Marie Ulmer's bureau and a hidden drawer.

Donny Ireland received a bureau from Marie Ulmer after she died. In it he found some great photographs taken at Goosenecks more than 100 years ago.

This boat, "Yvonne," my grandfather, Lawrence Stone Ireland, built around the turn of the last century. 

The Boston Marathon

Chapter 1

The Boston Marathon

Two men were running along Commonwealth Avenue in their underwear. The second runner was about 50 feet behind the leader, but he seemed to be running his own race, completely ignoring the one ahead. As I was watching, a third runner came into view quite some distance behind the two leaders.

I grabbed a jacket on my way out through the front door and ran the quarter mile distance to where I had seen the runners. The first two had disappeared up the long hill which leads to Boston, but the third man was right in front of me as I came to a stop at Commonwealth Avenue. Then I noticed that he had a bicycle and rider going beside him. As I watched, the rider took a large sponge from the pail hanging on his handlebar and squeezed it right over the runner’s head, drenching him from the top of his head down to his toes.

Before this third man disappeared over the long hill leading to Boston, several more men appeared, accompanied by their bicycles and riders, and soon they too disappeared over the hill.

As no more runners were in sight, I walked home to find my mother was just frying some eggs for brunch. She told me that it was Patriot’s Day and a holiday on this 19th of April and I had been watching the Boston Marathon which was held every year on this particular day.

I was just 3 years old at this time, and I saw two more marathons before we moved to Long Island in New York State. In all three Boston Marathons, there were less than 100 contestants., and I am amazed that there are now thousands of men and women running in this event.

“The Jeermons are Coming!” Whales in War

On August 8th, 1918 I became 5 years old while we were visiting my grandparents in East Dennis on Cape Cod. Their house was perched high above Sesuit Harbor, allowing a good view of the beaches on both sides.

One morning, when the tide was almost completely low, I saw what seemed to be two large boats stranded just below the high water mark. I ran to find my grandfather to tell him what I’d just seen. He said he knew what they were, but he would not tell me until we got down there. All six of us, including both grandparents, my parents, my younger brother Rich, and I soon set out on the quarter mile hike down to the beach. Walking downhill, we could not see the water until we rounded the last turn and then everything came into view. 

Two black whales were just lying on the beach several hundred feet from the water at low tide. At first I was afraid to get near such huge animals, but when I saw them motionless, I walked gingerly around each of them. They were at least 30 feet long, and their heads pointing toward land were about 5 feet thick.

My grandfather touched one them and said, “He is still alive. Come over and feel him!”

The skin felt like fine sandpaper, and there was no slippery scum such as is found on all small fish which are completely covered with scales. Rich and I climbed each whale starting at the horizontal tail and ending at the blowhole on top of the head. The sandpaper texture of the skin was very secure footing, and the flesh twitched each time we took a step. 

(Many years ago I heard that every navy and all the shipbuilders in the world were trying to duplicate this sandpaper surface so that all small boats, large ships and especially submarines could go through water at greater speeds with less power. If they have solved the problem by now, they are keeping it a close secret).

A couple of days later the whales appeared to be dead, and my grandfather hacked off a few steaks from under the layer of blubber. I was standing at the head of the whale while the operation was being performed. Suddenly there was a series of explosions coming from the direction of the Cape Cod Canal. I jumped off the head oto the soft sand and ran toward my mother screaming at the top of my voice, “The Jeermons are coming! The Jeermons are coming!”

My grandmother made an awful stench in the kitchen while frying the whale steaks in what she called a spider. Although they were very tender, nobody swallowed a single mouthful because it tasted very oily and gamey. 

Ernest J. Banks

Ernest Banks (1873-1933) was the 7th and last child born to Cyrus King Banks and Abigail Works Banks. I must have seen him on an earlier trip to Goose Rocks Beach with my parents, but I will never forget meeting him during the summer of 1917, or 1918. 

It was in a dark room lit by two kerosene lamps where I was introduced to Ernest’s radio. It consisted of an open topped pince box about 10” high and wide, and it must have been almost 3 foot long sitting there in the front room of the beach cottage. Two heavier wires extended from the contraption down to the floor where they were clamped to an automobile six volt wet battery. The front panel of the set had about six large dials. Smaller dials, switches and phone jacks took up most of the remaining space. 

Ernest put on a headset, and the other three were offered to my father, my brother Rich, and to me. Squealing noises came to my ears while the tubes inside were warming up. Finally we heard voices from far away fading one moment and then coming back.

