The Ash Creek Papers

I was sorting thru my “mental attic” and came across a couple of snapshots circa 1960.

Mom: We went strawberry picking together at some farm in Branford (?).  It was a sunny day and we were assigned rows to pick from.  Mom methodically worked down her row.  I, in contrast, passed on some, put some into my basket, and ate some.  And it became apparent to the farmer’s watchful eye, that not only was I not picking the row clean, I was eating more than putting  berries into my basket.  He told Mom that I would have to leave, and so chastened I went back to the car.

Dad: He was sitting in the breakfast room reading the paper when I returned home from Sunday School.  I thought that maybe Dad would help me dye Easter eggs.  Knowing that we would need a hard cooked egg, I fetched an egg from the fridge and brought it over for his inspection, and I asked him, “How can you tell if the egg is hard cooked?”  And without hesitation he put the egg in the pocket of my white BD shirt which I wore to Sunday School, and smashed it into my chest, “This one is not hard cooked.”

Lynn: We were driving in the MG with the top down.  Why or where to, I can’t recall.  But I believe we were on Edgewood Ave near the park when a police car pulled us over. We hadn’t run a light, and we certainly weren’t driving at speed that would warrant a stop.  But there we were.  The officer inspected Lynn’s license and everything in order returned it and said that he thought Lynn looked under 16yrs of age.  And whether he suggested it, or Lynn took it upon herself, she put on some lipstick.  And now with this minor adjustment we proceeded on.

Paul: The upstairs center hall was an impromptu gymnasium for Paul.  I was dragooned into being his workout partner for his wrestling escape moves that were necessary as a member of Union’s wrestling team. Never mind that we were in different weight classes.  And even when his wrestling days were over and he took up judo, once again I was employed as an opponent this time to be thrown off balance, and in some matter put on the floor.  But on another occasion, Paul returned home from Union saying he knew how to throw a curveball.  I stood in front of our front steps with a wiffle ball bat in hand, and Paul at the end of the walk took a tennis ball and pitched his deuce, of which he was so proud, and I swung and launched that ball on a parabola over the Polaski’s house!  I was 10, and I never hit a better ball in my life.

Mommie Soph: For my Bar Mitzvah Mommie Soph gave me 2 shares of I.B.M. stock. This had been on the advice of Aunt Tiny. I was there on a day when Clara came over for a visit and Mommie Soph with great pride showed her the stock certificate.  Clara inspected the certificate and declared that it was not I.B.M. but International Business Machines.  Not the same!!  Mommie Soph was soooo upset.  She immediately called Tiny to complain. Yes, calm was restored when Tiny assured her that they were one in the same.

Have you heard of a ship called the good Reuben James
Manned by hard fighting men both of honor and fame?
She flew the Stars and Stripes of the land of the free
But tonight she’s in her grave on the bottom of the sea

I am reading a book Annapolis Goes to War by Craig Symonds.  He is a professor of History at Annapolis, and I came upon him thru my Teaching Company lecture series.  He is a fabulous lecturer.  And his presentation extends to the printed page.  This is my second book that he has penned, and when I read each sentence I hear his voice… the way he would intone a phrase {SIDE BAR:  the greatest compliment I get from my writing is when someone says, “I hear your voice. I hear you telling the story}.

This book follows the trail of specific members of the Class of 1940 as they travel the steps from plebe on entry to Annapolis, thru to graduation, thru to assignment and into maelstrom of war when some would lose their lives.

My reading today brought me to the incident when the American Destroyer Reuben James (DD- 245) was sunk by a German U-Boat in October 1941 in advance of our declaration of war.  Reuben James.  And it brought me to a memory of Paul.

I have less memory of you, Lynn, when I was 7.  But at that age, as Paul would begin at Union, I was shifted from Mommie Soph’s bedroom to Paul’s.  And I was in contact with parts of Paul’s interests that littered our room, and closet.  Free weights.  A fencing mask and foil (or was it an epée?) and bongo drums.

