LOOKING AT THE HORSE...
1
LOOKING AT THE HORSE Bonackers, as is well known by anyone who has tried to give them something, are perhaps the world’s greatest lookers-in-the- mouths-of-gift-horses. There are people in East Hampton, for in stance, who are still suspicious about Guild Hall, a gift to the community nearly four decades ago, and there are reports that another local village quietly turned down the offer of a free library. East Hampton Town has been offered 200 acres of land at Montauk in exchange for the downzoning of an adjacent 130-acre parcel, from residence zone B to multiple dwelling. A t the risk of being accused of being Bonac about the whole thing, we think there are a few questions which should be answered before the Town accepts the gift, acknowledging of course that hearings would have to be held and the legal requirements met before it could be accepted. Questions: How does the possible human capacity of 130 acres zoned for multiple dwelling use compare with the possible capacity of the entire parcel, 330 acres, fully developed under existing zon ing? How much would a golf course cost; who would pay this cost; and who would operate the course? Would the building of this course mean the abandonment of existing State Park Commission plans for a public course at Hither Hills? Would Montauk’s water supply support the proposed 1,500-unit apartment complex? What assurance would there be that this apartment proposal would be completely followed through, rather than many more seasonal multiple dwelling units being built after the zoning change was made, a change which would allow this? What assurance would there be that a new shopping area would not develop if the zoning change were granted, under the "incidental service, such as restau rants, bars, retail shops, etc.” clause in the zoning ordinance? And, finally, why was this proposal introduced via the Town Board, rather than through the channel one would expect, the Planning Board ? There is a growing belief in these parts that cluster zoning may be the ultimate answer to our problems of conserving open space, providing water, and handling sewage problems. It may well be that the latest Montauk proposal fits in logically with this approach. But the public deserves an answer to these questions; Bonac must be allowed to look the horse in the mouth before the gift is accepted. MEMORIAL DAY, 1967 Man, while he can often guess with some accuracy what is to come, cannot really see into the future. This is one of nature’s blessings. Our “25 Years Ago” column this week reports the solemnity with which East Hampton observed Memorial Day, 1942. Consider how we would have felt that spring had we been able to look 25 years ahead, and find the United States mired in another war, one apparently without end, except perhaps in nuclear holo caust. What would have the people of the world done if, at the end of May, 1942, they could have seen what was in store for them, read the casualty lists, heard the coming rumble of atomic bombs? They would have gone on to act as they did over the next two and a half decades, we suppose, but what a heavy burden of foreknowl edge they would have carried! East Hampton, like the rest of the United States, has been comparatively fortunate. Our losses in the three wars since 1942, while heartbreaking to families and friends, have been light in comparison with many other nations, allied and enemy. When we honor our dead next Tuesday, we should resolve to make sure that they did not die in vain. They fought for the United States, for an idea, an ideal. W e owe it to them to maintain, inside and outside of our borders, that ideal. TOWN POND'S MUSKRATS Several years ago, the good matrons of the East Hampton Ladies’ Village Improvement Society, exasperated after a decades- long battle with the muskrats of Town Pond, arranged to have the borders of the pond bulkheaded. The muskrats had persistently undermined the banks, causing cave-ins, and attempts at trapping had failed. Despite the growls of traditionalists, who enjoyed both the muskrats and the caved-in banks, the bulkheading was done, and the pond has since been neat (to the point of being dull) and muskrat-less. Until, that is, a week or two ago, when one muskrat was observed sitting atop the bulkhead eating his lunch. On human approach, he jumped into the water and disappeared, leaving be hind the distinct impression that he had a tunnel down there some where. We will be watching Town Pond with interest for signs that the bulkhead itself is being undermined. If so, we will be of a mind to cheer. K u h n . . . . Looks like another fun-packcd season on the way. . . Editorial Looking Them Over The Fifth Column By E. T. Rattray Idle hands find, devil’s work. I opened my mail one day recently and found, on a legal-sized sheet of onionskin, this missive: May 8, 1967 The East Hampton Star Main Street East Hampton Long Island New York Dear Mr. Rattray: [Here followed eight and a half inches of white space, dimly bearing the watermarked legend ‘‘Four Star Onionskin.”J Very sincerely yours, Montauk P.S. If you see fit to publish this letter, please omit my name and ad dress, your name and address, the salutation, the complimentary close, and the date. Mr. Pool, as you may have noticed, has sent us a number of letters to the editor in recent months, most, shall we say, meatier than the above. Constant readers will recall his inter est in the revival of bicycling as a wholesome activity. For a long time, I did not think that Mr. Pool existed. He was. I feared, a figment of some prankster's imagination, perhaps an instrument being used by some anonymous ac quaintance to tug, ever so gently, upon the editor's non - cycling leg. But, as we Bonackers say, I found out different. Yes, Susan, there is a C. C. Pool. Pike's Peek at Capitol By Congressman Oti» G. Pik* The United States Information Agency is the agency to which has been entrusted the perhaps impossi ble task of making the image of the United States of America look, if not good, at least palatable to the rest of the world. As such it was given the job of determining what went into the American exhibit at Expo 67, the great international fair cur rently under way in Montreal. I was one of a group of some 23 members of both houses and both parties of the United States Con gress, which last weekend was gent ly squeezed in ahead of the long lines of visitors waiting to tour the American, Russian and Canadian ex hibits. Such was the crush of visitors that those responsible for squeezing that number of people in ahead of the crowds did not attempt to do much more than those three exhibits. This was unfortunate, at least for an American. I frankly was embar rassed. W e were told that the Amer ican exhibit was “sophisticated” and “elegant.” I am probably unsophisti cated, but to me the beginning of elegance is the removal of dirt, and this had not yet been accomplished. The building in which the exhibit is housed is great. The Americans accomplished a real coup in that the train which carries visitors all around the fair passes right through the building at about the third story level. Unfortunately most of what these transients see would impel them to remain transient. They see great big pictures of movie stars, mostly from bygone days. They see great big drawings of pop art from days which have not yet arrived. They see more hate than they care to look at, and more dolls than any- Our subscription department says he lives at Drawer Q, Montauk, and an informant in a local service busi ness places him somewhere near the old Anzac House. If it's o.k. with the Chamber of Commerce, we would like to name him as East Hampton Town’s first Director of the proposed Department of Rccreation. one can ever love. Of literature or music or depth or culture in the commonly accepted sense of the word they see almost nothing. They see massive technology and tiny minds. The Russian exhibit also portrays massive technology, but it also por trays a chorus of 30,000 voices, a concert pianist, and emphasizes the cultural aspects of life in the Soviet Union. Actually the best thing we have got going for us in Montreal is the Soviet’s cultural display. The movie featuring the Soviet concert pianist features long close- ups of the Soviet concert pianist’s hands. Clearly visible above the key board is the caption, "Steinway & Sons." Most of the world knows that Steinway and Sons are not located in Moscow. Executively Speaking ... By H. Lee Dennison, Suffolk County Executive The population of Suffolk in 1950 was 276,129; in 1960, 666,784; and it stands presently around 1,000,000 residents. In 1960, the total number of em ployees on County payrolls was 2,- 673; in 1967, including the County police force and the new agencies of Community College and District Courts; total nearly 6,100 persons. Now while we have and still are engaged in a large public building construction program, space for our ever - increasing County personnel has been and is at a priceless pre mium. Even now we are still putting out nearly half-a-million dollars yearly just in rent for usually inade quate space scattered throughout the byways of the County. Space at the County Center is at special premium with all department personnel sitting generally in the corridors or each other’s lap, which is of coursc a figure of speech. The Continued On II— 2 This is Shadbush Week. Regardless of housecleaning and sorting-out operations in this home office, I am taking off for Montauk Point as soon as my contributions for the May 25 Star are safely in the editor’s hands. A dear friend who, like me, con siders woodpinks and shadbush two spring events much too important to be missed, has suggested that we take sandwiches and coffee and sit on that bench high above the water just west of the lighthouse for a picnic lunch. All the way “on” we will admire