Historical September 1985 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
(Editor’s Note: September’s chef is Paul Repetto who lives with his wife Paula and son Reeve in the 6100 block of Kingsbury.
Although relative newcomers to the neighborhood, Paul and Paula have taken active roles in The Times—they hosted the cookie contest party in November and Paula has helped with layout.
The editor, the editor’s husband, and photographer King Schoenfeld had the opportunity to test this recipe and all three enthusiastically endorse it.) by Paul Repetto Each year when school let out, my father packed up the Pontiac and we left Boston for the summer.
The railway tracks ran on a trestle the full length of Atlantic Avenue then, and the trip began by weaving in and out between the steel posts until we reached South Station, still crowded with soldiers and sailors even as victory over Germany appeared closer. Across a small channel, we passed the Boston Navy Yard where, unknown to me then, Paula’s father was fitting out the cruiser Vincennes before sailing to the Philippines and the Battle of Leyte Gulf.
The huge Quincy shipyard further South was the last reminder that the war was on. Thereafter, Route 3 wound slowly through the countryside . and occasional small towns.
For a boy not yet ten, in other words, it was a dull drive.
We amused ourselves,’ my brother, my sister and I, by playing cats and dogs.
Two points for sighting a cat and one for a dog.
My mother refereed, though by what method she determined whether one or the other of us had actually seen the dog that “just ran around the corner behind the barn” is unknown.
My sister, not yet four, was outgunned anyway.
We often stopped at North River for a fried clam roll.
Not the kind served by Howard Johnson, but a soft Sunshine hotdog roll overflowing with fat clams that still tasted of the mudflat which until that morning had been home.
It was the first taste of summer.
Our house was in a small cove known as Rocky Nook on Duxbury Bay, a bit North of the entrance to Plymouth harbor.
It stood on pilings just up the hill from the beach.
The salt air and sun had weathered the cedar shingles to a deep brown.
The trim paint around the windows was white.
A screened porch, on which a variety of rocking chairs waited, extended across the front and around one side.
In the back the grass was always green, fed by an unending supply of nutrients from the cesspool.
A ramshackle garage stood just in front of the woods that framed the yard. Spiders that would have given new meaning to Woody Allen’s phrase “as big as a Buick” prowled its dark corners.
The garage was not a place where one voluntarily spent much time.
The bay was shallow and when the tide went out the mudflats appeared, broken only by narrow boat channels marked with dead trees. You could dig for clams with a rake, which most of the adults did, but we mostly walked barefoot, with the mud over our ankles, looking for the telltale squirt that showed where a clam was hiding, then feeling with our toes until we found him.
If you were lucky, you could get a dozen or so this way before the tide came in.
If you were unlucky, you stepped on a razorback clam, which ended the day’s activity, not to mention the next two or three as well.
When the tide was in, we sped around the bay in motorboats.
We had a twelvefooter with a 10-horse Johnson motor.
My father gave it to my mother for her birthday, but we didn’t talk about that much.
The most fun of all was to go up the Jones River, a narrow, twisty river fringed by salt marsh where Frank Holmes lived.
At one time there were a number of boatyards on the river, well known for their Jones River skiffs, but those- days were long gone.
There were only a few houses now, like Frank’s, tucked in the trees back of the marsh grass. Just past his house was a crabapple orchard, and we would often pick a bushel or so, load up the motorboats and proceed to have an apple fight out on the river.
The apples later washed up on the beach, the tides having had their way, and our apple fights were not looked upon fondly by hardly anyone. Frank came to our house often and sat on the porch with my mother until just before dark, good company during the week while my father was working in Boston. “Boys been at it again,” he’d say. “Throwin’ apples.” Once in a while my mother would ground us for this infraction, but not often. Mostly she just regretted having birthdays.
This oyster stew recipe came from Frank Holmes.
He got it from Captain Barlow, an oldtimer from down in Plymouth. It’s straightforward, like Frank. Frank Holmes’ Oyster Stew 1 pt. oysters 1/2 cup clam broth 2 Tbl. butter Worcestershire sauce 1 qt. milk 1/2 cup light cream Salt, pepper Scald milk in double boiler, add salt, pepper and clam broth. Turn down heat. Add oysters and cook until the edges curl. Add warmed cream and a drop or two of Worcestershire. Take care not to let the milk boil. Cornbread goes good with it. Serves 4; more if someone doesn’t like oysters.
Original photograph caption
Paul Repetto’s oyster stew meal. Photo by King Schoenfeld, identified in the editor’s introduction. The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, September 1985, page 6.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, September 1985.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Archival transcription note: Recipe lists two tablespoons butter but printed directions do not specify when to add it; source retained without supplying instructions.
Original source: SD_Times1985_09.pdf, printed page(s) 6; PDF page(s) 6.
