My Cape Cod Vacations, Circa 1965: Part Three

When I was a kid, I thought Cape Cod tourists were divided into two groups: those who liked the "Treasure Island" gift shop and those who liked "The Barefoot Trader".  Both shops were located along Route 28, not far from each other. 

We were definitely "Barefoot Trader" people. I say this because whenever we left "Treasure Island", Mom and Dad would compare it unfavorably to "The Barefoot Trader"... and then we would head over to "The Barefoot Trader".

"Treasure Island" was a store that was shaped like a big treasure chest. I remember it as being huge, packed with stuff out back that I wasn't allowed to touch. In front they had the kid of gifts and souvenirs that I appreciated: pepper gum, hand buzzers, x-ray spec's and the like. Try as I might, I couldn't get Mom to buy me the x-ray spec's. Even though they looked cool with the crazy swirls, she thought they were a waste of money even though Dad was the one who pointed them out to me while he was wearing them. 

X-Ray Specs: Miracle of 60's Technology.

I ended up getting some cool looking fake stones. I think they were meant to go in the bottom of an aquarium (which I didn't own), but I imagined them to be rare jewels; rare jewels that my brother and sisters didn't have.

The Barefoot Trader was an exotic looking building with a sharp pitched roof and big windows in the front. Over the entrance was a life size statue of the "Trader" himself, carrying a sack on a stick and looking a little creepy. It was years before I realized it wasn't called the "Barefoot Traitor"...with his shifty look, it had made perfect sense to me.

Leading off to the right was a sidewalk with bare footprints in the cement, presumably from "the Traitor". The fact that these footprints led away from the building only emphasized to me that this guy was hightailing it out of there. God knows what was in that sack.

The path led over to a giant tiki head which was pretty impressive, especially at night when a spotlight would shine on it. Further around the side was a swing set. Whoever designed the place had the foresight to design in something for the kids to do to while their parents shopped. Or, the swings could have belonged to some unsuspecting neighbor. Either way, I appreciated it.

What I remember most about the Barefoot Trader wasn't in the store, but next door. Off to the right of the store and forward of the swings, was an old house that looked like it was being used for storage. It was borderline deserted- rundown exterior, no curtains on the windows, overgrown grass. Once, in an effort to keep us kids entertained while Mom shopped, Dad snuck over with us to peer into one of the windows. He told us it was a haunted house...and it really looked it.

Trailing behind Dad, I slowly went up to look through the window with him into what was a large, long room. The air seemed a little dusty and it was pretty dark, but you could make out a lot of large boxes nearly filling the room. Some boxes had what appeared to be drapes thrown over them. Along the sides of the room were what looked to be half covered up paintings leaning against the walls. Towards the back of the room was a large ornate mirror, also leaning at an odd angle.

Peaking out from behind this mirror, I could have sworn I saw one of those flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz. It looked right at me, blinked, and ducked back behind the mirror. I was terrorized. I tried to get Dad's attention but when I turned back, it was gone. Somewhere in that building there was an evil monkey flying around.

I knew better than to say anything at this point. This would be chalked up to me hallucinating from too much candy and soda. But too much candy and soda only made me hallucinate about more candy and soda. I didn't need to listen to the ridicule and scoffing that would surely follow my discovery. This was real and I knew better than to hang around. It was every man for himself. I ran back to the car. Let that monkey feast on someone else.

From that point on, every time we went to "The Barefoot Trader", I preferred to stay in the car.
The others would get out of the car and walk away toward the store and I would hear: "What's the matter with Rick?"
"Oh, let him stay in the car", would come the disdainful answer.

But I knew... I knew.

My Cape Cod Vacations, Circa 1965: Part Two

Having survived the beach at Cape Cod and once everybody freshened up, we hit the road hit the road to do a little sight seeing. There was a lot to chose from: trampolines, go-carts, Storyland. You name it, all were close by. We weren't too far from the center of Hyannis, so that's where we would often go.

Hyannis was like a lot of towns in the 60's: bustling, with a generous allotment of newsstands, pharmacies and department stores. Since this was Cape Cod, it had also had other stores and attractions unique to the area.

One attraction Hyannis had was another penny candy store. This candy store didn't have the charm of the other store. It was more brightly lit and it was set up with a large table in the middle of the room on which all the various boxes of candy were laid out. A person would pick up a basket in one corner and walk around to the adjoining corner, filling the basket as they went. This was a big mistake.

Without the buffer of another party between me and the candy, I had the basket overflowing in no time. Even allowing for the candy Dad made me put back, I still left with two small bags stuffed full. With my sweaty, sticky hands clasped around the tops of the bags, we were off to to other stores.

We would work our way down Main Street popping in and out of various places, most of which held little or no interest to me. Gradually Mom and my sisters would head in one direction. Dad, Steve and I would head in another...usually ending up at the mini golf.

