Happy Ides of March everyone

Happy Ides of March folks.  The best thing about the Ides of March (March 15) is that it means that the snow in the Northeast is about to melt away and the daffodils will soon be pushing their way through the soggy, chilly soil.

I guess the worst thing about the Ides of March is that it reminds us of the abrupt change of government in ancient Rome about 2K years ago when a dissenting group of Romans voted to remove their leader Julius C.  The 'vote' was by means of multiple shivs in his back from the entire group including his pal Marcus Brutus.  Caesar's last words, according to Shakespeare were, 'Et tu Brute? (You too Brutus?)

The killing of Caesar was notable for many reasons; one not generally known is that; the autopsy on the body of the Emperor is history's first known post-mortem report.

The House with No Electricity

The House as it looks today.  In 1949, it looked a little better!

by Bill Russo

From my work on Hubpages, here's a piece of short fiction
about growing up in the 1940s in the only
house in the neighborhood without electricity....


The House With No Electricity:

It stood on an old road in an ancient New England town. From the sidewalk, if you did not look closely, it looked like all the other houses.

It was white with gray trim, four rooms in a single story, supported by a foundation of stone and mortar. Though the outward differences were few, a close inspection would reveal that there were no wires leading to the weathered home. No telephone connection. No shiny strands to illuminate Edison’s bulbs or to warm up the tubes of a radio.

In a town bustling with post-war prosperity, everyone (except us) had electricity. Every living room boasted a radio of some sort. There were Zenith floor model radios for the rich, and RCA sets for most people, and Sears (Silvertone) receivers for those who bought from the “Wishbook”.

The trolley tracks that ran down the street were being paved over; because Detroit and Washington had made a deal that rails of all sorts, had to step aside in favor of the new crop of 1949 automobiles.

Chevy made a nice little six cylinder car. So did Dodge, Hudson, Packard and Studebaker, but the flathead v-8 from Ford was perhaps the most prized car of the year.

In the house with no electricity, there was no garage. That was not a problem because the man who owned the house had no car. He walked to his job in the shoe factory. His wife stayed home as she had nowhere to go. And their nine year old boy, me, walked to the Hardy School which was less than a half-mile away.

I liked the walk because it helped to get the smell of wood smoke off my clothes.

Most modern people heated with coal. It gave lots of warmth and was easy to take care of. On 'Ashday', every Wednesday, the coal people put their cans out. Except if it was snowing, then they spread the ashes over the sidewalks.

We heated our house with a combination of two wood-burning units. In the kitchen, at the front of the house, was the stove. It served as the cook stove, but also was a heat source. In the back of the home, was a Franklin stove. The middle of the house was divided into two rooms. My parents bedroom was on one side and mine was on the other.

In wintertime, we would load up the two stoves and open the bedroom doors so the heat would flow through all four rooms. It worked well and we were warm, but I always smelled of charred embers.

By the time I got to school, my walk had freshened me and I didn’t smell any different than anyone else. I had friends at school, but no close ones. I did not want to get so chummy that I would have to have dinner at their house, and they at mine. I didn’t want anyone to know that I lived in the house without electricity.

I kept up with all the latest radio shows by listening to my classmates. During recess and break times they often discussed the exploits of the Lone Ranger or the Shadow.

In summertime, I could even hear parts of the great radio series by listening at the open windows of neighbors’ houses.

Don’t get the idea that I felt poor. My Mum gave me five cents for every recess. That was my favorite time at school. The teacher would bring out two huge boxes, the size of milk crates. In one would be 'Cheeze-its'. We could buy six of them for a penny. Nabisco’s greatest creation, ‘Nuggets’, were in the other box. They were round, about the size of a silver dollar and were loaded with chocolate bits. For one cent, you got two Nuggets.

I always bought a penny’s worth of Cheeze-its and a penny’s worth of Nuggets. A carton of milk for three cents, completed my snack.

I loved school. I relished being able to snap a switch and watch the light bulb instantly burst into brightness; with no stink of kerosene.

I also cherished the toilets. I would sit on them and luxuriate even when I didn’t have to go. I enjoyed flushing them and hearing the water swirl around.

There were no toilets in the house without electricity. We had an attached shed and at the back of the shed was a 'two-holer'. It was two round openings cut in wood and you sat down and did your business, and everything plopped to the ground below.

Papa put lime on the droppings at regular intervals so the smell wouldn’t get too bad. In the wintertime the 'two-holer' was freezing, so I would try to ’hold it’ until I got to school.

“Papa,” I said one frosty morning, “why can’t we have a real bathroom? It’s too cold to use the two-holer.”

