Remembrance Of Things Past

August 31, 1999

Remembrance Of Things Past
(With apologies to Marcel Proust)

Marj sent me THE PERFECT STORM by Sebastian Junger. As I took the book out of the envelope, I fanned the pages, and, suddenly, on page 263, “Hough’s Neck” caught my attention. This is a curious juxtaposition of circumstances. In late August, I was thinking back 74 years. Late August always stirs these thoughts. Hough’s Neck is a protruding spit of land in Quincy Bay where my father was drowned. (August 25?)

Uncle John Granstrom, his brother Andrew Granstrom, and my father were on a fishing trip. They moored the motor boat off Hough’s Neck and were rowing the dory to shore to buy supplies. As Uncle John told the story, a sudden, violent squall arose and the dory capsized. He came up and held on to the dory. He never saw his brother or my father come up. My father was a strong man and could swim, so we never knew the precise circumstances.

We were staying at the Granstrom’s “cottage” at Wollaston Beach. Actually it was a substantial two-story house with three bedrooms. It only lacked a central heating system to be a year-round house.

Uncle John was brought back, either by the state police or the Coast Guard. That Sunday morning remains one of the unforgettable days of my life. When they brought the news, my mother started screaming, “Carl’s gone!!! Carl’s gone!!!” I walked out of the cottage and paced on the sparse grass patch, trying unsuccessfully to grasp what had happened. I was called back to the cottage and was told by my uncle and aunt, “You must now be the man of the family.”

My father’s body was not recovered for a week, being found in Hingham Bay. Uncle John told me, with a lack of sensitivity, that the casket must remain closed because crabs had eaten away at my father’s face and body. That image gave me bad dreams for some time. The service was at the funeral home of Christian Berrglund, a Swedish undertaker in Cambridge. When I leaned against my mother, one of the aunts pushed me by the shoulder and reminded me, “You are now the man of the family.”

Just into my teens – and expected to be a “man”. I was lamed emotionally- a mixture of guilt because I couldn’t be a man; resentment toward those who were putting me in that category; and feelings of inadequacy a deplorable package to be saddled with at that age. If there had been money and motivation for psychological counseling, maybe it could have all been worked out. But there wasn’t and the scars have never been completely healed to this day.

There was so much I never knew about my father. Did he come to this country just because he was a younger son and could not take over the family farm? Why did he never say a word, to my knowledge, about his service in the Swedish Army? Why was he never home to evening meals, coming in late, usually under the influence of alcohol? Did he prefer to stay away from his family (us, that is)?

But there are some good memories, too. He took me to baseball games at Fenway Park before I began 1st grade of school. My memories of that are vague, but he told me a few years later that at one game we attended, we saw Babe Ruth pitch a shutout for the Red Sox. Babe Ruth was a top-notch left-handed pitcher before his home-run prowess made him an everyday player and outfielder. I do remember one game in the early 1920s, when Ruth, then a Yankee, threw out a runner from third after a sacrifice fly. The throw from deep left field was perfect, on the line at the catcher’s knee – no bounce. I have never seen a better throw.

When I was about ten years old, my father took me with him a couple of times on Saturdays when he was not working his regular job. We went to Roxbury, to a dark, dank, small garage built into a rise of ground.

There, he and a couple of his friends would repair automobiles. Bottles of whiskey and beer were passed around frequently. Those were Prohibition years, but this seemed to make no difference to them (or most everybody else). Generally in the 1920s, anyone could get liquor without difficulty. The authorities were unable to cope with the widespread disregard of the Prohibition laws. Liquor was easily available.

I met my father’s best friend, Joe Dosti. Joe Dosti was a veteran of World War I in poor health because he had received a dose of mustard gas in the trench warfare in France.

Once when I was there they went to a bowling alley, taking me along. My father was a good bowler. At least twice at Thanksgiving he brought home a large turkey which he won in bowling competitions.

So I do have some treasured memories, although I have related almost all of them in this piece.

There were those who attempted to do some male “parenting” to me in the following years. The minister of the Everett Universalist Church, Ulysses Sumner Milburn, sent me on errands for him or the church. I ran the stereopticon with the glass slides when he gave his lectures on his travels in Europe. Dr. Milburn recruited Loren Paine, a young stockbroker, to do things for me. He took me to such events as a Bruins hockey game at Boston Garden; to a forum at Faneuil Hall; to a concert.

As I look back, I was not sufficiently responsive or appreciative of those efforts. I became something of a loner, understandably, between school and after-school jobs. I was really close only with my grandfather, John Wilson. I would be unrealistic to wish things had been different – because life was what it was, period. I have lived a long life. All in all, it has been a good one. I have been blessed with affectionate, generous sons and daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, many friends over the years, live an interesting retired life – music, theater, films, drama, church, bridge, conversations, reading, crossword puzzles, learning the computer. I have skilled physicians who keep me alive and functioning, and a particular caring friend. I identify with what Sean O’Casey, the Irish playwright wrote:

“I have found life an enjoyable, enchanting and sometimes terrifying experience and I’ve enjoyed it completely – a lament in one ear, perhaps, but always a song in the other.”