Tradition. It’s what keeps things going. Take holidays, for example. In fact, take the Fourth of July, which will be upon us soon.
Not only does it offer more diversions than Dave and Buster’s, but you get to renew acquaintances with friends and/or family, as well as celebrate our country’s beginnings.
For us it has always been the cookout thing with clam cakes and chowder and a few beers thrown in just for good measure.
That goes as far back as I can remember to my Uncle Linc’s, where the uncles used to spend the day trying to outdo each other with horseshoes.
There would be the usual sparring before we ate about who would play on whose team, who had improved, who was going to beat whom and, of course, who had beaten whom in the past on that very same day with the last throw leaner or ringer or what have you.
Meanwhile we kids gorged ourselves on clam cakes and watermelon (and the parentally required bowl of chowder). Funny, how as kids it seemed like the least favorite thing to eat, but as a grown-up (did I say “grown-up”?), that taste has changed.
Admittedly, I still steal the first clam cakes out of the bowl as they are plucked from the cooker just hot enough to burn your fingers and make you suck in air as you eat them. There is just something about fresh, hot clam cakes made right.
Once the eating was over, the games would begin. It was always interesting for a while to watch as my uncles vied for the annual title, washing down the day by slowly emptying the ice tub filled with dark bottles of what I would later discover was a quite refreshing substance at times, especially on a hot July 4th day.
Eventually, however, we would tire of watching and participate in the next best part of being at my uncle’s. For some reason, every car and truck he ever owned wound up permanently parked on his property somewhere.
This included Model A cars, old panel trucks and various pieces of farm equipment which were perfect for use as imaginary space vehicles, race cars or whatever we could come up with at the time.
The funny thing is, occasionally we would discover one which would actually still operate to some degree. That discovery was made by my older brother and my cousin, naturally, as they were practicing the Indy 500 as the first tandem drivers to enter the annual race.
I had chosen to go another route as the local delivery man in one of my uncle’s old panel trucks, a 1936 Ford, as I recall.
I flipped levers, pushed on pedals and stared out over the hood looking for the right addresses, not a great deal different from what I had seen my grandfather do as he delivered eggs and cut flowers as part of his route.
A farmer who grew acres of gladiolus, chrysanthemums, lilies and other colorful flowers, as well as raising chickens (yes, we had chicken every Sunday), I would ride shotgun with him as he followed his usual pattern through Olneyville and Providence on any given Saturday.
Gramps, I figured, would be proud of me as I wound my way through the same route, waving to satisfied customers, to my brother and cousin as they rode by.
It took a second, but it occurred to me that this was no figment of my imagination. I looked out the window and there flying down the hill behind me was one of my uncle’s parked cars, which apparently wasn’t quite ready for a permanent spot.
And waving out the window was my brother’s hand as it rolled full tilt towards a tree, eventually stopping there with a loud bang.
After a few moments, my brother and cousin exited slowly, their faces slightly ashen. Then, they both burst into laughter. Apparently, the first driving lesson was over, along with the learning of the first rule of driving. Make sure you can reach the brake pedal if you are going to drive.
We parlayed about how to break the news to my uncle, eventually deciding that the truth was probably the best way to go. Before we could say anything though, one uncle noticed the car now “parked” at the bottom of the incline.
“Hey, Linc,” he yelled. “Did you forget to put the brake on again?”
“Oh, probably,” he replied. “Damn thing slips out of gear on its own every once in a while. At least it didn’t go too far.”
And the game of horseshoes, temporarily interrupted, began in earnest once again.
We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and headed for the hay mow in the barn.
In the afternoon we would head to the Ancient and Horribles Parade en masse, returning to the annual critique and praise of pretty much everyone and everything we had witnessed that day.
Then there would be more watermelon and the chowder would get heated up once more for one more pass at the food, as well as the makeshift fireworks display which my uncle always provided.
Checkers and other board games would follow on my uncle’s living room floor as the adults caught up on Aunt Martha, Uncle Ted, and various cousins’ lives and experiences, until all we eventually fell asleep.
Sometime in the night there would be the half asleep ride home in the backseat, then into bed. Another July 4th under our belts.
We still try to keep that tradition alive with the clam cakes and chowder starting around noon, only it’s wiffle ball these days, a few beers to wash down the afternoon, then a ride to the parade to see what the Ancient and Horribles will provide for entertainment.
The annual review will follow, along with some more chowder and clam cakes and watermelon as the day winds down.
That’s the thing about tradition. Even though it’s the same every year, it still gives you something to look forward to and it keeps you going.
The above is an excerpt from the book Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Sanity… by Dick Martin, a Glocester resident, former Burrillville High School teacher and contributor for NRI NOW.
Martin can be contacted at [email protected].