“What are you complaining about?,” he said, “In my day, we only had a 'one-holer'. If two people had to go at once, somebody was out of luck! And also, back then, our 'one-holer' was about two hundred feet away from the house.. How’d you like to have something like that in the middle of a blizzard? You should appreciate our fine two-holer".

I should have appreciated our fine well water too. Except I lost enthusiasm for drinking from that well when I saw Papa, more than once, bring up the bucket only to have it half filled with water and the other half with some dead & rotting varmint.

I should have appreciated all the fine chicken meals Mama used to make too. She always made tomato sauce with delicious meat in it.

“What’s the meat in this sauce Mama? It’s great!”

“That’s chicken, Billy. I’m glad you like it,” Mama answered.

Her meals did taste good, but I lost much of my appetite when I found out that ‘chicken’ was a generic term for whatever Papa gave her to cook.

After work, he used to feed the neighborhood pigeons . The birds loved him. He’d spread breadcrumbs around and they joyously pecked away at them. The pigeons would walk right into his hand to get the best crumbs.

Then Papa would close his fist. That afternoon’s pigeon, became the evening’s ‘chicken’.

I can only speculate at what other kinds of 'chicken' I've eaten. I like to think that the list is limited to rabbits and squirrels.

The 1950s arrived and so did television. Everybody saved their money so that they could be the first on the block to have one.

The ‘next-door people’ got a set and they told me that I was welcome to look at it. I could stand outside and peer through their window anytime I wanted to.

I watched fairly often, and they always lifted the sill a few inches so that I was able to hear the sound. I enjoyed television, but not as much as radio.

Dramatic radio back then, and even now, was a much more fascinating and stimulating experience. If you have ever heard the original “War of the Worlds”, or “Sorry Wrong Number”, or Escape’s “Three Skeleton Key”; then you might understand.

At sixteen, I left the house without electricity, got a job washing dishes at the Rose Restaurant, and rented an apartment with two friends. The home was owned by the brother of one of my pals.

I had my own room. The house had electricity. It had a real bathroom. I would spend many happy moments simply snapping on and off the lights.

There was a common TV in the living room, but I hardly watched it. I had my own radio in my room.

It was 1959. Jack Benny was off the air - he went to television. So did George Burns and Gracie Allen, and Milton Berle.

But 'Gunsmoke' had taken over the radio airwaves, along with 'Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar'. 'Escape' was still on and so was 'Lux Radio theater'.

Life was great. I lived in a house with electricity, light bulbs and a radio.

Now, more than fifty years later, I still live in a house with electricity. I have a giant flat screen television. It is internet equipped and is tied into a magic box called Roku.

With Roku you can watch nearly any TV show that was ever produced. You can select from tens of thousands of movies. You can watch films from the silent era right up to the hits of today!

There’s something else you can do with Roku. You can hear old time radio shows. You can listen to any radio show broadcast during the golden age; or you can even listen to the best of today’s offerings, like Prairie Home Companion.

Picture this. I turn on my state of the art HD flat screen TV from 2014;equipped with Roku, Netflix, Crackle and more; and I tune into The Fred Allen Show from 1949.

I turn out the lights and listen to Fred, walking down Allen’s Alley talking with Senator Claghorn; and for a few moments it is 1949 again.

Listen in for a few seconds as the brash old time politician brags to Fred about his favorite topic, the South:

“I’m from the South son,” Claghorn tells Fred. “I love the South son. Why, when I am in New York, I won’t even go to Yankee Stadium. And you know South Carolina? Do you know what’s above it? Upper South Carolina!!!!!!. That’s a joke son.”

As I listen, once again I am living in the house with no electricity. I am still nine years old. Mama’s making sauce with faux chicken and Papa’s chopping and stacking wood.

It wasn’t much, the house with no electricity. But it was home.

And though it’s true you can’t go home again; you can go back for a visit.

Endless Winter Continues: The First Place to be Plowed.......

The winter of 2015 will never end. More snow hit Cape Cod today, where in a normal year very little falls.  This season,  the area has been covered by a five foot blanket of the stuff for over a month.  


 Quiz: What was the first place plowed after the latest round of winter storms hit Cape Cod this morning? 

Answer: 

BINGO IS THE CHURCH ACTIVITY !

The Church of Friday Night Bingo!!!!!!!! It's a seasonal church in Dennis near the Harwich line where they have God for 8 weeks in the Summer and BINGO for 52 weeks all year long!!!! 


Come on down tomorrow night to the Church of Friday Night Bingo. 

You can play two or three cards or just a single

 It's the place where all the Cape Cod folks mingle,

for a chance at some heavenly Jingle:

the Church of Friday Night Bingo ! ! ! ! !