those billows of misty white blossoms in the hollows be tween the Montauk hills. Over the weekend my two ancient pear trees performed their annual miracle. At least a century old, they have been beyond bearing any edible fruit within my memory. I love them, though, for their graceful lines and for that glorious forty-eight hours’ blooming. Now that it has finally come, spring is so lovely. And it makes you feel so vulnerable. Simple plea sures and small kindnesses are more important than ever. Small hurts are, too. I love early mornings, with the bird-music. Sitting on the fresh green grass to pick violets is good for typewriter - headaches. And a May moon is something special. Newspaper people are commonly supposed to be hard-boiled. What ever one’s occupation, it is difficult to be hard-boiled, in the country, in spring. The New York Times on May 14 ran an article titled “Decline and Fall of the Gossip Columnist: Read ers Lose Interest in Backstairs News of Broadway.” The writer, Bernard Weintraub, attributes the decline of the gossip columnist to many factors — for one thing, of course, the disappearance of so many metropolitan newspapers that used to feature breezy treatment of news; especially the World- Journal - Tribune, which folded on May 5. That paper, it seemed to me, had more columnists than it needed; they overbalanced the straight news. Robert Sylvester of the New York Daily News, a Montauk summer resident, said: "The decline of Broad way meant the decline of the Broad way column. Broadway was once a great, glamorous street. Now look at it. It’s shoddy. You can’t be the historian of something that no longer exists.” Mr. Sylvester mentioned some of the “powerhouses” among columnists, who are now dead: Dorothy Kilgal- len, Danton Walker, and Lee Mor timer. Walter Winchell, he said, writes little; Ed Sullivan who used to do six columns a week for the Daily News, now does only two. . . Some, however, like Leonard Lyons, are syndicated all over, and are do ing all right. “If readers have now cooled to the gossip of Broadway,” the Times piece said, “they haven’t quite turn ed away from gossip. A new type of columnist has, in recent years, stirred considerable interest — a columnist who has shifted the emphasis from Broadway to Park Avenue. “These are the columnists who spray perfume-tinted acid on soci ety’s dowagers and debutantes. . . The most successful of these colum nists — and one of the newest — is Suzy Knickerbocker whose real name is Aileen Mehle. . The demise of big papers and along with them of so many powerful columnists is rather frightening to people engaged in small newspaper operations. The East Hampton Star is, thank Heaven, not Big Business. It has survived since 1885 and we hope that it can continue to operate, in its moderate way. Also I hope to continue for some time to come writing about our Main Street, which has not declined like Broadway. And, occasionally, about our Park Avenue friends. This col umn can never really deal in gossip; I love Main Street too much and expect to keep on living here. Speaking of columns, the informal treatment of news was not exactly new, even on country papers, when my friend Welby Boughton, then the Star’s editor, agreed to give mine a try. "A Reader” has just sent me a column which appeared in the Babylon Signal for May 26, 1884. It was all about East Hampton. Our “Reader" says it shows that the news today is about the same as it was then. That long-ago columnist begins: "Everything is peaceful and plea sant socially and prosperous and flourishing in business and financial operations. Buying and selling off of land from long-possessed inheritances go on to the satisfaction of all parties in the transactions, and soon plea- Conlinued On II— 5 From The Scuttlehole Arthur J. Roth Every time I get together with old friends in Ireland, our talk invari ably turns to schoolboy exploits. We lovingly go over a list of adventures that come with their own heroic titles attached: The Sunday Our Pennies Wrecked the Train; The Day W e Almost Got the Seaplane to Land in Quigley’s Garden; The Night We Tied the Goat to the Back Door at Minnie McCallan’s Wake. But let someone mention the rail way bridge and a dozen titles blos som. The bridge was only a quarter of a mile from our village and we frequently gathered there. For one thing it was the scene of most of our puberty rites. It was an ordinary road bridge, made of stone, and crossed some 20 feet above the railroad line. You weren’t anybody in our bunch until you had ridden your bicycle along one of the flat-topped parapets of the bridge, from one end to the other. You had about 12 inches to wobble in, and at least once every five or six years a kid would wobble 13 and wind up on the rails below, like as not with a broken leg and certain ly with a broken bike. Another great .test of our manhood was to stand on the parapet when an engine was going by underneath. Because the