southern shore (to really be a Rhode Islander is to always stay close to home), we would pass farms by the sea that sold sweet corn and tomatoes at road side stands. The corn was intensely sweet and creamy corn on the cob that only New England can produce and the tomatoes were nothing to complain about, either. With our produce requirements met it's off to the beach house.

My Uncle Roland was a very interesting guy to say the least. He looked like a cigar-store Indian. All that was missing was a feather bonnet and a cup of two-for-5 cent cigars. Somewhere back in the not-so-far away generations there was some north-country Indian blood in him, and it showed. His face was long and his legs were short. His nose was like the Indian on the buffalo nickel and had character that only a life's worth of living can give. He used to call me "Dan-Dan the fireman". I believe it was because I once put a campfire out by peeing on it, but that may be false memory…

Uncle Roland was the kind of guy who sometimes fished and sometimes cut bait, and he was ok with either. One of his joys was quahogging - digging in the shallow beach for Rhode Island clams. Once while quahogging a shrimp came across his path in the waters where we were digging. He just reached out and grabbed the shrimp and ate it, a common practice among quahoggers. They, like Uncle Roland, know that every now and again something too good to wait for later comes along and you must grab it, consume it, and enjoy it, eating the fruit of the sea. And a shrimp or a scallop makes a tasty treat while working. I know that most dry-landers could never understand eating raw shell fish, but in the world in which I grew up, it was commonplace. Quahogs, cherry stone clams, many opened and eaten before making it back to camp with the supply diminished by taking a worker's prerogative.

Quahogging required some special tools, not the least of which was your feet. One bushel basket, one inner tube, one bull rake, two feet. The bushel basket floats in the inner tube.
This is used to hold the tasty catch. A string ties to you to the basket so the tide does not take your catch away with the current. The bull rake is a steel rake that had a basket behind the tines for catching whatever the sea bottom would give with your scraping the bottom with it, along with your feet to scout out an area that promised clams. Drag, drag, pull is how it worked, drag the bottom and when the rake becomes almost too heavy to lift you retrieve it from the sea hoping to find the sea's fruit, but they may be just rocks. Much of the time you found rocks and seaweed but mixed in with that were cherry stone clams, the sweetest shell fish in the sea. Careful to not miss the basket we placed the clams into the basket. The goal was to fill the basket, however most of the time half-full was good enough, and with the fresh catch of the day in hand we made the trek back to the beach house and the approving voices of relatives who waited for our return. Roland became my hero when my foot found a crab (or the crab found my foot, either way) and he fearlessly removed the pesky creature and placed the tormentor into the catch basket to be enjoyed later.

Roland did not smile much, but he had a pleasing, calm demeanor, when he did smile you knew it was sincere. Roland was what the Lakota Indians would have called a "contrary". Contraries are not bad people. They were considered the soul and conscience of a tribe. Roland was the sort of person who, if someone said that it may rain, would say "Maybe" or some such remark just to keep things moving. But beyond a one word contribution, he was not a conversationalist. If someone made a political remark he would make them defend their position and most of the time the debaters found themselves rethinking their political views. Hence he was a true contrary. It made no difference what he really thought about the subject. The reason for the discourse was enlightenment, not agreement. He had an air of authority about him and when he worked for me in the 1980s we gave him the moniker, "The Captain".

Roland had two hobbies practiced on weekends that offered the correct weather -- golf and the beach. He was a very good golfer, and had lots of trophies to prove it. He also had something that seemed just a tool to him -- if he loved it, too, he went out of his way not show it -- but seemed wondrous to me -- his 1963 Ford Galaxy 500 convertible. That car was a sight to see. Crimson red leather tuck-and-roll seats (bucket seats in the front) with something that was very rare in the world of the early 1960s -- a console! More chrome than would be considered tasteful today but in its day it was then and is still now a stand out! It had its own smell, that scent was something very rare, the smell of a new car with new leather.

