Short Stories of Growing up in Milford and Other Faraway Places

By Jamie Boss

This memoir is about alternative paths of viewing life. How the creative mind can set its own course. How youthful adventure can grow into something others may find terrifying. How youth can be fortunate to survive the folly of its own nature. How consequences are learned by practical experiences. How practical experiences become the most efficient teacher.

Having led an unconventional childhood, I was always captivated by unusual circumstances during my formative years. I grew up viewing life differently. To me, dangerous was adventurous. A challenge was something that required action. I sought creativity where others sought common place. The word “trite” was not in my vocabulary.

Creative inspiration pushed me towards my life’s goals. As I grew older, it was my love of unusual experiences that developed my mindset. I listened carefully to the advice those over 60 offered. I questioned what others ignored. I chose the direction of my life based on fulfillment rather than wealth. This memoir was written out of pure joy. Part adventure, part insight of the human condition, and part foolhardy examples of youth; This book will reveal a colorful perspective on life.

Happy reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369400609

Jamie Boss

Jamie began his career writing training programs for an automotive technical school during the 70’s. The lesson plans had to be easily understood and written in such a way they enticed the student to enjoy the process. During the 80’s, his on-site technical training seminars for corporations encompassed the entire east coast. It was his ability to translate complicated matters into understandable presentations that made him successful. During the 90’s, Jamie transitioned into video production, producing training videos, and corporate communications for Connecticut and New York businesses. His ability to write effective scripts soon brought him into the world of television commercials. Each 30 second commercial had to fit into no more than 70 spoken words. By the time he retired from television, he had written, shot, edited, and produced over 650 commercials. His technique of writing clear, meaningful, and heartfelt narratives made the transition into short story writing straightforward. His next book is a memoir of the year he spent in Vietnam with the First Infantry Division in 1968-1969. He has taken a summer writing course at Yale University, is a member of the UCLA Word Commando veterans writing group, and a member of the Westport Writers Workshop.

Book preview

SHORT STORIES

of

Growing up in

Milford

and other faraway places

JAMIE BOSS

Copyright © 2023 by Jamie Boss.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Author photo by Andrew Delaney.

Cover photos by Jamie Boss.

Rev. date: 06/26/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

853832

Contents

The Big World of Small-Town Life

The long walk to China

Show and Tell

Not our cup of tea

The Field Kids

In search of Lou Gehrig

The Old YMCA camp

Carried by runner

The Hurricane

The Biggest Tree in Milford

The Devon Bridge

A Huckleberry Moment

Little Gramp

New Hampshire, Please

First Aid

Lion’s Head

Milford Harbor

The Christmas Present

Naked on Boot Spur

The Box

Monsoon Meeting

Night Attack

A Flash of Red

Are you Specialist Boss?

Reckoning on Ragged Mountain

The First Sail

The Cutter

The Old Lion

The Great Nor’easter

The Next Fifty Years

The Tractor

The Barn

About the Author

montage.jpgPat.jpg

For my wife Pat.

I could not have written this without her.

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The Big World of Small-Town Life

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E very couple of generations in the United States we see dramatic changes in the towns and cities we grow up in. The most dynamic changes occur, for the most part, in small towns that are close to larger cities. I grew up in the once small town of Milford, Connecticut during the 50’s and 60’s. Life progressed at a much slower pace and the town was the typical centralized New England community focused around a large green in the center of town. Everything you needed was downtown. From seafood shops, grocery stores, a place to buy a wedding dress, a shop to buy a glove for your rising little league star, a small shop to purchase any-and-all plastic models for the inquisitive child and a camera store that had everything the aspiring photographer could wish for. The Hospital was close to the green and a busy working and pleasure craft harbor was a stone’s throw away. There was always a place to have a quick meal or cup of coffee and a theater that brought great movies into the minds of young boys and girls.

Milford had a beautiful river running through the downtown, with a picturesque waterfall and memorial granite bridge. Hidden among the surrounding neighborhoods were many small and medium sized factories that provided a livelihood for many of the residents. The High School was also downtown, which would unleash a hoard of teenagers to the downtown shops and eateries by mid-afternoon. It was life in full view of all who ventured downtown. A gazebo on the green inspired many holiday events and with every important holiday came the grand parades with marching bands, boy scouts and girl scouts, aging World War Two veterans in dress uniforms and the local dignitaries strutting to the beat of the bands’ fanfares.

It was a true community. Easter egg hunts, Little League games, YMCA camps, concerts, flags lining the streets on holidays and a strange, raised booth where a traffic cop directed traffic through the very center of the town. At noon there was always a sound of the Fire Department’s siren to let us know it was lunch time. The Milford Library was a hand-built field stone edifice that provided the doorway to knowledge for those so inclined. Surrounding the green also provided the business spaces for drug stores, doctors, lawyers, and soda fountains. Anything you needed for your home could be found in the local hardware stores. I can remember clearly how magical it felt to walk downtown after school and being overwhelmed by the choices before us.

