A 1950s Atlantic Fourth Of July – With Cindy P., “The Girl With The Faraway Eyes” In Mind 

Cindy P., my best friend, was very helpful in preparing this sketch, especially one recent afternoon in her office when she related her own youthful Fourth of July experiences to me. I like to dedicate these things I write to various people or groups, but get this, she has insisted, do you hear me, insisted that I dedicate this piece to her. Get this too, she has insisted that I place a photo of her here as well so, and I paraphrase, all the boys can check her out just like they do all the women classmates. (Keep this between us I check them out too.) Well, when a woman doth command (is that the right tense?) what is a guy to do. [Sorry -No photo I could not reproduce it for this blog.]

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Probably like in your growing-up neighborhoods during the 1950s some group put together a Fourth of July event for kids and adults alike in order to righteously celebrate American independence in a festive form. That was true in the old Atlantic neighborhood at Welcome Young Field in the 1950s where my junior high school friend Frankie Riley held forth. And where I held forth, although indirectly. I did not know Frankie then since my family lived down in the Germantown projects for most of that decade but we would come up to Atlantic where my grandparents lived on Young Street on the Fourth from as early as I can remember. Once again, this is mainly a Frankie Riley story but it definitely could have been mine as well.  When Frankie thought back to those days he told me that he did not remember a lot of specific information and so he went on to a North Quincy-related site asking for information from others which he received and has been placed here as part of the sketch. Frankie did not ask permission to use the names of those who responded so I have fictionalized them here. If you have anything else to add please feel free to comment.     

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Frankie, Frankie Riley, couldn’t quite remember exactly when he had heard his first Fourth of July fire-cracker, or had seen and heard his first fireworks for that matter. He had gotten the two all mixed and confused together with his recollections of two-bit carnival times, which also included, at least sometimes, setting off fire-crackers or fireworks displays. But it must have been early, very early, in his life at a time when he, and his mother and father and two brothers, two brothers just then in the early 1950s, would visit his grandparents’ house on the Fourth coming down from Walker Street. And the beauty of where those grandparents lived was that it was a bee-line directly across the street from Welcome Young Field on Sagamore Street. Sagamore Street of now blessed memory.

One thing Frankie was sure of though as he thought about Sagamore Street days was that he was going to need help in relating the details of what happened because, frankly, he was confused and mixed up about more than just the time when he first saw and heard fire-crackers and fireworks displays. He would eventually ask for help but for just that moment he was going to fly on his own. And while depending on his own memories, such as they were, he also knew, knew, flat-out what he wasn’t going to be talking about. Nix to the tattoo of marching drums, some Yankee Doodle threesome all bed-sheet patched up from wounds suffered at the hands of the bloody British but still carrying, carrying proudly, the brand new American flag all aflutter, and tattooing that beat up drum and playing the fife to kingdom come. That was standard fare at these Fourth celebrations but that battered patriot thing was not his Fourth, although he had to admit it might have been somebody’s.

No also to an overblown description of some Hatch Shell Fourth, streams of humanity stretched out as far as the eye could see along the Charles River, sweating in the July suns, searching for cool, for water, for shade against the madness and waiting, patiently or impatiently as the case may have been, for the night cools, and the big boom symphony Overture of 1812 finale. Again, frankly, that was not his thing, although he knew just by the numbers that it was certainly somebody else’s. And while he was at it he would not go on and on about the too quickly over fireworks displays that directly succeeded that big boom overture on the Charles. All of that, collectively, was too much noise, sweat, heat, swelter, and just plain crowdedness for what he wanted to remember about the Fourth. Instead he wanted to lower the temperature a little, lower the noise level even more, and lessen the logistics, the picnic basket, cooler, blankets, umbrellas, child’s toys logistics, and return to those Sagamore streets of his 1950s youth when Welcome Young Field in North Quincy’s  Atlantic section was the center of the universe, and if not, it should have been. (Why it was called Atlantic he never really did get except Grandma Riley always called it “one-horse Atlantic” so it had to mean something)