Just remember that if you decide to come to the Cape for some Friday Night Bingo, you cannot park in the church parking lot unless you are there for a church activity -  oh that's right, Go ahead and park in the lot because Bingo is the ONLY church activity ! ! ! ! 


AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETLY DIFFERENT....................

A college degree is a wonderful thing and is desired by many. But remember one thing: It doesn't take a 'degree' to be smart. Life has also shown us that a degree doesn't automatically confer 'smart' upon its owner. Brilliant people can and do exist without letters after their name.

 Dr. A.C. Doyle took a degree in medicine but if we remembered him for that, he would be Dr. Who? It is for his innate and untrained skill that we know him today as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - the literary Father of Sherlock Holmes.

DR WHO?????????

DR. A.C. DOYLE - Sherlock's Dad

Horrors from Codfresh Lake: Coming in June

by Bill Russo

The humble Crane Berry blossoms of Cape Cod
 provide a backdrop for my new book coming in June

My new book coming out in June in paperback and on Amazon Kindle, is "Horrors from Codfresh Lake"

It is a prequel to the Jimmy Catfish story in my short book, Swamp Tales: Horrors  from the Hockomock Swamp and the Marshes of Cape Cod. 

 In direct response to requests from my readers, this book is much longer than Swamp Tales and it spans the Atlantic Ocean from the islands of Cape Verde to the great fishing ports of New Bedford and Cape Cod. 


Here's a sample from the first few chapters......

Horrors from Codfresh Lake
by Bill Russo (Copyright 2015) 

(WORKING COPY)

Prologue

Cape Cod - the 21st. Century

The horse-shoe shaped Mid Cape Highway that runs from the Cape Cod Canal to Provincetown is 64 miles long. Halfway down, is the town of Harwich.

In the middle of Harwich, several miles past eerie Bell's Neck Road, where a dense forest has morphed into a shallow, tree-stump pond; is a dirt road - really just a path, that leads to a small village called The Marsh.

There's only one business building in the tiny 'throwback' settlement. It's a creaky, wooden two-story structure with faded red paint, that houses a general store - with pickles, ice cream, common crackers in a barrel, and canned goods inside. On the porch, outside, framing the entry way are two benches for sitting.

The one on the left is painted blue with white lettering on the back slats saying "Democrats". On the right hand side, is a red bench, with the same white lettering saying, "Republicans".

Most of the villagers will sit in either one. They might call themselves G.O.P., but they like the Kennedys - especially the war hero, Johnny who became President.

Or they might be Democrats, but they like the war hero "Ike", who became President.

Old timers gather on warm summer days to sit on a red bench or a blue bench, depending on their mood, and gaze across the street at a crystal clear lake with a sandy bottom and generous beaches.

"That little pond is nothing like Codfresh Lake," says the owner of the store, a thin shrunken man everyone calls

'AP'.

"What's Codfresh Lake?," one of his companions asks.

Using the question as an invitation; the wrinkled old man takes a pull from his bottle of Birch Beer and sits on the Blue bench opposite his friends. He wears a faded Red Sox cap. With his white fluffy beard, topped by an old fashioned handlebar mustache. he looks like a skinny Santa Claus.

'AP' begins to tell a tale of a body of water so strange as to defy description. A lake compounded of equal sections of fresh water, sea water, and an unearthly brackish stretch, said to be inhabited by man-eating catfish.

"Even stranger than that," he continues," is that it was also home to a person who was more catfish than human. Few people know about Codfresh Lake, and even fewer about that fish-man, Jimmy Catfish. I saw him. I knew him. The story ends here on Cape Cod but it starts out far across the ocean in another cape, Cape Verde."

Chapter One - Sao Nicolau (St. Nicholas)

Two men on horseback are riding to Tarrafal, the only seaport, and one of just two villages on the tiny island of St. Nicholas. After an interminable season of famine and drought they have abandoned their homes and are fighting through an angry windstorm on a September afternoon in 1949.

"This barren island of St. Nicholas has little of Christmas in it; other than its name. It is 150 square miles of naked mountain surrounded by a ragged coastline too wasted to even sprout weeds," said Francisco da Silva, the taller of the two.

"That may be true Cisco, but it's our home."

"Not for long Carlos. Not for long. When we get to Tarrafal, we will find a ship to carry us out of here."

"Cisco, you sound just like your cousin the poet. He's always stirring up people, trying to get them to leave the islands and go to America."

"Yes Carlos. last year when he wrote his book, he predicted that by the end of 1950 one out of four Cape Verdeans will be emigrating to the United States for a better life."

"And do you think we will be among them Cisco?"

"I do. There is nothing to hold us here. We have already left our houses. And what did we give up? A couple of shacks and a few acres of land that resembles over-baked bread."

Cisco started to say something else but was cut off as the wind suddenly picked up and pitched a load of desiccated earth into his throat.

