximity to the river, it had survived three major hurricanes. The water had invaded the downstairs and there were crayon marks on one side of the fireplace to show how high the water had been. Although the house had to be evacuated, it had nevertheless not moved from the foundation. This could not be said for all the waterfront homes. Some had washed away down the river during the hurricane tidal wave; only to be smashed to pieces when they came up against the railroad abutment that crossed the river.

As the Duchess nudged up to the beach, Mrs. Deane, whose nick name was Mabs, (short for Mabel) was standing on the sea wall. Charlie held up the string of fish and she began to clap her hands. I put the motor away but not before making sure the gas tank was full for the next trip. When I returned to the front yard, Charlie was already filleting the fish. He throws a fish head over his shoulder and the gulls dive noisily after it. A skirmish takes place until one flies away with the prize. This continues until all the fish are cleaned.

Charlie needs a nap and Mabs asks me to dig some quahogs (also spelled quahaugs) for hors d'oeuvres that evening. Quahogs are my domain. With the tide half high, I wade out to Quahog Rock, about twenty feet off shore and with my bare feet, dig down into the sand until I feel the hard shell. Bending over and removing the hard shell from the sand, I stow the quahogs in my bathing suit until I can carry no more.

Charlie is up at ten-thirty and dressed for event number two; the clambake. He is resplendent in his cotton, white twill trousers made quite stiff with heavy starch. His belt is a colorful combination of braided sailboats with a highly shined brass buckle. He is wearing a long sleeved white button down shirt ( also heavily starched). The shirt, of course, from L.L. Bean and one of his many L.L. Bean trade marks. His moustache is waxed and carefully twisted at each end. Lastly, a red polka dot tie which he has tied himself.. He wears polished white "bucks" and a nattily black brimmed yachting cap with the letters CRYC on the front. The transformation from the unique fishing outfit is amazing. He is ready to participate as an elder and charter member in the Coles River Yacht Club, 4th of July, clambake.

A clambake is uniquely New England...and those who take part are equally unique. A "clambake" is a "happening." There are procedures and techniques that go back to the Pilgrims and although not recorded in a recipe fashion, the tradition and customs have been passed down through the ages...and when these traditions are exercised by a group of "Yankees," it is an event, the outcome of which, is quite beyond description.

A clambake, although ecumenical, needs a leader. Touisset was blessed with one of the best. His name was Johnny Borden. He worked in a bank in Fall River and was the Swansea Volunteer Fire Chief. He was also a gifted "S" boat sailor and was well known around Narragansett Bay for his winning ways. A popular individual and liked by all.

I had lived in Touisset, on Sea View Avenue, in the late 30's and early 1940's. I was nine when I worked my first clambake and did the same job for two years..I gathered sea weed in burlap bags, the morning of the bake..early morning. Sea weed plays a key role in the bake and is a task that could be handled by kids around my age. Many bags of sea weed are needed but there were lots of kids to handle this task. When I was older, I became involved with collection of drift wood from the shoreline for the fire. There was always plenty of drift wood on the beaches and those having been in salt water were the best. Again, an early morning task, although some wood would had been collected earlier and was thrown in a pile near the clambake site. Johnny and his brother. Doug, started working on the bake, early, with some help from other family members. A relatively shallow hole was used for the fire and shoveled out so that the wood and rocks used for the bake were placed in the hole. The firewood was used to get the rocks white hot. When the wood had burned away, garden rakes were used to pull the white hot rocks into a pile and the bake was ready to begin. After the bake and when they were cooled down, the rocks would be placed on the other side of a stone wall, close by, to wait for the next year.

I can't detail what Charlie was doing as the bake was being assembled. He would join with Johnny and do whatever he could do to help the process along...especially to provide Johnny with ice cold beer since working near the fire was thirsty business. All those present needed cold beer. I also knew that he participated in the bake by helping to add the layers of clams, corn, fish fillets, white potatoes (not peeled), sweet potatoes, frankfurters, sausage, peeled onions and, of course, live lobsters. The damp sea weed separated the layer of food and several layers of canvas were added, each carefully and thoroughly watered down. It was said the Charlie was the best "water downer." When all this had been done, Johnny would place, on the top of the pile, a large whole onion also covered by canvas. When this onion was cooked to Johnny's satisfaction, the bake was done.

There wasn't much to do while the bake baked. However, cold beer and stories of years gone by were retold. Harry and Mr. Ferguson were there along with the other senior citizen men of Touisset. This was their revery time and was one of the highlights of the day for them. Although no new stories were added, over the years, the hurricanes became fiercer and the snows of winter, deeper and ice forming on the river, more extensive. As the stories wore down, so did the amount of beer left in the beer chest.

Around twelve thirty or so the pavilion and porch of the yacht club were filled with the locals..Long tables, covered with newspaper were carefully lined up. The seats were empty because, by now, everyone was involved in various forms of preparation for the main event. Few people would be left to stand around as the preparation jobs were plentiful. The wives, in particular, were busy in the kitchen making quahog chowder and lemonade.

When the onion was done and the canvas removed, the youngsters between the ages of twelve and eighteen lined up with aluminum trays to distribute the spoils. The boys all wore white ducks and white short sleeve shirts. The girls wore white aprons over their colorful dresses. There was a beehive of activity until everyone had been fed..then it was an all hands clean up time. With happy smiles and full tummies, event number two on this 4th of July was over!