Frankie knew that, probably like in your neighborhood in the old days, every year in late June the local older guys, mainly guys from the local bar, the Red Feather, and some scattered fathers, including Joseph Riley, Senior, Frankie's father and also a denizen of the Red Feather, would put together a kitty, collecting contributions and seeking donations from local merchants to put together a little “time” for the kids on the 4th of July. Now this Red Feather was the favored watering hole (and maybe the only one close enough to be able to “drop in for glass” and also be able to walk home afterwards when that glass turned into glasses) for all the working-class fathers in the neighborhood. And nothing but a regular hang-out for all the legions of single Irish guys who were still living at home with dear, sweet mother. Said mother who fed (and fed on time), clothed, darned socks, holey socks worn out from hard living on the Welcome Young softball field, and whatnot for her son (or, more rarely, sons) who was too afraid of a younger woman, or a younger woman’s scorn at late night Red Feather antics, to move out into the great big world. But come late June the singles, the fathers, and occasionally the older brothers, were kings among men as they strong-armed neighbors and merchants alike for dough and goods.

Frankie was thankful for what he did remember. When he thought things though he suddenly realized that as these things go the day was pretty straight forward, you know; foot races of varying lengths for various age groups, baby contests, beauty contests, some sort of parade, pony rides and so forth. But that was only the frame. Here is the real story of the day. Here is what any self-respecting kid like Frankie lived and died for on that day:

Tonic (you know, soda, pop) and ice cream. And not just one tonic or one ice cream but as much as you could hoard. Twice during the day (Frankie thought maybe about 10:00AM and 1:00PM) there would be what one can only describe as a free-for-all as everybody scrambled to get as many bottles of tonic (you know, soda) and cups of ice cream as they could handle from tables set up on Sagamore Street. Here is the secret to the success that Frankie’s older brothers, Joseph and Tommy, and he had in grabbing much more than their fair share of the bounty. Go back to that part about where Grandma and Grandpa lived. Yah, right on the corner of Welcome Young Field on Sagamore Street. So, the trio would sprint with one load of goods up to their house and then go back for more until they had filled up the back-door refrigerator.

Just thinking about it Frankie thought, “Boy that was work, as we panted away, bottles clanging in our pockets, ice cream cups clutched in every hand.” But then, work completed, they could savor their one tonic (read: soda) and one ice cream cup that they showed for public consumption just like the nice boys and girls. There were other sounds of the day too like the cheering for your friends in the foot races, or other contests, the panting and the hee-haws of the ponies but he would always remember the clang of the bottles. As the sun went down on the day it went down to the strains of some local pick-up band of the era in the tennis court as the dancing and talent show started. But that was adult time, a time for hazy adult-sized dreams. That time for him was to think back on his day's work, his hoard and the next day's and the next tonic and ice cream. Ah....

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What Frankie had not remembered clearly were the details of the organization of this extravaganza, how the money was gathered, what merchants provided what goods, and where did the lads get the various Fourth fixings. He called on help from a North Quincy-related website and gathered some interesting and informative responses:

Richard Mackey:

Frankie it was, like you said, organized by the guys at the Red Feather, guys like my father and yours, and my older brother, Jimmy, in his thirties at the time, who, as you also said, was afraid to go out in the world and lived at home forever with dear, sweet mother (and she was sweet, too sweet). He never married, never missed a softball game, never had a dirty, unsown sock, or missed a free glass of beer (Pabst Blue Ribbon, if you remember that brand). Jimmy and his buddies, his softball buddies, did a lot of the leg work collecting money when he was younger and then they kind of took over the show as the older guys, like my father and yours, had too much to do or something and handed it over to them.