The two friends, coughing from the biting onslaught, closed their eyes, covered their noses with their hands, and tucked their chins into their chests.

Though there were a handful of cars on St. Nicholas in the 1940s, most people still rode horses, as did Francisco da Silva and Carlos Pires on that Autumn day when they headed from the main village of Ribeira Bravo to the island's only other settlement, the fishing town of Tarrafal.

Plodding along, their horses slowly navigated the narrow cobblestone path that rimmed the island, running like a thread from the one town to the other. There was no place else to go; it was literally a 'one road' island. The way was bounded on either side by mounds of parched earth and nothing else. No trees. No brush. No Grass. No weeds.

So bare was the view from the rocky path that to one side there truly was nothing but the blue Atlantic. The opposite side was merely a barren expanse of motley colored brownish earth supporting clusters of jagged gray rocks leading to Mount Gordo, (The Fat Mountain).

One time Carlos had called the roadside a desolate 'patchwork' and Cisco, who fancied himself a poet like his cousin who had published two books, said; "No Carlos: the dirt here is not a patchwork. It is so dry and empty that we should call it a 'parchwork'." Both men laughed, as each was young, hopeful and, possessed the resilient ability to be able to sneer at ironic misfortune.

The raging wind got stronger, scooping up great chunks of earth; grinding and mixing them with the air until a thick brown dirt-fog was brewed that overspread the entire island. Visibility was reduced to near zero.

Dismounting, they took off their shirts to cover the heads of the nervous horses, while shouting calming words. The bellowing storm finally hushed to a whisper, leaving Carlos and Cisco looking as though they had been flogged. Crimson rivers snaked down from their shoulders to their waists, washing away hundreds of sharp dirt-spikes that had been hammered into their backs.

They poured tepid water from their canteens into their cupped hands for the still frightened horses, saving scarcely a swallow for themselves before remounting.

Later, they wearily crested a ridge marking the final leg of their trip. The last bits of the dirt-fog drifted off towards the sun, which cast a golden path in the calm waters of Tarrafal Harbor.

Prodding their mounts to a gallop, they raced to a slim, fresh water stream than ran near the harbor. In winter it had been a river but the endless drought had reduced the Rio Gordo (The Fat River) to barely a brook.

Running and splashing like schoolboys on a picnic, the animals beat the water to a froth. They let the mounts play to just short of exhaustion before hobbling them and setting them to graze in a yellowed field near the beach.

"Let us go to the beach and wash off the rest of the dirt from the ride," said Cisco.

"I think I'll also need a few minutes in that special sand," Carlos added.

They charged into the tepid Tarrafal ocean waters and swam, allowing the salt water to soothe their raw backs as well as massage their tired muscles. As their strength returned they left the water and headed for the steamy, black sand. The unusual shiny sepia sand, found only on St. Nicholas Island, is said to have healing properties due to a high content of titanium and iodine.

After a brief rest, buried up to their necks in the medicinal beach, they retrieved the horses and cantered to Joao Neves' bar for some food and grogo, the local rum. In high spirits, they had hopes of meeting sailors who could steer them to a job aboard a ship bound for North America.

Chapter Two - Finding a Ship

With the bottle of Grogo between them and two mugs in front of them, Carlos and Cisco sat in one of the four high-backed booths in Joao's small building. Hungrily, they speared chunks of food from a platter of bread, cheese and sausage that had been set upon a table made of rough, unfinished planks.

Six wooden stools with no cushions were in place in front of the bar but only one was occupied. It was a slow night in Joao Neve's establishment, a fact which Joao lamented every time he poured a drink for his solitary bar stool occupant, a tall, spare white-skinned man who seemed to wince every time Joao complained about his sparse patronage.

"Hey mister, if you are sick of Joao's grousing, perhaps it's time to come and sit with us. Bring your mug and you can share our Grogo," said Carlos to the white haired man, who appeared to be in his early fifties.

"I'll be happy to do that," he said, nimbly jumping off the stool and settling into the space offered by Carlos.

"I'm Carlos Pires and this is Francisco da Silva - call him Cisco. We've left our houses and our land and hope to leave this island. In the meantime we're going to spend our last dollar on some food and drink. Join in."

"Thanks gentlemen. I am Captain John Manderer. If you want to leave Cape Verde I have a ship and I need crew. Why do you want to go?"

"Well Captain there are nine islands that make up Cape Verde," said Cisco after a long pull on his Grogo. "There is ours called St. Nicholas or Christmas Island. There is Fogo or Fire Island, in English, and seven others. Each island has two constant companions - drought and starvation; the one following the other. There is no Christmas on St. Nicholas Island and on Fogo (Fire Island), there is nothing but fire. The Fogo Volcano is always active. Rivers of boiling lava constantly threaten the settlements. The creeping death, as we call it, regularly engulfs whole villages. Every island has trouble of one kind or another Some people are resigned to living under these shadows, but not me and not Carlos; we are leaving."