I think we hear about tex stations that night--mostly talk, but two or three had music. The next morning when I looked inside the set, I saw a maze of jumbled wires, radio tubes, condensers, tuners, and capacitors all hooked up to B, C and D dry cell batteries.

Ernest had built the whole set by himself, sending away to several places for plans and parts he needed. As I look back it seems so strange that radio existed at that time in a house which had no electricity, no bathroom, a cast iron cooking stove, and a hand pump in the kitchen sink for water.

In the summer of 1925, I was put on a Pullman car in New York and sent to the beach. That was the summer when I got to know Ernest. All the previous winter he had been building a thirty foot power boat in their large barn in Biddeford. He had it hauled to the Saco River just below the Pepperell Dam. As soon as it was launched, he got onboard and sailed five miles to Biddeford Pool, and then five miles of ocean to arrive at Little River before the tide started to go out. His sisters, Nellie, Hattie and I were waiting as he came ashore on the west branch of the river right next to Ivory Emon’s Boathouse.

An hour before high tide the next day he took us all out for a spin to Timber Island, over to the Western Rocks, amd nearshore all the way back from Batson’s River.

Ernest was not one to remain sitting about for long. Three days later we again walked to Little River to see him off on a two month’s voyage to Bar Harbor about one hundred and fifty miles to the northeast. 

A year or two later he sold that boat as he had built a twenty foot open sailboat in the meanwhile. He took me out sailing and fishing many times that year. He could handle all the sails singlehanded, and he had a smaller sail near the stern which he would set up on days when the wind was lower.

By 1926 or 1927 he’d become fed up with staying at Goose Rocks. The telephone company had put a pole on the Banks property to service their next door neighbor. It could easily have been put on the other property, but the utility would not listen. Ernest broke up his old row boat for kindling wood for Nell and Hattie, got on his bike, and never came back.

He was not unprepared, building a cottage on Little Ossipee Pond near Waterboro Center. He had bought a small peninsula on the far side of the lake where he had a good sized cottage along with a boathouse containing a rowboat plus and eighteen foot speed boat with a sixteen horsepower outboard motor. The fishing was very good in that pond and he spent most of his summers there.

Remembering the Great Maine Fires of 1947

The Camp Fire in Northern California stirred up this memory. In October and November, 1947, huge swathes of land, about 19 towns, 200,000 acres of timber land burned to the ground in a series of fires that burned through Maine from inland to the ocean in what is called The Great Fires of 47. 20 or so people died, but remember Maine was sparsely populated 70 years ago. I remember it now because my grandfather, Lawrence Stone Ireland, lost everything on my brother John’s birthday. His end of Goose Rocks Beach burned to the ground as high winds pushed the fire into the Atlantic. He was the chief of the volunteer fire department and had been on the front lines of the fire fight for almost a month. When the Saco (or Kennebunk) fire turned towards the north end of beach, his house keeper, Mrs. Kate, escaped but had no time to gather any of Gramp’s things. 

My Mermaid Sighting

Dear Electra and Lyla,

I want to tell you girls of something I saw a long time ago, that I have never told anyone! You know that I am soon to be 100 years old, so I think it is finally time to tell this story! I am telling you both because you had such a fine time playing in the sand at Goose Rocks beach where I remember your daddy in the summertime when he was growing up. Besides, you both are so lively, and have good imaginations, I think you will believe me!

It all started the evening before my birthday when I was turning twelve. I was gathering razor clams at low tide.  Razor clams are different than other clams, since you don’t dig them. They stick up out of the sand, so you have to sneak up on them and grab them before they burrow down into the sand again! I was hoping to top off the heap I already had in my clam basket. (In those days, every family had a clam basket made of oak wood, just like the lobster traps. As a matter of fact, sometimes we could find old busted-up traps washed on the beach and reuse the slats.)

The sun was just setting, about ready to drop below the horizon. It was bright orange against dark streaks of purple clouds. It looked like a scoop of orange sherbert on top of an ice cream cone!

I was on the other side of Shore Rocks, which you can only see when the tide is low.  They are almost completely covered at high tide. I was a little distracted since my stomach was rumbling for supper, and I knew that my mother would have clam chowder, Goose Rocks style, waiting for me. But even though I was hungry and my bare feet were cold, a splashing sound made me turn toward Seal Rock. It was hard to see in the dusk, so I squinted and stared out to sea.  I saw a pearly white shape on the rocks that seemed very different than the seals that usually basked there during the day.

