Week 3 started with an 8:30 a.m. Monday treatment
followed by more rest at the hotel as I tried to get over my nagging
little cold and sore throat.
For many years, for a week in the summer, John and Carol have rented a place up at Newfound Lake in New Hampshire, close to the lakes and mountains. With an 8:30 treatment Tuesday and an 11:30 one Wednesday, I figured Tuesday would be a good day to take the 2-hour drive up for a visit with them and my nephew Daniel, who was also spending the week at the cabin.
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The relatively easy drive up I-93 got me to their
cabin on a
hill got in the early afternoon. After
lunch, we took a short drive to Paradise Point Wildlife Sanctuary. We took a hike of about 2 miles that
meandered through the woods and along the lake.
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Me and Daniel at Newfound Lake
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A chipmunk was about the
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Carol, John, me and Daniel at Newfound Lake |
After the hike, we went for a little swim in the
lake, then
returned to the cabin where John cooked up some nice steaks for dinner. With daylight slipping away, I got back on
the road and headed south, back to the city.
New Hampshire is another state, like New Jersey,
that still
accepts cash at some of its toll booths.
On the way up, I happily forked over my
dollar for the single I-93
toll. However, on the way back, the toll
booth cash lane was closed so I had no choice but to just drive through
without
paying. I expected the New Hampshire
State Police to have set up a road block to stop me and collect that $1
I owed
them, but I escaped undetected—at least so far.
Wednesday was again the day for my “homework”
questionnaire
and check-in with the radiation oncologist on duty.
I reported the now-usual issues: a few hot
flashes from the hormone treatment and having to pee quite a bit, but
really
nothing else. I wasn’t fatigued and, in
fact, was still walking a couple miles every day going to and from my
appointments. I wasn’t having diarrhea,
either. I did get a small rash on my
abdomen,
but a little Aquaphor cream took care of that.
I was still “pissing like a squirrel” but that verbiage was not
among
the questions.
Although the bad side effects had not kicked in
yet, I expected them to soon. After my treatment, I had my check-in
meeting and Dr. Nguyen pointed out that I was now half way through my
treatments. I actually hadn't realized I was that far along but,
knowing that was somewhat encouraging.
Since I was feeling good, I decided to keep doing
stuff. As it turned out, I never did
experience the expected bad effects. I
really felt lucky in that regard.
There were two really New England-only things I
hoped to do on this trip: go candlepin bowling and play in a 45s
tournament. I found lots of candlepin bowling allies still in existence
around Massachusetts, but 45s tournaments were another matter.
I don't believe I have ever found anyone not from the Merrimack Valley who had ever heard of 45s. In the Lawrence/Methuen area, however, 45s was pretty much the only game played at bars, clubs, golf courses and, of course, family gatherings. You could find 45s tournaments almost every day of the week and my card buddies and I were regulars at places like the Knights of Columbus in Salem, New Hampshire, and someplace in Haverhill (maybe an Elks or other "lodge"). On Saturday afternoons, there was a tournament at the British Club in Lawrence where you could bring your own partner. Despite the rumors that familiar partners led to rampant cheating, my best friend Jack and I finished in the money at least once there (and we played honest cards).
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This would be a perfect 45s hand if spades were trump |
These charts show what beats what in 45s |
When looking online for current 45s tournaments, however, I initially could find references to only one. It took place Wednesdays at the Crescent Yacht Club in Haverhill. I actually called the place and believe I reached a bartender who didn't know a whole lot about the tournaments. They did ask someone who told them the tournaments, indeed, were played on Wednesdays at 6 p.m., were open to the public, and cost $10. Great, I thought: I've found a 45s tournament I can play in.
My love of candlepin bowling dates back to high
school when, on days when I had to wait for a ride home from Central
Catholic (probably after chess club or something), I sometimes walked
down Hampshire Street to the Lawrence Recreation Center. "The Rec" was
what everyone called it, probably implying a double-entendre about the
condition of the place.
A friend told me that the Rec had been owned by a couple who underwent an ugly divorce. The husband got control of the facility and, knowing his ex-wife's love of candlepin bowling, closed the place so she would have nowhere to bowl in Lawrence. For now ignoring the questions that story raises (like why the husband didn't realize his ex could just go bowl in Haverhill), the fact was the Rec had long since closed for good.
I continued candlepin bowling in my post-high school years with family and friends. In Florida, however, as is the case in probably 48 or so other states, there is no candlepin bowling. On a trip to Rhode Island a couple years ago, I did manage to drag John and Carol to a candlepin bowling outing in Plymouth, Mass. We had a nice time rolling the little balls and visiting Plymouth Rock and other sites, but my bowling scores were horrible. On this trip, I was determined to show some improvement. With that motivation, I planned a trip to Haverhill where I could bowl a few strings at Academy Lanes, from which it looked like a short drive to the Crescent Yacht Club for that 45s tournament.