And then there was a day when Paul returned from Union and he had a guitar.  Or maybe he already had one and I never knew it.  But there he was sitting on his bed and strumming a Kingston Trio tune, and softly singing…

Tell me what were their names, tell me what were their names
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James?
What were their names, tell me, what were their names?
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James

To my siblings, Lynn, you have the superior singing voice.  Nor can I attest to the guitar skill of my big brother.  Nor can I recall the emotion that he felt as he strummed and quietly put words with the melody.

I have no intention of reading special meaning into why he picked up the tune.  Maybe because it was a simple cord change?  Or maybe it did have meaning?   On reflection, for me, it was simple: Paul was home for Union.  And I was happy for that.

It’s Sunday May 18, 2025.  I look outside my window to our deck, and the small horse farm that lays behind the tree line, and the low stone wall that separates our modest green space from the corral.  It’s a magnificent morning with a stiff breeze moving green leaves that have emerged from their infancy.  63° Temp. Sun clear.  Blue sky and cirrus clouds.  Could you find a better day to be on Race Brook’s golf course?

And yes, I am drawn to memories of playing golf with my Dad… and my big brother Paul. Paul.

Long before I picked up a 7 iron, Paul already had a golf resume.  As a high schooler he played golf on Hopkin’s Golf team.  Competed on Yale’s challenging course.  But his arc of improvement took a detour as he spent a summer cycling in Europe with his classmate Alan Chasnoff.  Forgive me for compressing, or misstating the details here. 

But this was apparent when I began walking along as Dad and Paul competed in tournaments at Race Brook, Paul was erratic. Which played into Dad’s and Paul’s partnership on the course.  Dad was steady to cover Paul’s miserable showing on a hole.  And then Paul on the next hole could win outright.  It’s called playing in and out golf. And it was so why they did so well in tournaments.

And then I was of an age that I could play along with Dad and Paul.  And these were some of the most memorable days of my life. 

I think high in treasure for me was when Paul and I played alone on Race Brook’s “inside 9”.  Before WWII Race Brook sported two 18s separated by Race Brook Rd.  But then some of the across the Road 18 went back to nature, and Race Brook’s layout was modified to a main course 18 on both sides of the Road, and then a 9 on just this side of the Road.

For the most part on Sunday mornings Paul and I played the 9 twice.  And now, old enough, after a round I could enjoy lunch with Paul in Race Brook’s excellent men’s grill room.  We would tuck into the best cheeseburgers & fries accompanied with either Raz Limes, or Black Cows. We would recall our best shots, not be too bothered by the botched t-shots.

I never became proficient in golf.  Never touched the level that Paul played at Hopkins.  Never the consistency that Dad had.  But I was fortunate for an early lesson that Dad gave me.  It was on a Sunday when it was just Dad on me on the Inside 9.  I had just horribly sliced a drive off of the tee and I was so pissed that I tossed my driver on the ground.  He said to me, “pick up your club, and if you ever do that again you will never play golf with me again.”  Then he added, “If you want to correct the slice, you have to put in time on the practice tee and I will pay for you to have lessons with Joe (Joe Sullivan, our golf pro) and he will correct that slice.”

I didn’t pick up that offer.  I wasn’t looking to become a pro.  Early on I saw golf as a once/twice a week thing.  Maybe.  But Dad’s warning was a key to learning to manage my expectations on the course.

I was able to relish in a perfectly lofted wedge over the sand trap at the 14^th and not be totally undone by an errant tee shot into the woods on the 9^th.

And was there a better backdrop to sharing the joy of a random Sunday than the beauty of a golf course?  Well, I love a stretch of sand and waters softly turning on to the shore.  True. But today I am drawn to mornings with Paul – with a cheeseburger and a black cow at hand – slightly sweaty and thinking shots well played.

As much as I enjoyed playing golf, I have zero interest in picking up the clubs again.  What would be the point?  It was really about being with Dad and Paul.  Paul, and cheeseburgers and raz limes. How can you improve on that?