"Cisco's cousin, a poet and author, has written that 25 per cent of all Cape Verdeans will be leaving the homeland by the 1950s, so you should have had no trouble finding sailors for your ship in Fogo," Carlos noted. "Why've you come to St. Nicholas?"

"Yes Captain. Why have you come here?," Cisco added.

"Because I need 30 sailors at a minimum for the voyage to America and in Fogo there were less than 20 willing to sign on, so I decided to ......"

"Do not say anymore," Cisco interrupted, "Carlos and I will sign on right now if it means we can sail to the United States."

"You mightn't say that after you find out what kind of a ship it is," said Manderer.

"If it floats, we are in," Cisco told him.

"Wait a minute," Carlos held up his hand and motioned to Cisco to be silent for a moment. He squinted his eyes and looked at the Captain. "I want to know. What kind of a ship is it?"

"She's called the Lynette C and she's a beauty. She's a sailing ship - the last commercially operated three masted schooner in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Also the last of her kind in all of New England. I spent $7,000 refitting her after I bought her and she looks as pretty as a movie star."

"A sailing ship?" they wondered in unison.

"Yes. A sailing ship. I sailed her from New Bedford to Cape Verde in just 32 days. We had five paying passengers and a cargo of one piano, four automobiles, 10,000 board feet of pine lumber, 40 thousand pounds of cement, and various household goods and bundles of clothing sent from people in New Bedford to friends and relatives. It was a very profitable voyage for me since I did not have to pay for fuel. But, when I landed in Fogo most of my crew left me for modern ships and none of the sailors that have joined the crew have ever worked on a sailing ship before. They won't go aloft to set the sails. If you can and you will, then I will take you on as First and Second Mates and I will pay you well."

"What cargo will we be carrying?" Carlos wondered.

"We will have 20 paying passengers and a cargo of 250 tons of salt."

"Captain Manderer. Allow me to me pour us all another drink and I will ask you a further question or two. If Carlos and I like your answers, then I am pretty sure we will sign on and help you get a full crew."

Cisco extracted from the Captain a contract for permanent employment as well as his promise to help the two men gain citizenship in the U.S.

The next morning they saw the Lynette C for the first time. She was big and beautiful. Just a bit shorter than an American football field, the ship was 260 feet long with 29 cabins and 58 berths.

Sailors all their lives, though in much smaller vessels, Carlos and Cisco soon became familiar with the ship and within a few hours showed great skill in setting and unsetting the sails on all three masts.

Captain Manderer came on board in late afternoon and was impressed by the innate skill of his two new mates. He shared the news that he had just that day signed a contract to transport 30 Cape Verdean cranberry bog workers to Cape Cod. This was in addition to the 20 people that had already booked passage. He reasoned that he could put 18 men into the nine cabins he still had vacant and place the other 12 men in the 58 crewmen's births.

Cisco said that he and Carlos would talk to the cranberry men and find out which ones had some fishing or sailing experience. Those that did, could be recruited as crew. Along with the 18 men they already had, this would bring them up to the needed complement of 30.

Captain Manderer ticked off a list of the ship's needs. The jobs of Captain and Quartermaster, who handles the operation of the ship on a day to day basis, were filled by Manderer himself and old Josiah Spant, who had been Quartermaster on the voyage from the States and had served well.

Carlos and Cisco occupied the First and Second Mates' slots. They spoke with the cranberry workers and found that many of them were able seamen who had worked in the packet trade between the islands. They were easily able to muster as many men as was needed.

Pedro Andrade was appointed as the Bosin because he had held the position on small packet ships that ran between Fogo and some of the other islands. The Bosin's job is supervision of the ship's supplies and maintenance of the vessel.

Jorge Fonseca had been a navigator in government service so he was selected for that job. Similarly they found men who had worked as carpenters and slotted them as carpenter and carpenter's mate.

Because he had been an orderly in a hospital, Artur Bernardo was appointed ship's surgeon, though he would be expected to do little more than dispense aspirins and perform first aid.

The job of cooking & running the kitchen fell to the Coelho brothers who in better times had owned a restaurant.

Lastly, they found Johnny Gomes a local hunter and fisherman who would act as their Striker. The Striker needs no nautical skills. His job is to supplement the food stocks by fishing, shooting sea birds, or hunting when they are ashore.

The rest of the crew would be trained as deckhands and would learn to set the sails, as well as clean and maintain the craft.

