Boston and Back Home
VISTA did not provide a winter clothing allowance for those of us who came from warmer climates such a California and the Southwest. I guess some bureaucrat in Washington decided that the weather in Northern California was pretty much the same as New York’s. So Dad purchased my winter clothes at Brooks Brothers: a raincoat with a thick zip-in lining, gloves, two scarves, and rubber boats, and heavy shoes.
A day later, we took the train from New York to Boston. The ride was pleasant through Connecticut with glimpses of the Ocean, but most of the views were of fences and backyards. During some of the more boring views Mom asked me, “Do you like raw oysters and clams on the half shell?”
“Love them, learned how to eat them on Coney Island. A dozen or so cherrystone clams, then a ride on the roller coaster to get the clams settled in my stomach.”
Mom said, “Then why don’t you ask your father to take you to The Union Oyster House in Boston; it’s near Faneuil Hall. Your father took me there just after we were married.”
Dad was laughing, “I didn’t think it through. Frankly, I thought that everyone loved raw oysters and clams.”
“Growing up in Kansas back then,” Mom said, “we seldom ate fish, and when we did it was usually catfish. So we walked into the Union Oyster House and were seated at a table with an excellent view of the bar where men were shoveling down raw oysters that looked like globs of phlegm. The oysters were going down, followed by a gulp of beer, or a shot and a beer, and then the next oyster. The whole thing was atrocious, like a feast at Nero’s — the evil Roman Emperor. The next thing I knew there was a plate of oysters in front of me, and your father was showing me how to eat them: a small fork to spear the living thing, after a squeeze of lemon, down it went. Then repeat. I was wondering how in the world did I get myself into eating a living creature.”
“Did you try one?” I asked.
“I put it into my mouth but didn’t chew the poor thing. So I swallowed it, and…” She shook her head, “I swear this happened; down went the oyster, it hit my stomach and bounced right back into my mouth. I took it out and returned it to my plate.”
To my father, “You ate the rest of those oysters. Are you going to take Steve to the Union Oyster House?”
“I was thinking of it; after all he enjoys raw oyster and clams.”
“Well, I’ll find something else to do,” she said and returned to the book she was reading. Conversations became tense when we were in Boston; I wondered why we traveled to encounter the tension that was the hallmark of our visits to Boston and Dad’s relatives.
A day or so later we took a cab to Faneuil Hall. Dad and I walked to the Union Oyster House while Mom took a tour of Faneuil Hall. In 1740 Peter Faneuil, a slave trader, contributed the hall to the city of Boston from his business’s profits. The hall burned down in 1761 and was rebuilt and expanded. The building still stands today and is center of an upscale shopping complex.
The inside of the Oyster House had not changed much from Mom’s visit over twenty years before. The crowd at the bar was mostly male, and they were washing down oysters and clams with beer. Dad didn’t care for beer and asked for a bourbon and soda, and I ordered a Harp Lager. Dad had a theory: the colder the water, the better the sea food. That observation did not go over well with Californians living next to the Pacific Ocean that was warmer and calmer than the North Atlantic. Both of us ate two dozen oysters; they were plump, briny, and quite delicious. However, lobster was becoming a problem.
It seemed like everyone we visited was determined to take us to a restaurant that specialized in lobster or they prepared lobster at home. Lobster can be rich, even richer with plenty of melted butter. I liked the occasional lobster, but six in one week was too much. My godparents took us to a restaurant in Swampscott that specialized in broiled stuffed lobster. The stuffing consisted of lobster meat rolled in buttered breadcrumbs and put in the body cavity above the tail. When we got back to the hotel, my stomach revolted under the avalanche of butter and lobster. Much later, my wife and I lived in Greater Boston for ten years; during that time I think we had two or three lobsters, and that was plenty. Actually, I had decided that I didn’t care for lobster that much.
My Aunt Marion and Uncle Bill, the two oldest of five children in Dad’s family, hosted us for supper at their home on Point Shirley, about two blocks from the Deer Island House of Corrections that would be closed in 1991. Aunt Marion was famous for her rare prime rib; Dad suggested that as even he was getting tired of lobster drenched in butter. The underlying tension between my mother and my aunt and uncle abated somewhat after cocktails. Dad seemed to control the conversation’s direction that focused of memories of growing up in Somerville, Massachusetts, and before my mother and I appeared on the scene.
I thought the conversation was boring except for the story about Marion and Bill’s dog that loved eating tinsel off of the Christmas tree. As long as the Christmas tree was up, the dog passed glittering piles of poop on the front lawn of their home. The poop must have been distracting for drivers as their headlights swept across the lawn. The evening was a success without any thoughtless remarks about my mother’s growing up in rural Kansas. In the past Bill had asked Mom about the tornado scene in the Wizard of Oz with the green sky and a family with a small girl was running to the tornado cellar. She patiently explained that she and her family often had run to the tornado cellar when she was a young girl. Uncle Bill always thought that was funny; my mother did not.
Two days later, my parents flew back to California, and I took the train back to New York.