Event number three had no particular starting time..nor were there any "on lookers." It was the "Horrible's Parade!" There were no observers of the parade because everyone living in Touisset was a participant. No one knows when the "Horribile's Parade" first started because it was years ago when Touisset was a bristling sea port community, circa 1830.. Also, there was at that time a manufacturing plant for making fertilizer from the abundance of fish called "menhadden." Gradually, the supply of menhadden was depleted and Touisset became a summer resort area, although several families lived there year round.

Charlie played a prominent role in the parade. He was one of the four "Keystone Cops" that led the parade down and back on Sea View Avenue. The other three cops were Harry, Mr. Ferguson and Mr. McCann. Their dress was identical and consisted of a gray domed hat with a small bill in front and a larger one extending down the back. Their coat, also gray, had two rows of brass buttons, six brass buttons on each sleeves and the length of the coat extended down below the waist. They wore a black leather belt with a large brass buckle. The gray trousers had a black stipe down the sides and they wore highly polished black shoes. White gloves completed the uniform. The accouterments consisted of a billy club, with lanyard, and a silver whistle.

It was about four thirty when the parade began. It could not start until Johnny Borden arrived with the fire truck from the South Swansea fire house. All the children living in Touisset participated with their tricycles and bicycles; each one decorated with crepe paper, usually red, white and blue. There were five or six boats decorated and pulled on trailers. Each boat was occupied with the family that owned it and they were dressed in various costumes; a pirate's costume being one of the more popular ones. As for Joy and me, we had a red Flexible Flyer wagon which I pulled and she sat in it dressed as a baby with a pink bonnet and holding a babies bottle and a rattle.. Boy Scout Troop Number One from Swansea showed up with their drum and bugle corps and behind them marched cub scouts and girl scouts. Then, scattered throughout the length of the parade was a plethora of non decrypt costumes and those left over from Halloween.

The parade started when Johnny blew the siren on the fire truck. This was followed by an indescribable din and sounds that depended on everyone making as much noise as possible.

As the parade turned around and headed back up the Avenue, the participants would drop out as they passed their houses..so at the end of the parade, few were left marching. However, the Keystone Cops, with their whistles stayed to the end. So much for event number three on this 4th of July. There was only one left.

Around six-thirty, it was time for a spirited croquet game. This was scheduled every year. There were five player in the game, a number determined by the number of croquet mallets available. No one knew what happened to the missing one but there had never been an attempt to replace it. The players were Charlie, Joy's brother, Bobby, Page Kerns, the person who gave Charlie his " Princeton shirt," Harry Dodsworth and me.

The croquet court was laid out behind the Deane's house and the location of the wickets were secretly placed in the ground by Charlie, the night before. Harry always objected to this arrangement saying that it gave Charlie an advantage over the others. No one else felt that way, but the 4th of July would not be complete unless Harry made his annual objection.

To start the game, all five of the croquet balls were line up and each player hit the ball towards the base of the birdbath in the middle of the yard. The order of start was based on the final position of the struck ball. The one closest to the birdbath base was first.

Beer coolers were placed at each end of the court and all the player had to do was signal with his finger and a bottle of beer was delivered.

The game of croquet allows for one player to hit his ball and strike another player's ball. The one whose ball hit the other player's ball was then allowed to place his ball next to the struck ball. By putting his foot on his own ball and striking it with his mallet, the other ball would fly off in the direction it was aimed. It is necessary to explain this feature as the game underway principally was reduced to this one maneuver. It was only a side issue that one should attempt to go through the wickets. The real issue was whether or not one could hit a player's ball over the sea wall. When this was done, loud cheers were heard from the gallery and the occasion called for another beer. No game was ever finished and the melee was terminated by darkness.

The group reassembled on the large porch in the front of the Deane's house overlooking the river. Mrs. Deane would serve some stuffed quahogs, quahog pie and quahog fritters...which were conveniently washed down by some more beer. A bowl of chowder was available. Around nine o'clock the fire works would start in Somerset and Fall River and the "eehs" and "oohs" could be heard as the sky was filled with the brilliant display reserved for the 4th of July.

And so, as this story started, there came the time when Charlie declared that the summer was over! That this day would be duplicated in its entirety on Labor Day was inconsequential. There was only one 4th of July, culminating in the end of summer, as far as Charlie was concerned..

There is an appropriate Post Script to this story:

When I returned home from my Second Class cruise as a Midshipman, in the summer of 1952, I decided to call and ask Joy for a date. I remembered Joy from the time when I lived in Touisset and I was in grammar school. She wore pig tails and had a freckled face. Later, I remember her singing in the junior choir at Christ Church. I was a junior in high school and she was in the eighth grade. So, it was a calculated risk for both of us as to what we might expect. For anyone who has ever met Joy, you can imagine what a very pleasant surprise it was for me to see this lovely, vivacious young lady..now a freshman in college. We spent the date dancing the night away in a local night club known as the White Rail. When I said goodnight to her on her doorstep, I kissed her on her forehead, told her what a great time I had, and drove the fifty miles back to Gardner, the city where my family had moved during my senior year of high school.

I thought about her for the better part of the next day and decided to return to Touisset which I did by thumbing my way there. I called her and let her know I was coming, but little did either of us expect that I would spend the next thirty days living in her house. As the end of August was getting near and my summer leave from the Naval Academy was about over, I found myself in love with her and I thought she felt the same way. So, I decided to ask her father for "her hand in marriage." I shall never forget his answer:

"Charlie, you have spent the last thirty days living in my house..I have fed you three meals a day..You have had unlimited use of my automobile..and my taxes are paying your way through school...Now you want my only daughter..."

And indeed I did!