Previously, Part 8: We Were Born to Be Wild.
We Can Climb So High.
I Never Want to Die…
When you don’t have much and you lose what you have, it can be devastating…
I never saw the ‘63 Impala again or any of my worldly possessions I kept in the trunk.
I had no cash in it, and I didn’t have any credit cards.
That was my biggest loss.
When the GOAT died, I parked it on the grass beside the driveway in East Walpole.
The GOAT needed a new convertible top, and they weren’t cheap.
He offered to make me a top for short money using some extra material he had lying around.
The original top was white, and it looked really good.
Although it looked strange, it came out pretty good and didn’t leak.
It looked like arat carwithout any hubcaps, but it was still a GOAT.
I was excited to move into the bungalow in Sharon.
I was sick of sharing a bathroom with two other guys and not having a kitchen.
I met my girlfriend, who later became my wife, at the boat docks.
This is the bungalow as it looks today.
I took a ride by the day before Thanksgiving.
It has a new front door, slide windows, and vinyl siding.
It was called a bungalow then, now it would be atiny houseand all the rage.
It appeared to be unoccupied…
Herbert Silk, a podiatrist in his late 50s, owned the bungalow.
He lived there with his wife and their only child, Marylyn.
His practice was on the second floor.
He parked it in the dirt driveway beside the bungalow on Quincy Street.
I had admired that car for a while, even stopping a few times to take a closer look.
There were only 3,488 made with that engine.
It was an impressive car.
He moved out a couple of years before I was set to move in.
The bungalow sat empty for a while, and there was little interest in it until I came along.
I didn’t care for Mrs.
They were both odd.
She reminded me of Laura in Tennessee Williams’Glass Menagerie.
Herb loved his wife and daughter but was more social and did things independently of them.
Some of his finer moments in life occurred without them.
At least that’s the impression I got from hearing his colorful stories.
According to him, the bungalow was originally one room, more of a large shed.
He and a few of his friends got together and jammed in it.
Herb played the trumpet, and his friends all played various brass instruments.
They’d go out there several times a month and have a grand ole time.
Herb and his musical cohorts were all in their late teens/early 20s at the time.
Swing was the music of their youth.
That’s when Herb decided to build a galley kitchen just behind the main room.
It was calledpickwick pine panelingand was very popular in the ’40s and ’50s.
That’s when Herb decided to add a bedroom so anyone who overindulged could stay over.
They continued jamming for 20 or so years before they decided to rent it out to the doctor.
I enjoyed talking to him.
Because of the bungalow’s close proximity to the boat docks, friends stopped by all night long.
I’d hear ‘em say,“Hey Vin, I got some really good weed.
Wanna smoke a joint?
“Or,“I have some high-quality coke.
Wanna snort a few lines?
“I had to work in the morning, but I often caved and gave in to my shortcomings.
But before it got out of control, I had to put my foot down… Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental…