The beach house was primitive at a private beach club, Roy Carpenter's Matunec Beach. It was bordered to the east by the inlet to Point Judith breakwall. Fishing was great, as was the beach itself. Upon entering our beach shack, the first thing you see are large mounted fish, a Marlin and a Dolphin -- not the mammal porpoise but the actual game fish. The smell of the sea was in the place right to its soul. Tiny, but it was mostly used as a base of operations for the weekend's festivities. Being told to sleep on the beach to make room for a guest was considered something really groovy by a 10 year old boy. In the center of the beach, backed up to the parking lot was the beach store. Everything you may need while at the beach. Pez candy, suntan oil and, of course, beach towels. The smells of the snack bar permeated the beach from east to west -- hot dogs, clam cakes and more.

Sea gulls made their home to the east side at the break wall that separates Point Judith fishing town from the beach. Hundreds of them would hover above the fishing boats hoping for a quick meal as the boats arrived in port. If that failed there were always the diners at the George's Restaurant at the end of the docking area. There they could often abscond with some Rhode Island clam chowder and Rhode Island's own "clam cakes". Some animal lovers would toss bits of clam cakes into the air for a dive-bomber sea gull to snack on and enjoy the show offered by our feathered friends of the sea.

Having a southern exposure to the Atlantic and not being on the sheltered bay, the beach was second to none in the world. 100 to 150 yards of white sand between the beach house and the wild breakers that only a 10 year old boy could fully appreciate. For this reason it was very popular with those who worship the sun. You could lie on the beach from morning till twilight and never be shaded from the sun except for the occasional cloud. And if lying in the sun was not your thing, you could spend your time making a sand castle or body surfing the breakers that land so close to shore.

The waters of the North Atlantic are slow to warm in the summer. Most of the time the only ones in the water were the hardiest of folk, mostly young boys and some older folks washing some sand out of their swim suits. Even being boys, the need to warm yourself on one of the Family's blankets would arise.

At the Family blankets were many different sets of relatives. The Gendrons, the Boudreaus, the Chatelles, the Blanchetts and whomever else decided to come along that weekend. The families were built around the sisters, Doris, my Mother, my Aunts Rita, Alice, Blanche and their mother, who we called "Memere". They all had a uniquely French-Canadian way of turning a phrase. "Did you ever?!?" was used to express disbelief, for example, "Did you hear about so and so? DID YOU EVER?!?"

The phone answering phrase was also fun. "Yellow?" this was the way they said "hello" when they answered the phone. There was also calling your uncles "Mon Oncle" and aunts "Ma Taunt". Grandmothers were called "Memere" and Grandfathers called "Pepere". It was all very commonplace to us, but I'm sure to outsiders we sounded strange.

Roland's wife, my Aunt Rita, was the smallest of my aunts. At 4 foot 11 inches, she was nevertheless of very hardy stock -- being the daughter of my Pepere Chatelle, a wrestler - and she never failed to rise to any adversity. She grew up in the child labor world of textile mills of the early 20th century, where most of the French Canadians in our town worked. When she was 15 she caught her hand in the textile machinery and lost two fingers. The mill gave her a bowl of ice cream, $5, the rest of the day off and a life-long memento of life in the mills.

Rita was the soul and warmth of the camp. She was always quick to make sure everyone was comfortable and fed. I can still hear her saying things like, "are you sure you are not still hungry? Come have another one", followed by, "Did you ever? The boy has no appetite! Eat something!" All these phrases were used when the person receiving them was filled to the busting point and hoping for room for watermelon or whatever today's desert was.

One summer day in the beach camp house, someone entered the dressing room while Rita was changing. Startled, she covered herself quickly with her digit-impaired hand. After that, when anyone wanted to get her goat they would hold the two outside fingers of their hand against their chest and say "Out!" But she could take a joke and got her share of them sent her way.

My uncle Bill Chatelle was also a prize fighter, the wrestling sort, as was my grandfather. Both men had cauliflower ears and lots of interesting tattoos. Bill was short but built like refrigerator with a head, his two cauliflower ears, blond hair, tattoos and rippling muscles made him a sight to see. He always brought his binoculars and insisted he was looking for Russian subs. But we all knew he was only looking for nice bikini-clad women to stare at for a while.