train had just left the station, it would be huffing great clouds of yellowish-white smoke as it went under the bridge. My first real image of hell was standing on that parapet, sensing the hot glow of the engine furnace be low and knowing that a sulphurous cloud was coming up to engulf me. (I never saw a thing, my eyes were shut tight against the tiny hot sparks that landed on cheeks and forehead.) But our wildest joy was to sand the fireman. Six or seven of us would line up behind the parapet, hidden from view, clutching a small paper bag of sand in each hand. As soon as the engine started un der, we would jump to our feet, lean over the parapet and drop a bag of sand on the fireman who, back bent, was usually shovelling coal from the open tender into the furnace. One bomb released, we would tear across to the opposite parapet and try, with our remain ing bag of sand, to nail him coming out the other side. And when the engine emerged, what a magnificent sight the fire man was, crouched on the footplate of the tender, like an illustration of some medieval devil, a lump of coal in each hand, sand in his hair and all over his shoulders, swearing great lurid oaths out of a sooty face as he hurled curses and lumps of coal at us. 4 Twisted with hate, It was the sort of face to give you nightmares for a month. Not to mention his langu age, which was probably the most concentrated vocabulary lesson we ever got. Beloved childhood enemy, now re tired and sitting with your pint of Guinness in some Dublin or Belfast pub, were you really that angry or were you too playing a game? JEANNETTE E. RATTRAY, Publisher Official Newspaper E ast H ampton Everett T. Rattray, Editor NATIONAL NEWSPAPER S^JC0TI^N T own E ast H ampton V illage The Star welcomes letters for publication from all responsible persons who wish to express their views on public matters, but reserve* the right to reject letters wholly or in part. No attention will be paid to anonymous letters, but writer#' names will be witlihcld at their request. THE EAST HAMPTON STAR. EAST HAMPTON, N. Y., MAY 25, 1967 II— CMC THE STAR Page
Transcript of LOOKING AT THE HORSE...
LOOKING A T THE HORSEBonackers, as is well known by anyone who has tried to give
them something, are perhaps the world’s greatest lookers-in-the- mouths-of-gift-horses. There are people in East Hampton, for instance, who are still suspicious about Guild Hall, a gift to the community nearly four decades ago, and there are reports that another local village quietly turned down the offer of a free library.
East Hampton Town has been offered 200 acres of land at Montauk in exchange for the downzoning of an adjacent 130-acre parcel, from residence zone B to multiple dwelling. A t the risk of being accused of being Bonac about the whole thing, we think there are a few questions which should be answered before the Town accepts the gift, acknowledging of course that hearings would have to be held and the legal requirements met before it could be accepted.
Questions: How does the possible human capacity of 130 acres zoned for multiple dwelling use compare with the possible capacity of the entire parcel, 330 acres, fully developed under existing zoning? How much would a golf course cost; who would pay this cost; and who would operate the course? Would the building of this course mean the abandonment o f existing State Park Commission plans for a public course at Hither Hills? Would Montauk’s water supply support the proposed 1,500-unit apartment complex? W hat assurance would there be that this apartment proposal would be completely followed through, rather than many more seasonal multiple dwelling units being built after the zoning change was made, a change which would allow this? W hat assurance would there be that a new shopping area would not develop if the zoning change were granted, under the "incidental service, such as restaurants, bars, retail shops, etc.” clause in the zoning ordinance? And, finally, why was this proposal introduced via the Town Board, rather than through the channel one would expect, the Planning Board ?
There is a growing belief in these parts that cluster zoning may be the ultimate answer to our problems of conserving open space, providing water, and handling sewage problems. It may well be that the latest Montauk proposal fits in logically with this approach. But the public deserves an answer to these questions; Bonac must be allowed to look the horse in the mouth before the gift is accepted.
MEMORIAL DAY, 1967Man, while he can often guess with some accuracy what is
to come, cannot really see into the future. This is one of nature’s blessings. Our “ 25 Years A go” column this week reports the solemnity with which East Hampton observed Memorial Day, 1942. Consider how we would have felt that spring had we been able to look 25 years ahead, and find the United States mired in another war, one apparently without end, except perhaps in nuclear holocaust.