My childhood home was quite different than most Milford homes. Our property was out in the farm country of Milford, on Herbert Street. To the north of our house was a huge cornfield. Our sense of the seasons was generated by the state of the cornfield. To the south of our property was a deep marsh area leading up to a farmhouse in the distance. An easterly view was 300 feet of woods, a stream and a long dirt path that led up to our front door. Come snow or rain, the trek to get groceries into the house was no easy task. To the west was the railroad tracks, beyond which was a vast abandoned sand pit and a grand view of the Housatonic River, with Sikorsky’s Helicopter plant in the background. The railroad track came within 30 feet of our house and when a freight train rumbled north towards the Valley, our house would shake as it passed.

For whatever reason my mother chose this house, it was never known to us kids. Essentially, the house was built into the side of a steep hill. The living room was 20’ by 30’ with a possibly 14’ ceiling. The hill side wall was field stone, and the southern and eastern walls were framed glass. There were about 25 window frames, with each window 3’ x 5’. The roof was flat, and you could step directly onto the roof from the rear of the house. The eastern edge of the roof had a 20’ drop to the ground. The kitchen, bathroom and other sleeping areas were also built into the hill like a mountain cabin.

My bedroom was a loft hanging from the ceiling in the living room. I would climb up a ladder to the loft, which was fenced in by a four-foot-high wall. Looking out from my bedroom, the surrounding brook and forest was my only view. At night, I could see the headlight of the passing train and the tracks swerved to the right. Visiting guests sitting in the living room at night would see the train coming right at the house, only to have a sense of relief as the train swerved to the right at what seemed to be the last moment before it crashed into the house.

My mother was an artistic recluse and seldom paid close attention to what her children were up to. My brothers and I would spend countless hours and days roaming the wilds along the Housatonic River and forests along its banks. My dad was always off couching little league, pop warner football or basketball, and knew very little about our whereabouts. Growing up we were our own free agents. Our creative minds would point us to many adventures during the early part of our lives.

The day JFK was shot, my mother kept me home from school. Her astrological studies indicated something terrible would be happening in the world that day and it was her choice to keep me from school for the day. Being a bright sunny day and nothing better to do, I hopped into my father’s old Plymouth station wagon, long since abandoned in our back yard, and started it up. Flipping it into gear, I popped over the railroad track crossing and drove into the sandpit. As I brodyed left and right in the loose sand, I managed to flip the car on its side. Undaunted, I walked up to the farmer’s house up the street and got him to come down with his tractor and pull the car upright. Driving home, I parked the car next to the cornfield where my father wouldn’t notice the scars and walked into the house. As I walked in, my mother was sitting in the living room, holding her head, and crying. It was at that moment that Walter Cronkite was announcing to the world that JFK was dead. Such was the nature of my upbringing in Milford, Connecticut.

In stark contrast to those days, I now live in a small town in northeast Connecticut that was, and still is, an agricultural-based community. Population a little over 1700, Hampton still has tractors clanking down the street and farm fields growing hay and corn for the local farm animals. The town counsel worries about such things as limiting the number and type of businesses that move into town, light pollution, setting a minimum building lot at 1.84 acres per home and caring for less than 100 grammar school and High School students. The Fire Department is completely volunteer, there is no Police Department, and the closest hospital is some ten miles away. You can still live in a trailer on property you own. Many of the local houses have outhouses from yesteryear, as does my home. No longer in use, its three holes brings into focus a community that has changed little in the last two hundred years. If you own three acres you can shoot at targets with a rifle, as long as you are 500 feet from the nearest neighbor. If you have ten acres you can hunt on your property. The sound of rifle fire is always present during the warmer months. If someone hears a rifle shot in Milford, at least 3 police cars will show up. If someone fires a shot in Hampton, more than likely someone will say Oh, what’s-his-name is target shooting again and the matter is soon dropped. As the state police department takes a good twenty minutes to arrive in an emergency, it is likely that every home in Hampton has a firearm for self-protection.

In Hampton you are not a full-fledged resident, in the minds of old timers, until you have a couple of generations buried in the local graveyards. You might have lived here for 25 years, yet you are still in the Newcomer category. The local planning and zoning board, school board and Town Selectmen rarely look outside of the towns history when making plans the future. Planning in the country is making sure there is a good snowplow truck, a lift truck for clearly overhanging trees, and getting the budget down to where there is never a balance forward. Your water comes from a well on your own property and your yard has a septic system. Most people in the know have a tractor that can be used for multiple tasks on your property and farm animals are very common. In Milford neighbors often complain about animal noises from livestock and planning and zoning acts accordingly. Here, livestock noises (and odors) are normal. My wife and I breed Pygora goats and our two closest neighbors raise chickens. The great corn field below our property is covered in cow manure twice a year and the aroma is something that is carried long distances by the valley wind.

Self-sufficiency is the key word when describing what it takes to live in Hampton. We have a tractor with a backhoe and bucket, an ATV with a winch and plow, a gas-powered hole digger, two very good chain saws, a full carpentry shop, an old junky pickup to bring home lumber, haul garbage to the transfer station and haul hay and straw for our goats. A snow blower makes the path to the goat pens during a snowstorm, and we have four wood stoves to back up our oil heat should power fail. When power fails, we also power our well pump. As backup we have a separate great dug well eight feet across with a bucket and pulley to raise water in an emergency. Our home is a converted livestock barn built around 1891. As the barn is built into