Chapter Three - Shipping off to Massachusetts

The Lynette C began her voyage to New Bedford at nine a.m. on October 3, 1949 in bright sunshine and a favorable wind. She was 32 feet across and her mainmast was 145 feet high. Under full sail, powered by more than 10,000 feet of canvas, she quickly reached 16 knots in calm seas.

Most of those watching from shore as she left, felt uncertain that the old schooner would safely make it to the United States.

Those on board were much more sure of themselves. The infectious optimism of the Captain and crew buoyed their spirits.

When they were four hours out, the cook; assisted by the assistant cook, a cabin boy, and the carpenters, began hauling planks and wooden sawhorses to the deck. They fashioned a 20 foot long table and covered it with white linen, before bringing out a special celebratory feast.

The Captain sat at the head of the table, eating with the first of two shifts. Tony Coelho, the twinkly eyed chief cook, began passing out steaming bowls of a stew that had been simmering since even before the ship was launched.

"What is this food? It's delicious," asked Manderer.

"Captain, this is Catchupa," Tony replied, "It is our favored food on the islands. It has beef and beans and hominy. When my brother and I ran the restaurant on Fogo, this was our best seller. On the side, in the smaller dish, is what we call Xerem, another feast staple made of dried corn."

The Captain was well pleased with his cook, for like an army, a ship does indeed travel on its stomach. As the wind ruffled his thin white hair, he looked up at the wind-stuffed sail on the mizzenmast, the shortest of the three masts, and felt good about the chances of great profitability of sailing vessels, even into the 1950s.

Manderer had served with competence as a deckhand, mate and finally Captain in a long career at sea. When he was in his late 30s he bought his first fishing vessel and plied the waters from New Bedford to Cape Cod. Many days his ship had the top catch at the docks and soon he had enough money saved for a second ship. Within five years his fleet numbered six fishing and four cargo vessels.

His business was number one in the port of New Bedford, which was the number one port in the entire United States in terms of dollar value of the catch. New Bedford has been the highest grossing port for many decades. Even into the 2000s, it still brought in the most revenue, although an Alaskan fishing community sometimes had a higher tonnage.

All of Captain Manderer's boats were motorized, modern and had the latest safety equipment. But one day he heard that the historic schooner, the Lynette C was for sale. She had a storied history in packet trade and had made dozens of transatlantic crossings. He was intrigued by the thought of going from Cape Cod or Fall River to Cape Verde under sail and not having to pay for fuel.

When he learned that the owners only wanted $15,000 for her, he went to them with cash and bought the boat the very next day.

After refitting the ship and securing a cargo for the first crossing, Captain Manderer began recruiting a crew. He was warned by friends and business associates that he was making a grave error, yet the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to - not only be the owner of a sailing ship, but actually captain it himself.

After making the decision to personally go on the voyage, Manderer pressed harder to complete the selection of personnel. Much of the crew he hired were Cape Verdean men anxious to go back for a visit to their homeland. They were smart and they were eager, but none had actually ever crewed a three-masted sailing ship and this bothered him some.

The problem was solved one night over Dawson Ale at the Gold Crown Tavern on Acushnet Avenue in New Bedford. Captain Manderer was drinking the locally brewed ale in the company of some of his crew when one of the men pointed to a rail thin old man in a pea coat and sailor's cap seated by himself in a booth in the back of the room.

"That's the man you should get to run the ship. That's old Captain Josiah Spant from Cape Cod. He ran packet ships all around the world for fifty years."

Manderer took a pitcher of Dawson's Ale and walked toward's the old salt's booth. Wispy white hair fringed his mostly bald head and a hard, pinched look was drawn on his face, but he smiled a broad, toothy grin when the Captain offered the Dawson's in exchange for a seat.

Manderer introduced himself and extended his hand.

"Don't think me rude, Captain," said the aged seaman, "but I have no hand to shake with. At least not a right hand."

Without being asked to, Spant spun the tale of his life's history.

"It was in nineteen and twenty-nine, when I was first mate on the Johnny B out of Fall River, that my troubles began.

The Captain was an idiot who had money but no sailing experience when he bought the ship. The Quartermaster was a drunk who was pukin' in the scuppers when we encountered the worst storm I have ever seen.

Naturally with the Quartermaster out of commission and the Captain an ass, I ordered the sails down. But the Captain came on deck and started screaming that we needed to keep the sails up to complete the trip on time so he could make his money. He overruled me and forced the men to reset the sails. In less than five minutes they were in shreds and it took us over a week to repair them.

Well, we finally got to Cape Verde and were going to island hop for a while, dropping off and picking up goods before heading back to the States. We were late in casting off from Brava Island for Fogo.