I had a mental list of other places I might like
to visit,
or at least drive by, in the Haverhill area between bowling and the 45s
tournament. After my 11:30 treatment and
follow-up with
Dr. Nguyen, I finally got on the road around 2 p.m.
I figured I would get into Haverhill mid-afternoon
and have plenty of time for my “tour.”
Somehow, I didn’t remember the miserable traffic I’d encountered
heading
north out of the city just a week ago and, not surprisingly, hit that
traffic
again and didn’t get to Haverhill until after 4.
With less time than I anticipated having before
the 45s
tournament, I decided bowling was my highest “priority” activity so I
headed directly
to Academy Lanes. I bowled 3 quick,
absolutely miserable strings of candlepin.
I found the hook I had developed from ten-pin bowling, to the
extent I
bowled at all, did not translate well to candlepins.
Many shots veered far left of the target and
attempts to correct that failed or resulted in misses on the other side. Apparently, bowling is not like riding a bike.
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After the bowling, I sought out the Crescent Yacht
Club and
that 45s tournament. Surely, this would
go better than the bowling did. It was a
little tricky to find (seems everything is tricky to find for me these
days)
but eventually I found it right on the Merrimack River. Probably
smart to locate a boat club on the
water.
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View of the Crescent Yacht Club,
as seen in Sea Magazine
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It felt like finding a pot of
gold at the end of a
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So I parked and headed up to what appeared to be
the correct
entrance. This being a private club, I
had to ring the doorbell to enter and, somewhat surprisingly, they
buzzed me
right in. When I asked the bartender
about the 45s tournament, she directed me to an older woman (I guess
older,
these days, means even older than me) at a table in the back. When I walked up and told her I was there for
45s, she informed me that the game was full but that I could get on the
“standby list.” When I asked what that
was, she told me I would be on the list for next week’s game. She also said tonight’s tournament had been
sold out since Sunday, a fact that would have been useful for the
bartender to
have told me when I called earlier in the week.
Knowing that asking why the tournament was limited in size when
it’s so
popular (hadn’t they ever heard the term “the more the merrier”) would
be
pointless, I sadly retreated to the parking lot. No
45s for me tonight.
Now with unexpected time on my hands, I did the thing now on top of my “list:” visit the grave of Uncle Clarkie, Auntie Ann and my godmother Barbara. This particular cemetery, St. Patrick’s, had a helpful, searchable online map of where everyone was buried. Despite that, once locating the cemetery, it took a couple passes through to find the grave. It looked very different than it did on that cold, snowy February day of Barbara’s funeral 5 months earlier.
After the cemetery, I decided to continue my visits to local golf courses I had played, starting with the nearby Garrison Par 3 Golf Course. I believe my brother John was the one who had first taken me to play the little pitch-and-putt course when I was in my teens, or maybe it was someone else. What I do remember was what a thrill it was to play “real” golf, even though most of the holes were only 100 yards long or less. Being such a short course, it attracted many “golfers” of marginal skills, like my teenage self. I even once saw a guy playing the course on crutches.
I continued playing at Garrison for years and even brought a date there once. She complained the course was too short and, as it turned out, it was the only time I went out with her. I guess bringing a golf date there was a bad idea.
Many years before I played the actual Garrison course, I had
often played the co-located miniature golf course with my parents. While the crowded parking lot implied the
par-3 course was more popular than ever, the mini-golf was long gone. Where its windmill and loop-the-loop once
stood was a likely more lucrative driving range.
A short ways from Garrison was another Haverhill
course I
had played years ago, Crystal Springs—now called Crystal Lakes. While I only played Crystal a handful of
times, I was pretty familiar with the course.
It was, basically, on the same road as my home course,
Merrimack, and just
a couple miles away.
Throughout the 80s (and probably before and after
that), the
local newspaper, The Lawrence Eagle Tribune, ran the Rogers golf
tournament. Amateur golfers from the
area could qualify for the tournament at their local clubs and the
qualifiers
would compete at four local courses including Crystal Springs. I tried to qualify a couple times for the
tournament, once failing miserably and the next time missing out by
about 3
shots or so.
In addition to the individual competition, there was a
concurrent team event where best scores of the qualifiers from each local course
were added together. Every year, the
owners of Merrimack and their archrival Crystal Springs would get together and
make a substantial bet on whose team would have a better total score at the
Rogers. Members of each club were able to buy into the
bet for however much they wanted. Most
years, I made a bit of a cash “investment” in our local club.