My grandfather, the other wrestler, also had two cauliflower ears, tattoos and the always present half-chomped cigar. Pepere smoked. I guess you could say smoked a Dutch Masters bunt cigar, however, chewed up would be more accurate. He always used an Ohio Blue Tip match for the occasional times he would light up. He struck the match on the heel of his shoe and always did it with a bit of panache that his French blood seemed always to have.

The one of my Pepere's tattoos that I liked most was the hula girl inside his forearm. He would say to me, "Watch her, I'll make her dance for you", as his cigar hanged precariously from his lips. Even in his late 70ies he could make the hula girl tattooed on his forearm dance by flexing of his muscles. What 10 year old boy wouldn't want to see that as often as possible? Both my Uncle Bill and Pepere would always have a happy face and loving greeting to anyone present. They were the kind of people that, when you meet them, you know immediately just being yourself was going to be all that was needed. About his cauliflower ears he would tell us that our Memere slammed his head in the door and that is how he got his ears -- but we knew he was kidding.

My Pepere was sort of a local celebrity in our home town. Back at the turn of the century he worked a team of mules delivering beer. Once when doing so in what was then known was the Village of Artic, a man who my Pepere would have called a "Moudie Englais" called him a "dumb Cannuk" for parking his team in front of his store. My Pepere grabbed him, held him by his feet and dunked his head into the horse trough till he apologized. Once the apology was received, he threw him into a pile of manure in the street. When I was a kid people would tell me this story and every time I heard the story from one person or another, it was slightly different -- but always ended up with he Moudie Englais landing in the pile of shit!

Imagine having the name Blanche and marring a man with the last name Blanchette? Blanche means white, and Blanchette means the family of white. What are the odds? Blanche was the mother of 11 kids and no one could successfully remember all their names and most of the time neither could she. For this reason every child in her domain was called "Pumpkin". I can still hear her saying "watch out, pumpkin" or "Paul, Peter Ronny, Pumpkin!" when calling out to her own children. The cousins were all "pumpkins", no matter what their names were. She knew us all and loved us all, but all the same we were all "pumpkins". So when she would call out "PUMPKIN" every child and young adult in earshot of her responded. Blanche was also smoker, with a long cigarette ash always hanging by some supernatural power, never falling until she chose for it to do so.

Pete, Blanche's husband was what we in the family would call a saint. He worked two jobs sometimes three to support his large family and the toil of life showed on his face. He looked like a cross between Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Reno. He never said much, but was a pleasant man with rugged good looks and an ever-present cigarette.

When the adults felt that they could trust us they let me and my cousin, Little Roland, go to Crab Pond, about a mile from Roy Carpenter's beach. Crab Pond was a brackish water inlet that made its way to the sea. The waters were very warm compared to the Atlantic and, like the name says, Crab Pond had lots of horseshoe crabs. That is where I learned to swim. My father threw me into Crab Pond and told me to swim back to shore. From my 10 year old perspective it seemed a long way to swim, but I learned anyway. Today it is part of the "bathing suit optional" area known as Black's beach.

On the walk from Matunic to Crab Pond there were large, imposing, Victorian, cedar shake houses, which looked to me to be a perfect place for a Vincent Price horror movie. The people who lived there thought that the beach was theirs -- but we knew better. The state law was public land up to the high tide mark and we used it for all it was worth. Every now and again they would come out and tell us that the beach was theirs, but we continued on our long walk to warm water, considering them a minor distraction to the event. They were "Swamp Yankees" to us anyway. Swamp Yankees were people whose families have been in the area since the days of Roger Williams and think that every new ethnic group that came to Little Rhody was an interloper. Careful to know that they did not care for newcomers, we passed and continued on our way to the hospitable surrounding of Crab Pond.

Being growing boys, we got hungry, and knew that all that was required was to make the trek back to our shack where something was always cooking -- Saugy's Hot Dogs, corn on the cob, hamburgers, clams, fish and more. In most ethnic groups the family is held together with the glue of food and the north country French were no exception.

The smells around the houses were almost more than anyone could bare. FOOD, FOOD,
FOOD! The day's activities centered around food. If you were going to the beach, the return time was whenever the food was going to be ready, and with my extended family, you did not want to be late.

Sometimes we would start a fire on the beach and get some large beach rocks hot enough to steam open some clams to eat while we waited for the food inside the shack to be ready.