W hat would have the people of the world done if, at the end of May, 1942, they could have seen what was in store for them, read the casualty lists, heard the coming rumble of atomic bombs? They would have gone on to act as they did over the next two and a half decades, we suppose, but what a heavy burden o f foreknowledge they would have carried!
East Hampton, like the rest of the United States, has been comparatively fortunate. Our losses in the three wars since 1942, while heartbreaking to families and friends, have been light in comparison with many other nations, allied and enemy. W hen we honor our dead next Tuesday, we should resolve to make sure that they did not die in vain. They fought for the United States, for an idea, an ideal. W e owe it to them to maintain, inside and outside o f our borders, that ideal.
TOWN POND'S MUSKRATSSeveral years ago, the good matrons of the East Hampton
Ladies’ Village Improvement Society, exasperated after a decades- long battle with the muskrats of Town Pond, arranged to have the borders o f the pond bulkheaded. The muskrats had persistently undermined the banks, causing cave-ins, and attempts at trapping had failed. Despite the growls o f traditionalists, who enjoyed both the muskrats and the caved-in banks, the bulkheading was done, and the pond has since been neat (to the point of being dull) and muskrat-less.
Until, that is, a week or two ago, when one muskrat was observed sitting atop the bulkhead eating his lunch. On human approach, he jumped into the water and disappeared, leaving behind the distinct impression that he had a tunnel down there somewhere. W e will be watching Town Pond with interest for signs that the bulkhead itself is being undermined. If so, we will be of a mind to cheer.
K u h n . . . .
Looks like another fun-packcd season on the way. . .
EditorialLooking Them Over
The Fifth Column
By E. T. Rattray
Idle hands find, devil’s work. I opened my mail one day recently and found, on a legal-sized sheet of onionskin, this missive:
May 8, 1967The East Hampton StarMain StreetEast HamptonLong IslandNew YorkDear Mr. Rattray:
[Here followed eight and a half inches of white space, dimly bearing the watermarked legend ‘‘Four Star Onionskin.”J
Very sincerely yours,
Montauk
P.S. If you see fit to publish this letter, please omit my name and address, your name and address, the salutation, the complimentary close, and the date.
Mr. Pool, as you may have noticed, has sent us a number of letters to the editor in recent months, most, shall we say, meatier than the above. Constant readers will recall his interest in the revival of bicycling as a wholesome activity.
For a long time, I did not think that Mr. Pool existed. He was. I feared, a figment of some prankster's imagination, perhaps an instrument being used by some anonymous acquaintance to tug, ever so gently, upon the editor's non - cycling leg. But, as we Bonackers say, I found out different.
Yes, Susan, there is a C. C. Pool.
Pike's Peek at CapitolBy Congressman Oti» G . Pik*
The United States Information Agency is the agency to which has been entrusted the perhaps impossible task of making the image of the United States of America look, if not good, at least palatable to the rest of the world. As such it was given the job of determining what went into the American exhibit at Expo 67, the great international fair currently under way in Montreal.
I was one of a group of some 23 members of both houses and both parties of the United States Congress, which last weekend was gently squeezed in ahead of the long lines of visitors waiting to tour the American, Russian and Canadian exhibits. Such was the crush of visitors that those responsible for squeezing that number of people in ahead of the crowds did not attempt to do much more than those three exhibits.
This was unfortunate, at least for an American. I frankly was embarrassed. W e were told that the Am erican exhibit was “sophisticated” and “elegant.” I am probably unsophisticated, but to me the beginning of elegance is the removal of dirt, and this had not yet been accomplished.
The building in which the exhibit is housed is great. The Americans accomplished a real coup in that the train which carries visitors all around the fair passes right through the building at about the third story level. Unfortunately most of what these transients see would impel them to remain transient.
They see great big pictures of movie stars, mostly from bygone days. They see great big drawings of pop art from days which have not yet arrived.
