Reprinted from
The Weirs Times Mount
Washington Special Edition
Around the Cracker Barrel - The Selected Works of Ed Allard
SOME sixty-odd years ago I thought nothing
of wolfing down my supper, slippin into a pair of reasonably
non-aromatic sneakers and hiking to the Weirs for the
evening. Today I wince at the thought of walking down
to the comer and back, but in those halcyon days the six
mile jaunt was a mere snap of the fingers. Hitching a
ride never entered my mind. Traffic was sparse, consisting
mostly of fender-flapping model-Ts with wavering headlights
and posed no danger to a teenager
trudging along the highway.
A couple of times I was able to scrounge
up the necessary fare and climb aboard the open air trolley
at Lakeport Square. The twilight ride along the edge of
the lake in the rumbling old car with the sunset gleaming
on the water was all too short and I disembarked reluctantly.
In the early evening the air at the beach
was filled with the aroma of hot dogs sizzling on the
grill and the sweet scent of caramel corn. The fragrant
smells, tantalized my taste buds and I dug down deep in
my pocket for a handful of Walnettos.
From Jim Irwin's Winnipesaukee Gardens I
could hear the tootling of a cornet, the quick rattle
of a drum or a lively riff from a clarinet as the band
tuned up for its evening performance. Lights from the
ballroom frolicked on the smooth surface of the bay and
from a bench on the boardwalk I could settle back and
enjoy the music of Duke Ellington,
Mal Hallet and other big bands as they brought magic to
the summer evening.
I can't recall ever going inside the dance
hall while the music was playing and the dancers were
whirling and gliding over the floor. There were a couple
of good reasons, one being that I never seemed able to
dig up the price of admission. The other reason was that
even if I had managed to get in, I didn't know how to
dance. Oh, I had tried. I was about as graceful as an
inebriated giraffe. My pal, Pete said that I looked like
an arthritic moose trying to sidestep something unpleasant
left on the forest floor.
My brother, who could twinkle his toes with
the best of them, once tried to teach me to dance. While
I cranked up the Victrola, he shoved the dining room table
out of the way and handed me a Wayne King waltz record.
As the music began. I crouched into a Groucho Marx stance
and when he said, 'Go!" promptly stepped on both
of his feet.
When I heard mother and father woo-hooing
and gasping for breath behind the door I got mad. When
my brother suggested that I practice dancing with the
kitchen broom I unlocked my hips and stalked off to the
sanctuary of my bedroom while he checked his feet for
injuries.
Now, for the rime being, the sheer joy of
listening was enough for me and I leaned back on the boardwalk
bench and shut out all else but the sweet music floating
across the water, all the hurts and worries of adolescence
forgotten in the exquisite enchantment of the moment.
Later in the evening I would rise reluctantly
and begin the long walk home, whistling tunelessly as
I recalled melodies that haunted me. The boulevard was
dark now, with only an occasional car rumbling by, but
the night sky was ablaze with thousands of stars, and
fireflies flashed a friendly, greeting as I passed.
My house was dark as I approached it and
I could hear my footsteps softly in the night. At the
door I paused for a moment and sniffed the night air,
then quickly tiptoed up the stairs to my room.
Sleep came quickly, lingering melodies still
echoing in my mind. It had been a perfect day.
