Dirt roads with deep ruts
When you get to this age it is reasonable to be certain of nothing, but it seems to me that when I was a boy there were people living in the Cove Hotel. Not just regular guests, but resident, a few people who lived there all the time. Thinking of them, the idea always intrigued me, of having simple living space in a beautiful location, a room with bathroom, a lovely view -- the Cove Hotel looked out on the lawn and the Bay -- and no kitchen, so going to the hotel dining room for all meals.
The Cove Hotel is long gone, but there is a row of townhouses there now, Bay Oaks, back from Cherry Street, hidden privately behind trees and greenery, fronting on the Bay. When we were looking, remembering the old Cove Hotel days, I thought for a moment that Bay Oaks might be the ideal location for us. But there were none listed at the time, and no community pool for the granddaughters, and the units are two story, which we decided to avoid once and for all. And though tucked away and charming, the privacy would not have been as total as the high-rise style we decided and settled on in easy stroll of half a dozen little cafes and looking out not only over my beloved Bay on one side, but over the business district where I grew up. So, we have Bayside and Beckside.
The only thing missing is the iceplant where Captain’s Table parking lot is now, and Pop’s fishhouse in the spot where the Shrimp Boat Restaurant is today. And Windham's Fish Market -- until she died a few years ago, old Mrs. Windham used to sit in a rockingchair just inside the door of Captain's Table and greet people. Mama would speak to her by first name.
Oh, and all dirt roads except for Beck Avenue. As late as the early 1950s, my Bay High days, 11th Street was a dirt road with deep ruts where you could get your car stuck if you weren’t careful. Even 15th Street was only two sets of ruts, with so little traffic the ruts were through grass and weeds, not even dirt. And 12th Street, where our fishhouse was, wasn't even dirt, it was mostly white sand.
Oh, and all dirt roads except for Beck Avenue. As late as the early 1950s, my Bay High days, 11th Street was a dirt road with deep ruts where you could get your car stuck if you weren’t careful. Even 15th Street was only two sets of ruts, with so little traffic the ruts were through grass and weeds, not even dirt. And 12th Street, where our fishhouse was, wasn't even dirt, it was mostly white sand.
It all strikes up memories of course, always including the summer afternoon, must have been the summer after my graduation, 1953, that I was driving Gina and Walt to summer band practice, running late and Mr. Whitley did not cotton to anybody coming in late, doing fifty miles an hour headed east on 11th Street, raising a cloud of dust behind, and got stopped by the constable who had been parked on Balboa Avenue, his usual spot to park and lurk. As I sped past the Balboa intersection I saw his car sitting there to my right and knew what to expect. Sure enough, round the corner he zipped, light flashing and siren. Walking up to my car window, he asked, “How fast were you going?” “About fifty," I replied, "I was trying to get them to band practice on time.” He said okay, slow down, go ahead. Brown 1949 Plymouth woody wagon that has so many other memories. Mama was secretary at St. Andrew's Episcopal Church at the time.
It’s very early Thursday morning, and I’m grateful for life and breath and health, and for idyllic surroundings that have been home to me from earliest memories, and for those around me who love me.
TW