They see more hate than they care to look at, and more dolls than any-
Our subscription department says he lives at Drawer Q, Montauk, and an informant in a local service business places him somewhere near the old Anzac House. If it's o.k. with the Chamber of Commerce, we would like to name him as East Hampton Town’s first Director of the proposed Department of Rccreation.
one can ever love. Of literature or music or depth or culture in the commonly accepted sense of the word they see almost nothing. They see massive technology and tiny minds.
The Russian exhibit also portrays massive technology, but it also portrays a chorus of 30,000 voices, a concert pianist, and emphasizes the cultural aspects of life in the Soviet Union. Actually the best thing we have got going for us in Montreal is the Soviet’s cultural display.
The movie featuring the Soviet concert pianist features long close- ups of the Soviet concert pianist’s hands. Clearly visible above the keyboard is the caption, "Steinway & Sons." Most of the world knows that Steinway and Sons are not located in Moscow.
Executively Speaking. . .
By H. Lee Dennison, Suffolk County Executive
The population of Suffolk in 1950 was 276,129; in 1960, 666,784; and it stands presently around 1,000,000 residents.
In 1960, the total number of em ployees on County payrolls was 2,- 673; in 1967, including the County police force and the new agencies of Community College and District Courts; total nearly 6,100 persons.
Now while we have and still are engaged in a large public building construction program, space for our ever - increasing County personnel has been and is at a priceless premium. Even now we are still putting out nearly half-a-million dollars yearly just in rent for usually inadequate space scattered throughout the byways of the County.
Space at the County Center is at special premium with all department personnel sitting generally in the corridors or each other’s lap, which is of coursc a figure of speech. The
Continued On II— 2
This is Shadbush Week. Regardless of housecleaning and sorting-out operations in this home office, I am taking off for Montauk Point as soon as my contributions for the May 25 Star are safely in the editor’s hands.
A dear friend who, like me, considers woodpinks and shadbush two spring events much too important to be missed, has suggested that we take sandwiches and coffee and sit on that bench high above the water just west of the lighthouse for a picnic lunch. All the way “on” we will admire those billows of misty white blossoms in the hollows between the Montauk hills.
Over the weekend my two ancient pear trees performed their annual miracle. At least a century old, they have been beyond bearing any edible fruit within my memory. I love them, though, for their graceful lines and for that glorious forty-eight hours’ blooming.
Now that it has finally come, spring is so lovely. And it makes you feel so vulnerable. Simple pleasures and small kindnesses are more important than ever. Small hurts are, too. I love early mornings, with the bird-music. Sitting on the fresh green grass to pick violets is good for typewriter - headaches. And a May moon is something special.
Newspaper people are commonly supposed to be hard-boiled. W hatever one’s occupation, it is difficult to be hard-boiled, in the country, in spring.
The New York Times on May 14 ran an article titled “Decline and Fall of the Gossip Columnist: Readers Lose Interest in Backstairs News of Broadway.”
The writer, Bernard Weintraub, attributes the decline of the gossip columnist to many factors — for one thing, of course, the disappearance of so many metropolitan newspapers that used to feature breezy treatment of news; especially the World- Journal - Tribune, which folded on May 5.
That paper, it seemed to me, had more columnists than it needed; they overbalanced the straight news.
Robert Sylvester of the New York Daily News, a Montauk summer resident, said: "The decline of Broadway meant the decline of the Broadway column. Broadway was once a great, glamorous street. Now look at it. It’s shoddy. You can’t be the historian of something that no longer exists.”
Mr. Sylvester mentioned some of the “powerhouses” among columnists, who are now dead: Dorothy Kilgal- len, Danton Walker, and Lee Mortimer. Walter Winchell, he said, writes little; Ed Sullivan who used to do six columns a week for the Daily News, now does only two. . . Some, however, like Leonard Lyons, are syndicated all over, and are doing all right.
“If readers have now cooled to the gossip of Broadway,” the Times piece said, “ they haven’t quite turned away from gossip. A new type of columnist has, in recent years, stirred considerable interest — a columnist who has shifted the emphasis from Broadway to Park Avenue.
“These are the columnists who spray perfume-tinted acid on society’s dowagers and debutantes. . . The most successful of these columnists — and one of the newest — is Suzy Knickerbocker whose real name is Aileen Mehle. .
