"MGG" wrote in news:ZcLQg.5109$7I1.122
@newssvr27.news.prodigy.net:

There's nothing like your first
boat!


I bet your son loved the old boat more than he does the new one everyone is
scared to death they're gonna make that first scratch on. I hate new boats
for that reason. It's a BOAT to enjoy, not a work of art that must be
protected like the Mona Lisa, spending every waking hour polishing and
cleaning and trying to make absolutely sanitary in every way. Oh, I hate
to go aboard those things.

My first boat was a big, ol' oak rowboat from my grandfather, my Chrismas
present when I was 8. Christmas on Owasco Lake in upstate NY is a terrible
time to give a little kid a rowboat. I opened all the presents with my
cousins at my grandparent's house on the lake, always a family reunion if
the snow wasn't too deep to get there. The men would have gone hunting on
my grandfather's dairy farm the day before and spent that day preparing the
pheasants for cooking, a family tradition now long lost.

So, I'm done opening the few presents I got and wondered why my
grandparents hadn't given me anything. After everyone had cleaned up
Grandma's living room and the adults were hugging their coffee cups, my
grandfather calls me over to that wicker rocking chair I grew up in and
hands me this little ring box all wrapped up and says, "Merry Christmas,
Larry". I opened the box and in it was a rusty padlock key on a little
chain. "What does this go to?", I asked. "Oh, you'll have to find a lock
it fits, but it's here at the lake, somewhere.", he said with a smirk at my
dismay.

I tried it in all the locks I could find and it didn't fit. "Wait, I think
the snow may have covered a few more.", he said. The men went out to his
odd little double garage, one side for the car and his workbench, the other
side a little garage to store the boats in winter. They shoveled the new
snow away from the garage so the door would open, and the key fit
perfectly, of course. OPening the door, I found the old oak rowboat, all
restored in secret by my grandfather.

It was painted the same green as the tables at our state park because my
grandfather knew someone. The gunwale and inside was sanded and varnished
to a beautiful shine, hundreds of tiny wooden ribs perfectly curved to fit
the hull which formed the deck. There were 3 seats. One to sit and steer
the outboard tiller, one in the middle to row with the matching varnished
oars in there gleaming brass oarlocks and a little one up in the bow. On
the stern was an antique Elto tiny outboard motor I learned in the spring
would bite you really hard if your and got too far over the gas tank near
the spark plug's knurled screw that held the spark wire onto. Of course,
the rope wrapped around the fully exposed flywheel in the little groove to
start it and the spark handle stuck out from under it to set the precision
timing. There was a little cam under it that opened the throttle plate on
the tiny float carb. A one quart gascan for refilling the 1 quart gas tank
I always forgot to open the vent screw on completed the massive 1hp power
plant. One of my grandfather's life-long friends gave him the motor that
had been stored for years. The two of them totally disassembled it and
restored it like new, even finding the Elto logos that made it look
original. I suppose it was as much their boat as it was mine.

They came out several hours later to retrieve me from my Christmas present
before the frostbite killed me. It would be months before the lake melted
enough to roll Grandpa's dock out into the lake on its big steel wheels
before I could launch the boat, having Christmas morning all over again.
Of course, it sank until the wood swelled and sealed itself. I bailed for
days with a coffee can...(c;

I had all the latest safety equipment....a whistle, a floating boat cushion
with two cloth handles, the gas can to get home and a snack from Grandma.

When I joined the Navy in 1964 to avoid being drafted for cannon fodder in
Vietnam, the boat was handed down to my cousin, Stevie, and, like all my
other stuff, disappeared. I don't think I want to know what happened to it
and spoil my memories of the thousands of hours me and my friends spent
tooling around the lake at 5 knots, camping out under it on the rocky shore
a long ways from any camps along the railroad's property on the western
shore. A lot of fish died in that boat, too, big Bullheads on their way to
my grandmother's kitchen.

My mother was horrified but didn't put up much of a fuss, as usual. "He'll
be fine. I taught him.", my grandfather would tell her....(c;

Boot up Google Earth and enter:
Moravia, NY, my hometown. There are two roads leading out of town to the
northwest, one on each side of The Inlet, the creek that feeds Owasco Lake.
Follow the Eastern one towards the lake. Near the SE corner of the lake, a
dirt road forks off to the left and ends up at Southeast-On-Owasco, a
little lake community of shacks and cottages populated in my youth by
factory workers from Smith Corona Typewriters in Groton, NY, and the local
workers and farmers from the town, in the mud choked, leech-infested, weed-
to-wind-up-on-your-prop, Southeast corner of Owasco Lake. Where the road
splits left and right as it enters the community, see that clump of trees
hiding an old two-story cottage straight ahead if you were coming down the
road? That's where I grew up, mostly. From the time I was about 8 or 9, I
rode my bicycle from my parent's home in Moravia's south side, through town
to that lakehouse, and back, probably 3 or 4 times a week. I knew every
farmyard dog that would come out to chase my bike away....(c;

I was the luckiest poor kid on the planet..............
I'm 60, the last one left to go. It's been one helluva ride......
Don't forget to bring your fishin' pole 'cause you CAN'T USE MINE!