Crystal Springs was a better and more “upscale” course than
ours and, generally, attracted better players.
However, we thought, every year would be the year we had the team to
beat our nemesis. We never beat
Crystal’s team in all he years I was there.
There were no movie-style underdog victories for us.
I thought about all this as I drove into the
Crystal parking
lot and found the course and the clubhouse all looked even nicer than I
remembered it. I wondered if the Rogers
tournament still existed and if Merrimack ever beat Crystal.
Feeling I was on a little roll visiting golf
courses I
played in my youth, I circled back through the center of Haverhill to
the
Bradford area to seek out Bradford Country Club. I
had been introduced to the Bradford course
by my Uncle Clarkie. He and I played
quite a bit together when we were both starting to take the game
seriously, me
in my late teens and he a retiree.
When I was playing Bradford with Uncle Clarkie
back in the
80s, it was a pretty shabby-looking 9-hole course with a lot of hills,
blind
shots and a few ball-swallowing ponds and swamps. Some
holes had metal “gongs” that you would
sound after finishing a hole so that the players behind you knew it was
safe to
play without risking beaning someone with a golf ball.
It was a pretty good place for inexperienced
golfers because it got little play, meaning you wouldn’t be pissing a
whole lot
of people off when duffing it around.
After playing Bradford with Uncle Clarkie, it
became my
primary golf venue. The empty holes made
it a good place to practice on my own. Many
times, on a Saturday afternoon as I paid my greens fees, the golf
pro/guy-who
ran-the-course told me I had the course to myself.
At some point I discovered the pro was a
pretty proficient gambler who often sneaked away to Seabrook Dog Track
for the 1
p.m. matinee. That meant those of us who
showed up to play on those afternoons got a free golf day.
On this day, as I drove on the road along what
used to be
the first fairway, I remembered the course had been completely
renovated and
was no longer the dilapidated little course where I hacked around. It now had a legitimate clubhouse, around the
corner and up a hill from where the old shack I remembered had been
located. They had added another 9 holes
and redesigned the original 9 I had played.
When I saw the new course, I then remembered I had actually
played 9
holes at the renovated version once with Uncle Pete.
Bradford CC was now a legitimate course--no
more free golf days for sure.
The themes that emerged as I wandered around the Merrimack
Valley appeared to have become: visiting graves of deceased relatives, driving
by schools I had attended, seeing golf courses I had played and seeing what
became of former places of employment.
Regarding the latter, in my travels through Haverhill, I wound up
passing by two more former Arlington Trust banks where I had worked in the
1980s. I think the bank had around 20
branches and I probably worked at three-quarters of them at one time or another,
sometimes just as a fill-in for a day when a branch was short of tellers. I remembered actually waiting on my Auntie
Ann one day when I was filling in at the branch on Main Street, near their
house. That branch, as well as the other
Haverhill location, both appeared to still be banks of some sort.
With the day winding down, it was time to head
back towards
Boston. I decided to go back up Route 125
through North Andover as I had done last week.
As I drove by McAloon’s Liquor Store—another former place of
employment—I figured I could use a bottle of wine in my hotel room, so
I pulled
in. Surprisingly, the sign on the side
indicated the place was still owned by the Buco family, who were my
employers
from years back. When I asked inside,
the clerks told me Billy Buco, now in his 70s, still worked there on
Saturday
mornings. They said I should come in and
say ‘Hi’ but, in addition to the long drive back, I was a bit worried
that, in
the years since the departure of myself and the old crew, the owners
might have
realized how many ‘bonuses’ we had afforded ourselves in the form of
free
liquor at the end of a shift (and sometimes during) and demanded reimbursement.
Needing to get something for dinner, I remembered I had
passed the old China Blossom Chinese restaurant—still there on the hill after
all these years. Pretty much every place
I’ve gotten Chinese food from in Florida has been horrible. I wondered if maybe the banning of trans fats
or reduced use of MSG had made Chinese food bad over the years. In any case, I stopped in and picked up some
fried rice, steak on a stick and boneless spare ribs. All were gluten-free (or, at least, they said
they were) and all tasted great as I enjoyed them over the next few days. Yet another bad thing specific to Florida
confirmed: crappy Chinese food (but we still have great winter weather).
Just down the road from China Blossom, I found I
could not
resist stopping at the former Harrison’s Roast Beef, now dubbed
Patrick’s
Northshore Eatery. Years ago, they had
simply the best roast beef sandwiches. I
used to get them loaded, what they called COW-radish (cheese, onions,
works,
horseradish). I once made the mistake of
taking a woman there for lunch and ordering that messy, sloppy, but
delicious
sandwich. She never went out with me
again—no Harold Parker with her.