The demise of big papers and along with them of so many powerful columnists is rather frightening to people engaged in small newspaper operations. The East Hampton Star is, thank Heaven, not Big Business. It has survived since 1885 and we hope that it can continue to operate, in its moderate way.
Also I hope to continue for some time to come writing about our Main Street, which has not declined like Broadway. And, occasionally, about our Park Avenue friends. This column can never really deal in gossip; I love Main Street too much and expect to keep on living here.
Speaking of columns, the informal treatment of news was not exactly new, even on country papers, when my friend Welby Boughton, then the Star’s editor, agreed to give mine a try. " A Reader” has just sent me a column which appeared in the Babylon Signal for May 26, 1884.
It was all about East Hampton. Our “Reader" says it shows that the news today is about the same as it was then.
That long-ago columnist begins: "Everything is peaceful and pleasant socially and prosperous and flourishing in business and financial operations. Buying and selling off of land from long-possessed inheritances go on to the satisfaction of all parties in the transactions, and soon plea-
Conlinued On II— 5
From The Scuttlehole
Arthur J. Roth
Every time I get together with old friends in Ireland, our talk invariably turns to schoolboy exploits. We lovingly go over a list of adventures that come with their own heroic titles attached: The Sunday Our Pennies Wrecked the Train; The Day W e Almost Got the Seaplane to Land in Quigley’s Garden; The Night We Tied the Goat to the Back Door at Minnie McCallan’s Wake.
But let someone mention the railway bridge and a dozen titles blossom. The bridge was only a quarter of a mile from our village and we frequently gathered there. For one thing it was the scene of most of our puberty rites.
It was an ordinary road bridge, made of stone, and crossed some 20 feet above the railroad line. You weren’t anybody in our bunch until you had ridden your bicycle along one of the flat-topped parapets of the bridge, from one end to the other.
You had about 12 inches to wobble in, and at least once every five or six years a kid would wobble 13 and wind up on the rails below, like as not with a broken leg and certainly with a broken bike.
Another great .test of our manhood was to stand on the parapet when an engine was going by underneath. Because the train had just left the station, it would be huffing great clouds of yellowish-white smoke as it went under the bridge.
My first real image of hell was standing on that parapet, sensing the hot glow of the engine furnace below and knowing that a sulphurous cloud was coming up to engulf me. (I never saw a thing, m y eyes were shut tight against the tiny hot sparks that landed on cheeks and forehead.)
But our wildest joy was to sand the fireman. Six or seven of us would line up behind the parapet, hidden from view, clutching a small paper bag of sand in each hand.
A s soon as the engine started under, we would jump to our feet, lean over the parapet and drop a bag of sand on the fireman who, back bent, was usually shovelling coal from the open tender into the furnace. One bomb released, we would tear across to the opposite parapet and try, with our remaining bag of sand, to nail him coming out the other side.
And when the engine emerged, what a magnificent sight the fireman was, crouched on the footplate of the tender, like an illustration of some medieval devil, a lump of coal in each hand, sand in his hair and all over his shoulders, swearing great lurid oaths out of a sooty face as he hurled curses and lumps of coal at us. 4
Twisted with hate, It was the sort of face to give you nightmares for a month. Not to mention his language, which was probably the most concentrated vocabulary lesson we ever got.
Beloved childhood enemy, now retired and sitting with your pint of Guinness in some Dublin or Belfast pub, were you really that angry or were you too playing a game?
JEANNETTE E . RATTRAY, Publisher
Official Newspaper
E a s t H a m p t o n
E v e r e t t T. R a t t r a y , Editor
N A T I O N A L N E W S P A P E R S ^ J C 0 T I ^ N
T o w n E a s t H a m p t o n
V il l a g e
The Star welcomes letters for publication from all responsible persons who wish to express their views on public matters, but reserve* the right to reject letters wholly or in part. No attention will be paid to anonymous letters, but writer#' names will be witlihcld at their request.
THE EAST HAMPTON STAR. EAST HAMPTON, N. Y ., M A Y 25, 1967 II— CMC
THE STAR P a g e