Because we had a fool for a Captain and a rum-dum for the second in command, the crew was always careless and somebody failed to release the shore line in time. When it snapped, it took my right hand with it.

I was in bloody agony for more than 24 hours until we finally reached Fogo, where they had to amputate my arm. The Johnny B sailed three days later, without me. Even if I was able, I wouldn't have gone on that cursed ship for any amount of money. The boat sank two weeks later in a minor storm. Twenty-eight passengers and twenty-two crew went to the bottom - including the rotten Captain and his addled Quartermaster."

Spant had made more than three dozen crossings in Three-masted and even Four and Five masted ships. Impressed with the ancient sailor, Manderer hired him on the spot, sealing the bargain with a final glass of Dawson's Ale. Manderer told Spant that he would be his Quartermaster and would have complete command of the day to day operation of the vessel.

Blessed with excellent weather and luck that made for smooth sailing, they landed at Fogo in just over a month.

The return trip which had started so well, began to take an ominous turn on the tenth day. A pounding gale came in from the North and smashed the rudder, causing the mizzenmast to crash down on the deck. Last in line and at about 100 feet, it is the shortest of the three masts.

Mr. Spant came to the rescue. With nimble movements that belied his age and infirmity, the Quartermaster rigged an improvised series of wires that allowed the damaged rudder to operate as good as new. Carlos and Cisco were constantly at the old man's side, helping him in any way they could, and helping themselves by absorbing his encyclopedic sailing knowledge.

As October became November in the 32nd day of the voyage, hurricane season began and the ship was blasted by a second storm that drove them back some 300 miles.

When the torment subsided they were becalmed. For five long days The Lynette C made no forward progress. Foodstocks began to dwindle dangerously, but once again the ship was rescued by a veteran crew member.

The Striker, Johnny Gomes, fetched a coil of rope and lowered a dory to the water. He spread chum on the surface, stood up in the little boat as it bobbed alongside the ship, and built a noose on the end of the rope. To the amazement of his 67 shipmates, he began twirling the rope in long circles above his head and lassoed sharks as they began churning through the bait. His long. bushy red beard danced like a flaming fire when he pulled on the straining line and dragged the beasts into the dory.

"It tastes just like chicken boys," he shouted as he hauled in ten of the beasts in a single afternoon. Setting out bits of the sharks and traps in empty lifeboats, he caught dozens of sea birds. He even snared large, meaty sea turtles. He thus provided thousands of pounds of meat, fish and fowl for the passengers and crew at a time when it was most needed.

The Top Five Super Markets in the U.S. and a "Food Fight" at one of Them

by Bill Russo

April 2015:  Consumer reports has just listed its picks for the top five super market chains in the United States.  Coming in at Number One  Wegman's,  a Rochester NY based regional chain of about a hundred stores.  There is no Wegman's on Cape Cod where I live but there is at least one in Massachusetts (Chestnut Hill).  The family controlled firm does about $7 billion a year.


The second best super market according to
Consumer reports is the fabulous Florida chain, Publix.  It is wholly owned by employees, past and present and has about a thousand stores, most of them in "The Sunshine State."  A solid entrant in the 'Fortune 500', Publix generates an annual revenue stream of more than $27 billion dollars.

Landing the third spot on the CR list is the quirky California 400 store behemoth "Trader Joe's". While regular super markets carry some 50,000 items, TJs has less than 5,000 and most of those carry the TJ label.  Despite the limited selection the stores have a cult like following, not to mention "Two Buck Chuck", a cheap wine designed to sell at $2.00 a bottle although for various reasons, "Two Buck Chuck" is often  "Three Buck Chuck", which does not sound as good to the ear or feel as good to the pocketbook.  TJ's has a regional office in Massachusetts and a number of stores in the Bay State and New England.  There is only one TJ's on Cape Cod.  It is in the capital of the Cape, Hyannis and is next to the Flagship Store of the Christmas Tree Shoppes.

The fourth best store group on the CR chart is a 100 store grocery outfit called 'Fareway', based in Ohio.

The fifth best super market chain in the "States" is the New England based "Market Basket."  Market Basket (AKA Demoulas Super Markets) operates about six dozen locations in New England but has just one store near Cape Cod, home to 200,000 year round residents and about a million seasonal people and tourists. 

The Cape store is located at the very start of the peninsula, by the Canal.  Like TJ's, this chain has a cult following and some people make a weekly 60 mile trip up the Mid Cape highway  from as far away as Wellfleet, Eastham and even P-town to get to that lone Cape Cod store.  

Speaking of Market Basket..........................................

The Market Basket Family Wars are about to go to the movies.  A total of 607 people reached into their wallets and drew out $66,790.00 for a "Kickstarter" campaign to fund a feature documentary called "Food Fight" that will depict the story of the wild family battle that nearly ruined a Massachusetts based regional supermarket with 71 stores in three states.