The mini golf in the center of Hyannis was pretty low tech, nothing like today's courses. There was a spinning wind mill, a spinning water wheel and a blinking light bulb at the top of a eight foot light house. Everything else was stationary, like stacked barrels or an Indian shading his eyes as he looked off into the distance (probably looking for his ball). It was fine by me though. I thought it was pretty cool. And when it was nighttime, it was almost magical.

Playing mini golf would take quite a bit of time. One reason it took a long time was that it was a full eighteen holes. Another reason was because I stunk. Most of the time was taken up with either my multitudes of swings, or was spent looking for where my ball went when it invariably bounced off the wooden perimeter. Steve addressed it with the expected patience of any typical older brother. That is to say, none at all.

Dad did the usual Dad type stuff, like accidentally nudging my ball closer to the hole with his foot or "forgetting" to include most of my strokes. All this only served to inflame Steve more. Still, I always lost anyway. Usually by a lot. But I had a good time...especially if Dad played too. Steve could take comfort in knowing I had to cheat to lose. So, it worked out for all of us.

By the time we were done, the girls had caught up with us and we would all walk a little further down to the Planter's Peanut store where a life-size Mr. Peanut stood outside (assuming "life-size" for Mr. Peanut meant around six feet). You could smell the peanuts from outside. The store was warm inside from a couple of old tumblers roasting the peanuts.

Afterward, we would go back to the car and head off to a couple of gift shops or souvenir stores. Usually it would be either Treasure Island or the Barefoot Trader.

My Cape Cod Vacations, Circa 1965: Part One

I love Cape Cod and have since I was a kid, though the reasons why have changed over the years.

When I was a kid, my family and I would would often vacation on the Cape. It was one of our top three vacation spots. In my hazy memory, it's tough to recall how often we would go or how long we would stay, but it seems like it was fairly frequent. We lived about an hour and a half away and most of our trips were weekend events.

All seven of us would squeeze into the Rambler station wagon and take off with the vinyl rooftop carrier clinging to the top of the car for dear life. I got to ride in the "way back" with the remaining luggage. At the time I think I wanted that spot. But looking back, I suspect I was told I wanted it. This being the days before seat belts, it meant that I was as much of a potential projectile as the suitcases. I think this was all part of the plan.

Once on the Cape, we would head to the beautiful Sands Motor Lodge. We would wait with excitement while Dad checked us in at the motel office. I hoped it was a room that was near the ice and soda machines. (Dad would disagree. He claimed it was noisy with people traipsing back and forth at all hours. I felt it was a small price to pay for the convenience of ice cold soda).

When Dad got back to the car, the seven of us would unload into one motel room. This was made easy because: 1) The car was parked right outside of the motel room, and 2) I spent most of my time checking out the accommodations instead of helping. The fact that I had taken the initiative to find out what was in the soda machine while the others unpacked seemed to be unappreciated.

As everyone claimed their spots, my oldest sister, Karen, would puff away on an air mattress. I would fill the complimentary ice bucket from the ice machine.

The Beautiful Sands Motor Lodge (that's not us)

After unpacking and suiting up, we were off again. First stop (I hoped): The Penny Candy Store. Back then the candy really was a penny. The candy was displayed behind an old fashioned glass case like something you might have seen in an old general store. You would have to ask the woman behind the counter for one of this and one of that and she would keep a tally in her head as she dropped the pieces into a bag. It was a little slower than today's "grab and stuff" method, but it built up the anticipation.

When we reached our limit, each of us would leave with our little striped brown bag filled with the day's catch: licorice strips, some kind of candy dots that you had to bite off of paper strips (barely worth the effort), Mary Janes, refreshing colored sugar water in little wax bottles, "Squirrels" (God knows why they called it that. Don't ask, just eat.), and all the other usual standards like Atomic Fire Balls, Jaw Breakers and something that was supposed to resemble a mini ice cream cone.

From there it was a short ride to the beach.

The beach was usually crowded, but dragging our monstrous plaid beach bag behind us, we always managed to stake out a spot. Even though we had a beach umbrella, out would come the Sea 'n' Ski suntan lotion. We would all get lathered up, like it or not. Dad, being bald, would have lotion globbed on his head and nose. I don't remember it helping much, but I guess the effort made him feel better.

For me, the beach was a letdown after the candy store. I had what I wanted, why go any further? The choice between eating candy at the motel versus potentially drowning at the beach seemed like a no-brainer to me. Still, I went along with the rest of the family (as if I had a choice).  If it meant biting into sand covered licorice strips, I was willing to pay the price. Just pass me the occasional Wash'n Dry to clean the sand off of my sticky fingers before I reached in the candy bag again.

Sometimes I might venture into the water with a float. I don't think the beach had any rules back then as to when you could or couldn't use floats. If you wanted to risk your life and drift away, that was your problem. The lifeguards were only there to drag the bodies out of the way after they washed up on shore.