In any case, I found I could still get one of
those old,
messy sandwiches, now called the O.G. Harrison--or something like
that--and
costing $14. Still, after removing the
bread there was still enough beef for a couple knife and forked meals. Still delicious and a decent value after all
those years.
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Patrick's Northeast Eatery,
formerly Harrison's Roast Beef
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You can still get a Harrison's
original (O.G.) roast beef sandwich
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The rest of that week, I mainly chilled out and
ate all that
Chinese food and roast beef I had purchased during my visit to North
Andover.
Walking through Brookline was interesting. One thing I noticed was that, unlike in
Florida, drivers generally stop for pedestrians in crosswalks. Down there, local pedestrians generally know
to defer to vehicles, even if they technically have the right oy way. In one tragic incident a few years back, a
12-year old girl hit the walk signal button, waited for the flashing
yellow
lights to activate, then entered the crosswalk only to be run over and
killed
in a 35 mph zone. I never heard about
the driver being charged with a crime, but I remember her name was
withheld for
a long time. In another incident, a
young Black woman was run down and killed by a very drunk, but
well-connected
woman. Initially, there were no charges
filed but, I believe, eventually she plead guilty to a charge much less
than
vehicular homicide.
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A
12-year old girl was killed at an intersection like this is Satellite
Beach
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Florida Pedestrians have to hope
drivers stop at flashing signs like this
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But, up in Boston, cars generally yield to
pedestrians
although, one morning, right at the 4-way stop in front of Mass
General, a
driver sped through a stop sign, made a left and didn’t appear
interested in
stopping. He eventually did stop before
hitting me and I serenaded him with a few F-bombs—probably not smart on
my part
since he was likely 3 times bigger than me, but I figured I could
outrun
him. Also, in Florida, he likely would
have had a gun in the car but I assumed that was less likely in Boston. Still, only encountering one asshole driver
while doing hundreds of street crossings during my stay is probably not
that
bad.
The few other interactions I had with other
pedestrians were
positive experiences. There was an older
man who noticed my concert T-Shirt while we were waiting at a light for
the
walk signal. He made some suggestions
about radio stations to listen to. Our
little conversation ended when we came upon an overflowing trash can
and
exclaimed: “There’s money in here.” He
then started digging through the garbage, presumably for cans and
bottles which
he could return to collect the 5 or 10 cent deposit on each. So my first connection on my walk might have
been with a homeless, impoverished or maybe just thrifty gentleman.
On another walk back to my hotel I came upon two
women,
possibly a mother and daughter, who appeared to be lost and/or confused. They asked me if I could help with
directions. I explained that I didn’t
live there but would try to help. As it
turned out, they were looking for Pearl Street, which was my scenic
“shortcut”
between Brookline Ave and Boylston Street (I never checked if it really
saved
any time). I proudly said I knew where
that was and was able to direct them to the garage where they had
parked their
car. It always feels good to help
people, even in a small way, and being able to actually give directions
made me
feel like a local.
I did notice that, despite the relative safety of
the walk
signals and crosswalks, many locals chose to ignore all that and cross
wherever
and whenever they wanted. And the
bicyclists generally abided by absolutely no traffic laws whatsoever.
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Boston pederstrians often ignore traffiic signals and crosswalks |
And Boston bicyclists often
ignore all traffic laws
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On a walk to treatment one day, I lawfully stopped with a small group of people at the “Don’t Walk” signal at the busy intersection of Brookline Ave and Riverway. When the traffic appeared to clear, everyone starting J-walking across the street except me and a middle-aged (i.e. younger than me) woman. She commented that she didn’t like to risk crossing against the light or something like that. I responded that, since I came 1500 miles to get treated at Dana Farber (and, presumably, improve my health situation), I’d feel pretty stupid if I got hit by a car and injured trying to save 20 seconds or so. She then told me she was actually a nurse at Dana Farber. I thanked her for doing what she does, then we got the Walk signal and went our separate ways. It made me wonder how many of those folks walking up Brookline Ave were going to work helping save people’s lives every day.
Despite some initial glitches, after a few weeks at Homewood
Suites everything had become comfortable and familiar. The front desk staff had mostly gotten to know
me and was always friendly and helpful.