Like the American Civil War more than two centuries before, families were split in two and brother fought brother in skirmishes that could have meant the death of the billion dollar chain.  Starting more than 25 years ago, the conflict came down to a last stand in the Summer of 2014, when 'cousin' fired 'cousin' to set the stage for the final battle.


All during  the summer of 2014, the drama was enacted in scores of towns,  involving more than ten thousand employess in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine.

When cousin Arthur was fired by the other cousin, also Arthur, as the company's CEO it set off the war which the New York Times labelled "The last stand for the middle class."  The charismatic 'fired' cousin, Arthur T. Demoulas,  rallied the thousands of non union employees against a new management team.

It's pretty confusing but was the highest drama in New England all last Summer.  It even got more press than Tom Brady's under inflated footballs.

Jay Childs is the man behind the documentary and he appeared recently on New Hampshire Public Radio to explain his project. He hopes to begin screening "FOOD FIGHT" by this Summer.   Here's the link to the transcript of the interview:  http://nhpr.org/…/portsmouth-filmmakers-documentary-chronic…

Will the NFL Make Brady Sit Out the Super Bowl?

by Bill Russo

With the gnarled fingers of suspicion pointing directly to Brady as the DEFLATOR, one wonders if the penalty handed down from the "League" will be to declare Tom ineligible to play.

Not to worry. The Patriots are already recruiting guys to fall on their swords and protect the QB.

Most likely, an assistant coach or some other staffer will get fired for "Deflate Gate" and get a Golden Handshake. That's why they call them 'Fallguys'.

Here's another scenario........

"Blame it on the dead guy" is an often successful dodge used in the business world to deflect responsibility for illegal, immoral, or unethical actions. If someone in the Patriots 'family' has passed recently, then that person will be discovered to be the one who doctored the balls.

 It's rough being from the State that sounds like a sneeze : 

Mass 'ah choo' setts. You're always having to say you're sorry. First we had to apologize for the Kennedies (or is it Kennedys): Now we have to apologize for the Patriots ! ! ! !

The Codfresh: An Eerie Lake unlike any you Have Ever Seen

by Bill Russo

Here's a snippet from "Swamp Tales: Horrors from the Hockomock Swamp and the Cape Cod Marshes": This section describes an unearthly Cape Cod Lake and is a prelude to the sad tale of Jimmy Catfish.

"Codfresh Lake is like no other body of water that I have ever seen. Some say it was created by the great hurricane of 1937. Others avow that it never was created at all, but is simply some sort of a cosmic joke. It is only called a lake because there is no word in English for what it really is.

In the middle of Cape Cod sometime in the early 1900s; from Nantucket Sound Northwards, a salt river snaked its tidal way from Dennis Port towards Brewster, then veered sharply West in the direction of Provincetown - but it never got there.

A rogue stream from Harwich, began a trip East at Long Pond and took on girth when it married a rivulet from Hinckley's Pond. The conjoined rivers had a baby when they ran through Seymour Pond, about three miles from Route six. The newly expanded raging fresh-water river set a course for Dennis Port - but it never got there.

The Salt River rushed on to meet the Fresh River combination. The mingle of these entities did not bring forth a marriage of the headwaters; only an uneasy truce that created an odd body of water six miles long and a half mile wide. Divided into three sections; it consisted of a tiny sea of salt water two miles long on the East end; a small fresh-water lake of two miles in length on the West end; and in the middle, was a two mile area of unearthly water that the locals called 'The Brack'.

The three sections of the Codfresh were as different in color as in composition. The salty part was a bright, inviting blue, while at the opposite end of the lake, the freshwater section had a brownish/black hue. In the middle; the brack took on the gray pall of a World War Two battleship.

Airplanes generally avoided Codfresh Lake. Some pilots reported feeling queasy as they flew over the motley waters. Other fliers said their engines sputtered as they crossed the Brack.

Codfish were known to swim in the East and Trout basked near the Western shore; but in the middle it was said that strange fish existed. Fish that were neither salt nor fresh; but simply 'Brackfish'.

The six miles of land that was filled by the uneasy entrenchment of the salt and fresh rivers, had contained high points and low. It was both forested and bare, as well as rocky and sandy.

As it was being formed during the wrestling match of the rivers, the Codfresh waters took down trees, hills and hollows. The result was the largest lake on the island of Cape Cod, lying mostly in Harwich but partly in Dennis. Oddly enough, the shape of the lake mirrored the shape of Cape Cod! It looked like a flexed human arm."

Swamp Tales is currently Number 70 on the Amazon sales chart for Kindle short reads. It is priced at 99 cents.