The floats we had back in those days were built to last. They were heavy rubberized canvas, not the cheap vinyl type that's foisted on naive tourists today. Those things could support a whole family. If it wasn't for the bright colors, you would swear they were army surplus. The biggest problem with those floats was that after a day in the water, your armpits would be raw from rubbing against the canvas while paddling.

One time, as I was bobbing with the waves, I looked up to find I had drifted so far down the beach I couldn't see the rest of the family. Paddling like my life depended on it, which it probably did, I finally made it to shore. Dragging my float behind me, I searched the crowds for what seemed like hours until I finally found everyone. Naturally, no one even knew I had been missing. I suspected it was just as well. Had they realized I was gone, they might have packed up and left. "Nice try", I thought to myself, "but you missed your chance." I settled back down on the beach blanket with my only true friend- the candy bag.

As the day went on and I got more bored, we would slowly gather up to head back to the motel. Dad would bring me and my brother to the public bathrooms before we left. They were pay toilets back in those days. I would often be the one to scoot under the stall door and open it for my brother and Dad. I felt this more than compensated for the investment Dad had made in my rapidly decreasing candy stash.

Finally, back at the car, armpits stinging form my near death experience and wiped down with another Wash'n Dry, we would head back to the motel to shower and regroup before heading out on another adventure. While the others showered, I would wash down all that candy with a bottle of  grape soda- ice cold... just the way I like it.

Hopefully we would be heading back to the penny candy store soon. I was beginning to run low.

I love you Jake.

Ouch

I'm walking along with my Sam and there's this old guy up ahead. This guy looks like he's been through Hell. He's overweight, all gray (including the skin), bags under his eyes... the works. I feel kind of sorry for him. Sam spots him too and says: "Hey Dad, that guy kind of looks like you."

Signs

Today I was heading toward the highway, and as I was going around the rotary, some guy comes barreling onto it with that frantic look like: "Gotta be first. Gotta be first." He nearly swipes me as I'm trying to get off onto the highway.

I was kind of burning up about this, but then I thought, "Maybe there was someone with him that was hurt. Maybe someone's bleeding to death in the backseat." That made me a little feel better.
A little later down the highway there was a toilet wrapped in a clear plastic bag lying on it's side in the breakdown lane.
A accident perhaps...or a sign of the coming apocalypse?

Time Marches On

I had to work late tonight and for the first time in almost twenty years, I almost missed the Fair Parade. In hindsight, I'm not sure how I feel about that.

For some reason, the parade didn't have the same sparkle, the same pizazz. Maybe it's because I'm getting older (which is obvious), maybe its because fewer of my kids were involved. Whatever the reason, it just seemed boring. After an hour, it seemed boring and long. After an hour and a half, I was numb. Even the little kids next to us were asking when it was going to end.

I spent a lot of time trying to figure out why some things were even in the parade. There was a kitchen manufacturer's truck pulling a trailer that consisted of people of various ages sitting on a few pumpkins. That's it, nothing else- no sign or anything. Is this supposed to have something to do with kitchens or the fair or what? What connection am I missing here? What's the message? At least if it they were sitting on a HUGE stack of pumpkins you might think "Wow, look at all those pumpkins"... and then watch to see if someone might fall off.

There was the "Vote No on the Biomass Plant" truck that was making me choke from the diesel exhaust as it traveled in fits and starts along with the rest of the parade. Following behind the truck, marching in the fumes, the "defeat biomass" entourage was jabbing signs in the air. At least they looked happy, but it could be that the fumes were getting to them too.

Float after float went by promoting various politicians and political wannabes, including at least two who were running for State Auditor, whatever that is. I'll bet at least a third of this parade was candidates and their groupies. It is an election year, after all. Some candidates marched along the parade route, smiling and waving at those of us in the crowd. This always makes me uncomfortable. I don't know these people and even if I did, no one normal acts like that. Am I supposed to applaud? Am I supposed to wave? Instead, I just try not to make eye contact.

Sure there were clowns and some were even scary. But not in that "It's Halloween and I'm an insane clown who is going to kill you" kind of way, but scary in that "I belong in a police line-up" kind of way. Some of the clowns looked both tired and sad as they gamely tossed candy into the crowd. If they were trying to liven things up, it wasn't working for either of us. (Hint for next year: instead of tossing candy, consider firecrackers).

As the parade trudged on, even Sam was looking to leave. The promise of cheap necklaces or Tootsie Rolls being tossed his way wasn't going to cut it.

Finally, with the end nowhere in sight, a string of at least nine heavy construction vehicles came inching along. No floats, just trucks. Very shiny trucks. I think to myself, "Why I am sitting here watching this?  I could see the same thing at any construction site traffic jam...but with dirt."

That's when we decided to get up and leave. And we weren't the only ones. Throngs of people, many with lawn chairs and little kids in tow were ahead of us making a break for their cars.

I wanted to like the parade more than this but it just wasn't happening. Maybe next year I'll work a little later.