My favorite was the Saugy hot dogs, which snapped when you bit into them, with gobs of onions, mustard and relish sure to make a 10 year old boy smile. It seemed that for some the real reason for going to the beach house was to eat and for others the change in scenery was enough. Saugy hot dogs were a unique Rhode Island treat, made with veal, beef and pork, and with a skin that gave them a very unique snap when you bit into them.

When you were not at the beach you could always go to the "New York System" to get some Saugys. The name New York system was a throw back to the days when Little Rhody had a very large inferiority complex. Everything from somewhere else was better, so even though the New York System is purely a Rhode Island creation, they gave it the name of the neighboring state of New York to give it some class. But class wasn't what it was lacking in.

We used to call New York System hot dogs wieners. They came with a steamed bun, garlic meat sauce, yellow mustard and, of course, chopped onions. When you ordered them this way you just said, "Give me 10 all the way." The server would place 10 steamed buns across his arm, from his hand to his shoulder. Then came an orderly procession of wiener, mustard, meat sauce, onions and don't for get the celery salt! The servers arm never shook and never dropped one, but the battlefield of their arm showed signs of misplaced condiments all along the way. Wieners all the way were affectionately known as Gaggers or Belly Bombs, because you couldn't eat just one. For me it was more like 6.

Another Rhode Island culinary treat is something called Manhattan Clam chowder, this is also a throw back to those days of inferiority complexes. Manhattan chowder has nothing to do with NYC, and everything to do with Little Rhody mis-thinking that something from NYC was better than anything Little Rhody could come up with. It was a little tomato sauce and a lot of clams, potatoes and dill. Nothing tastes more like the sea than Rhode Island chowder. I have made some cod fish chowder for some land locked friends here in New Mexico and both New Yorkers said that it tasted just like Rhode Island chowder, one of them being a retired NYC Brooklyn South police sergeant . He worked Coney Island for 30 years and missed the taste of the sea as I do from time to time. This is sort of a Rhode Island tradition, when Rhode Islanders return from their travels to strange and distant lands the thing they crave and expect is Rhode Island's seafood -- nothing less.

Most beach weekends were a blur of visiting relatives, food, and the sea. There was bingo at the firehouse, and the ladies of my family would pack up Saturday nights and go to the firehouse to play. Gaming of this sort was common in my family. Bingo, Lotto and, as of late, Foxwood Casino. It was more about the thrill of the promise of winning than the winnings. Most of the time the sisters would say things like, "I almost won! That bugger did not call B9 - that's what I needed to win!", and, of course, followed by "Did you ever?!?".

What I liked about the evenings was feeling the warmth of the sun that had burned into my skin from the day's activities and the cool breeze from the sea that time of day, thinking of the fun that awaited me in the morning. Sunday mornings were for the beach, unless you were told you needed to go to Mass. That was not a big deal in my family, so most of the time it was early to rise off to the beach. The beach was never crowded on Sunday mornings, a scant 100 people to occupy 1 mile of beach. Most families had their places on the beach and ours was about 100 yards west of the beach store. It was close to the dunes and the grass and beechnuts and just slightly to the west of the parking lot. In those days it was considered to be very gauche to be too close to another family's spot. Seldom did we have to endure the pain of someone's dog becoming overly friendly or a noisy radio. It was just us and sea, and little if anything more was needed. Things could not get much better than that.

I was a sea person. No matter how cold the water was, I was in it. I loved to swim out beyond the breakers, hoping to catch a big breaker to ride into the shore. More than once the sea claimed my swimming trunks, pulling them down to insert a large load of sand only to go back out to deeper waters to clean the gritty mess out of my trunks, and then to venture out again to take another ride.

As the Sunday sun began to sink in the western horizon, packing the cars began and everyone there glowed with the closeness of family and the sunrays. A little sadness came over the camp because of the end of the weekend and the warm times that were felt there.

The saddest part of the weekend was the ride home. But that was still very pleasurable in a melancholy way, knowing that the ride home meant going back to the weekdays when I would hope for the chance to go to the sea again and ride in the coolest car I knew of when I was a kid.

Dan Gendron dseakers@yahoo.com