That is when I saw her, so beautiful and mysterious! She was neither young nor old--not a woman and not a fish! Her flapping tail had caused the splashing sound that I heard. The movement made it shimmer, reflecting the low light off the water onto her silver scales. It was all so magical, I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was dreaming! I remember that I just dropped my heavy clam basket onto the wet sand, and sat rather uncomfortably on the handle.  I had forgotten all about dinner; I just wanted to keep watching. I couldn’t get any closer because the water was too deep, and the tide was turning.

I thought maybe it was an albino seal, or at least that is what my logical mind wanted to think. I couldn’t see too well, because Seal Rock was almost 100 yards from where I was on the beach. I was kind of hiding behind one of the taller boulders. I didn’t want to disturb her for fear she would disappear. I was peeking out, peering at the lovely apparition, when I suddenly saw her turn my way, almost as if I had called her name! I got a good look at her human-like face, and her flashing red hair that swirled just above her shoulder top.

I didn’t think she was scared--she had her head up too much to be scared.  But she was very serious, looking around and looking around as if to watch against an enemy sneaking up on her.  In the waning light of evening, her eyes sparkled. I seemed caught up in a magical moment, and I didn’t want it to end 

I was still as a little chipmunk. The truth is, I could hardly breathe!  She finally flip-flopped her way from stone to stone, to the very edge of the water. I knew the water was about 15 feet deep right there. I could show you on the map, or the aerial photograph that hangs in my room, because Seal Rock is just about at the center of all the Goose Rocks.

She dove into the cold night water and silently slipped away,

Memories of Roosevelt Field

as told to Nancy Frazier 85 years later                                                               

March 2014

Growing up in Garden City, New York, in the 1920’s was great for boys! We were growing and learning and making model airplanes, boats and radios.   The nation was growing and learning too. Automobiles had advanced from two cylinder cars to 8 cylinder, the $25,000 prize money for the first transatlantic flight from New york to Paris had brought us into world headlines, and everybody we knew had a radio. We didn’t know what it would do for history. We only knew it was exciting to be a part of it all.   

When I was fourteen years old, and my brother Rich was thirteen, we often pedaled our bikes to Roosevelt Field after school. The bikes gave us freedom, adventure, and got us outdoors of course! Since the press was buzzing with talk about aviation history, it was a natural that we wanted to go there as often as we could. We thought nothing of biking the four miles from Hempstead High School to the airfield; we bicycled everywhere in those days. Once there, it was a quicker, more direct route home to the new part of Garden City where we lived.   

I remember taking Trigonometry that year, and it was the last class of the day. I anxiously waited for the first tones of the three o’clock dismissal bell, and then sprinted out of the building, down the granite steps between the front pillars. Rich was already there, leaning against his bike on the sidewalk. He had gotten out before me and brought my bike around from the back. I tied my books onto the rear fender, swung on with a shout to Rich, and we headed down Middle Street. The early spring air had a chill in it, but we were warmed by riding fast.

On the way over, we passed through the ruins of Camp Devens (I think that Dad was referring to Camp Mills), a training camp for WWI. Water hydrants painted a battleship gray stood like iron sentries posted every 500 feet. Piles of wrecked automobiles left abandoned to rust beside the wide roads made interesting landmarks of a bygone era. No trees grew there, only weeds, some of which sprouted between cracks like Jack’s beanstalk, reaching to over six feet high!The whole expanse covered about eight business blocks!

Pretty soon, approaching the airstrip from the western side, we would arrive at the larger Curtiss Field, once an old riverbed. In fact, a ten-foot deep gully separated Curtiss from the neighboring airstrip. It was rather L-shaped allowing planes to takeoff and land simultaneously. Curtiss had a downward take-off slope, allowing a plane loaded with gasoline to get a better start.   Ground crews and air traffic control towers didn’t exist, but a camaraderie and respect among the pilots kept things amazingly safe. Every kind of plane that existed came in and out of there, except warplanes. The Curtis OX5 was designed right there! This busy hub of wheels and motors and flight fascinated Rich and me, and most of our friends too.

But that year of 1927 Rich and I were drawn to the smaller, adjoining field. Roosevelt Field did not have as much activity, but it did harbor the now famous single engine, air-cooled monoplane called “The Spirit of St. Louis.”   We would ride all around it where it was tied to steel posts in the grassy field. We would stop, touch its smooth silvery sides, and wonder why this man named Lindberg would want to fly the smallest plane the farthest distance.   We never saw him up close, only from far away when his plane was coming in.   But I once saw a technician standing on top of the plane with a transit, making sure the compass was correctly calibrated before his fight.

We didn't see the take-off. It was a rainy, overcast day, as I remember, and we didn't think he would be able to fly and clear the trees. But he did! He did it all the way to Le Bourget Field in France, and made our little runway famous all over the world!