Since I had been taking full advantage of the
daily
breakfast buffet, I got to know the gentleman in charge of it, Jose, by
name. Every day, he was there, welcoming
guests to
breakfast, helping kids make waffles and making sure the serving bins
were
full. He might have been cooking, too, for
all I know. In talking to him I found
this was his second job, as he also worked for a social services
organization. I don’t think I would be
as cheerful as he was if I had to get up early to serve breakfast to
upscale hotel
guests, then go to a job dealing with folks with various troubles. The last week I was there, to thank him, I
gave him a card with a Dunkin’ Donuts gift certificate, thinking it was
a cute
idea to buy him breakfast for a change.
Afterwards, I realized what a stupid idea that was since he
likely got
all the coffee and breakfast he wanted for free. I
should have opted for a cash gift.
Another hotel feature I wound up taking advantage of was the indoor pool. Although it was tiny, I came up with a few ways to get a little workout there by swimming in circles around the pool perimeter, doing what I called “resistance swimming” by doing various strokes while locking my legs on the pool ladder (so I didn’t go anywhere) and repeatedly lifting myself out of the pool with my arms using the grab bars by the steps. Probably not the most intense exercise regime, but I felt good doing it when I had time.
Come Friday, it was time for another flight back to Florida
out of Providence. The original plan had
been for Pat to return to Boston with me, but she hadn’t recovered from the
first trip, so she was going to stay in Florida.
With over 7 hours between my treatment and my evening flight
and John and Carol still at Newfound Lake, I decided to take a little detour on
my leisurely drive south. My friend Jim was
planning to come and visit me near the end of my treatment and had expressed an
interest in possibly visiting a New England casino. My research told be the newish, high-end
Encore casino outside Boston was unappealing due to its very high minimum bets,
so I decided to check out the Bally’s Casino in northern Rhode Island. It was about an hour south of my hotel
(without traffic) and not that far out of my way.
The parking lot was packed on this drizzly Friday afternoon and
I had to park very far away. I walked through
the casino and found a real, full-blown, Vegas-style casino with table games with
reasonable minimum bets and slot machines everywhere. There was no apparent evidence of the dog
track which once had stood there. I didn’t
do any gambling but noted this would be an option if Jim wanted to check out a
casino.
My nephew Andrew was the only one home when I got to brother’s
house. We went to an early dinner at
Legal Sea Foods in Cranston where I got my fix of fried clams with gluten-free
batter. I was thinking there were 5
fewer Kostrzewas than at our last dinner in Rhode Island. After dinner, he drove me to the
airport.
This flight was only about 30 minutes late, which seemed
like a victory after last time. Poor
Walt was stuck with late pickup duty again but, in order to avoid the
late-night traffic jam at the arriving flights area, my sister-in-law Terry
advised me to wait on the departure level.
With no flights leaving when I got in around 11 p.m., the departure area
was pretty empty--except for the other smart people who were being picked up
there—and we had a smooth pickup and ride home.
After another weekend of errands and spending time with Pat,
it was back to the Orlando airport Sunday night, courtesy of another ride from
Pat’s best friend Lynn. My hour late
flight to Providence made it 4-of-4 not-on-time flights for the trip, but did
give me time to take another trip to the airport Chipotle.
As I got off the plane in Rhode Island, I confidently
ordered a Lyft which promised to pick me up in 20 minutes. Not bad for 1 a.m. in Warwick, Rhode
Island. When I got to the pickup area in
about 15 minutes, my ride was still reported to be 20 minutes out. I messaged the driver and asked if there was
a problem. He said there was traffic. For the record, there is no traffic in
Warwick, Rhode Island at 1 a.m. Monday morning.
I sat and waited as every other person came, got their rides, and
left—including the airport and airline employees. I believe I was the last person at the
airport.
My driver finally arrived and, despite my struggling to open
his sticky mini-van door while carrying my luggage, offered no assistance. The drive to get my car at my brother’s featured
blaring Spanish music from the stereo and the driver asking me for directions. When we arrived, I let myself out and left
the door open. My driver received
neither a tip nor any stars. I did,
however, get a $5 credit when I complained to Lyft about him. I used the credit for my next ride, then
switched to Uber.
Happy to finally have picked up my car at my brother’s
house, I headed towards I-95 north.
After the last time when I was surprised to find several entrance ramps
closed, I had checked the Rhode Island Department of Transportation web site to
find there were no closures reported. As
I took my normal route and again saw the flashing sign warning of the closed
entrance ramp, I thought: “fool me twice, shame on RI DOT.”
This time, I exited before the closed ramp, but found myself
driving aimlessly through industrial parks and neighborhoods before finding
that elusive open entrance to I-95.
Again, I arrived at my hotel around 2:45 a.m. but at least this time my
treatment wasn’t until nearly noon, leaving me sufficient time to sleep.
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