They had a truck, maybe rented or maybe from one of the grocery stores, with a loud speaker that would go up and down the streets, Newbury, Atlantic, Walker, Young, Kendall, Chestnut, all the streets up to the high school and down to Wollaston Beach and had some of the older kid (15 or 16 year olds) going door to door for donations. I don’t know about the strong-arming part, but maybe. Probably not the neighborhood families so much as the merchants. Remember those were hard-nosed corner boys days and Jimmy was a serious corner boy when things got tight. I know Jimmy used to “set up” his buddies at the bar a lot during that collecting time and he never worked all that much.

The day [Fourth of July] started at around 8:00 am and ended with the talent show and dreamy adult dance stuff in the tennis court. I think Mr. Burke won every year that I can remember for his "crazy legs dancing.” Joe Gilliam, who worked at Estrella’s Market on Newbury Ave, was part of the group that set the whole celebration up. He was a friend of Jimmy’s as well so maybe that is where they got the tonic and ice cream from. The last one I remember was around 1975, because I had my oldest daughter with me there.

To which Frankie responded:

That Joe Gilliam Richard Mackey mentioned lived, with his dear sweet Irish-brogued mother, forever, never married, never missed a softball game, never had a dirty, unsown sock, and never missed a free beer (Knickerbocker, if you remember that brand) directly across the street from my grandparents, Daniel and Anna Riley, on Sagamore Street. That house is the place where we stashed our loot (the tonic and ice cream). Joe, when he worked for Estrella's, would also take my grandfather, disabled from a stroke and a retired Quincy fireman, riding around with him when he delivered orders. My grandfather was a, to be kind, difficult man to deal with so Joe must have had some charms.

And then onto old time Atlantic denizen Sticky Fingers McGee: 

The earliest recollection I have of the July 4th festivities at Young Field was when I returned to Atlantic in July 1945, when I was six, after being away for a couple years. I seem to remember that they had foot races and other activities. I remember running one of the races which was close between me and another kid, Spider Jones. They declared Spider the winner, but I threw a fit. Nothing big, just a little shoving, no fists or anything like that. It was just a race, okay. I still think that I won that race and if they had had proper equipment like a camera for photo finishes at the finish line I could have proved that I won. After writing that last thing I guess I still haven’t yet learned to take a loss gracefully but like I said the camera would not have lied.

Later, in the 50's maybe, I remember hearing a girl who sang like Theresa "Tessie" Brewer at the Young Field tennis courts. I think somebody said she was the sister of one Joseph “Babe” Murphy (Class of 1958) who later became one of North's best all-round athletes. That's all I remember of the Atlantic 4th celebrations, and I'm not totally sure of the accuracy of those memories. The years continue to cloud some memories.

To which Frankie replied:

 Sticky, glad to see you haven’t mellowed with age, at least according to your fellow class-mate Jimmy Callahan. Jimmy says hello and to tell you that Spider Jones had you by a mile in that race. He was right at the finish line when you exploded. (He says you did punch Spider, by the way). As for the forgotten memories part we all know that well-traveled path. Although you’re total memory recall for some flea-bitten thirty-yard dash for some crumb-bum dollar prize gives me pause on that one.

And then finally Irene Delaney chimed in:

Hi-Back in the 50's the first 9 1/2 years of my life was on the top floor of a three-decker on Sagamore St., and Welcome Young was where we spent every day. We all waited for the Fourth. Richard [Mackey] is right about the truck. My grandfather, George Kelley, and my uncles would ride on the back of the flatbed truck going up and down the streets playing their musical instruments while others collected donations. We would throw change to the people collecting. On the big day we would line up early in the morning with our costumes on. Buddy Dunne and Elliot Thompson had a lot to do with getting everything together along with a lot of the guys from the Red Feather. On our way down Sagamore Street from Newbury Ave heading to Welcome Young everyone would get a shiny quarter for marching in the parade.

The rest of the day would be filled with games and shows, and yes the tennis court would be converted to a stage for the day and night activities…

 

A YouTube film clip of Jimi Hendrix performing the Stars-Spangled Banner at Woodstock, circa 1969. Yeah, I know that event is way after the time of this sketch and of our graduation but is there any better evocation of the national anthem for our generation than sweet boy Jimi’s version?