Chesapeake City’s Firemen’s Carnivals in the Forties

Carnival Days—Chesapeake City’s Firemen’s Carnivals in the Forties

Advertisement poster, circa 1948

Carnival grounds, setup for Reynolds’ Rides, circa 1956

          A major event that I looked forward to as a boy was the firemen’s carnival held each summer next to the firehouse on Chesapeake City’s North Side. My earliest memory of the carnival is standing with my mother at a long, narrow counter and listening to the clattering of a high vertical dice wheel as it was being spun by an attendant. Mom gave me a nickel to place on a number, and I said, “Which number should I put it on?” The counter had numbered blanks that corresponded to the numbers circling the wheel. Mom thought for a moment and said, “Well, why don’t you play 25—your birthday number?” I did and, sure enough, that’s where it landed and I won a prize. That was 60 years ago, the last time I ever won anything.

          But, win or lose, our carnival was a joy. Later, as an early teenager, I’d walk across the bridge and across the Sisters’ field to attend. The carnival was set up around the sides and back of the early firehouse on Lock Street. The various activities—games of chance, food concessions, and the unique Reynolds’ Rides—were interspersed throughout the grounds. These rides were unique because Harold Reynolds, Sr. designed and build them out of materials he salvaged from the area junk yards. I have a vague memory of the rides—black steel contraptions—powered by motors with dark, rumbling, well-lubricated gears and chains. Mr. Reynolds and his son, Bud, had to grease the gears frequently and, occasionally, a ride would break down so that the children would have to wait in line until Mr. Reynolds climbed up into the works to fix the problem.

Many other people, who were children or young adults in the late forties, remember Chesapeake City’s exceptional firemen’s carnivals. Mary Brown, Mr. Reynolds’ daughter (now deceased), who worked at the carnivals, remembered: “My father made all kinds of rides for the firemen's carnival. He built several kiddy rides—a train, a merry-go-round, a Ferris wheel, and other rides, as well as some of the stands that were used at the carnival. Daddy carved the merry-go-round horses, and the pattern that he used is now owned by my brother.

“He also built the trailers that were needed to haul all the things from one place to another. I used to work at the carnivals sometimes. We popped popcorn and sold cotton candy and snowballs all night long. And then we'd get up the next day and start all over again.”

Lewis Collins has clear memories: “Miss Nell Borger used to run the penny wheel. You put your penny down to try to win five pounds of sugar or a box of oatmeal. Paul Stapp and I worked the carnival glass stand. All the dishes would be sitting in the stand and people would lean over the rail and try to pitch a nickel into one, and if it stayed they got the dish. Carnival glass is very collectible today. There was also the Big 6 Wheel, where you’d put your money on a number. The big wheel was the dice wheel that made the click-click noise. Those wheels had to be well-balanced; I know that. And there were always fireworks. If the carnival was held during the Fourth of July week, the fireworks were on the Fourth. If not, they were held on the last night of the carnival. They had the fireworks in the field behind the firehouse.

“We really had big parades in those days. Fire companies came from all over. On certain nights they would cut the prices for the kiddy rides. Harold Reynolds made the rides, and he got better at it as he went along. I’ll tell you, he was a craftsman. During the war, when you couldn’t buy toys, he used to make them—wooden wheelbarrows, wooden wagons, and others. He even made wooden wheels for them; that man could do anything. My father sold the toys in his store on Biddle Street.

Chet Borger has vivid memories also: “Since my dad was a volunteer fireman and my mom and older sister belonged to the Ladies Auxiliary, I would be given the task of placing flyers and placards around town in the local businesses and on any fixed object that I could reach. I was able to score some free tickets for the rides. We also had a big parade every year. Prizes were awarded for the companies traveling the farthest distance, the vehicles with the most lights, the best bands, and the most attractive units. Folks would cheer and shout as the fire engines drove slowly by, with the men hanging off the sides and back. My Mom had made me a junior-sized marching uniform to walk along with my dad. I remember that it consisted of a white pair of pants with a matching jacket. The front was festooned with brass buttons, and it was topped off with a matching white cap with a gold band across the front. I was a handsome sight at the ripe old age of ten.

Joe Allen worked at the carnival and recalls the distinctive rides: “Mr. Reynolds built all of those early rides. The story is that he went to Wilmington to get a load of steel from a junk yard. And the guy up there asked him what he was going to do with it. Mr. Reynolds told him that he was going to build a Ferris wheel. “No, you’re not going to build a Ferris wheel out of that junk,” the guy said. Well, Mr. Reynolds went home, built a Ferris wheel, and sent a picture of it up to the guy.”

Bud Reynolds, who lives on Chesapeake City’s North Side and whose son is still in the carnival business, tells his story: “I was 13 when I started working for my dad with the carnivals. We lived on Canal Street, and that’s where he brought the raw materials to make the rides. He constructed and assembled them in a vacant lot next to our house. We got started right after the war, when you couldn’t get much of anything. My dad and I were both in the fire company, and they wanted to put on a carnival but couldn’t get anybody, so my father built a merry-go-round. He even carved the wooden horses himself. That was his first ride.

“He could make anything he set his mind to. He built all the rides from scratch, from junk yard iron and steel. In 1948 he built a kiddy train with tracks. Next he built a Ferris wheel, first a small one and then a larger one. On the first rides he made, he used old truck rear-ends to power them. He made two revolving power swings that way. Another swing he designed by using old airplane belly tanks. Each cab had its own electric motor that spun a propeller to pull the airplane around. We also had wooden ponies pulling their carts in a circle. The ride was up on a platform. My father designed and constructed the whole thing.”

Yes, the firemen’s carnivals of the forties and early fifties were magical events for me and many others who were lucky enough to attend. One thing that made them special was that they were run by real firemen and local townspeople whom we all knew. And, for us in Chesapeake City, the carnivals were especially noteworthy because all of the rides were made and operated by our own mechanical genius.

The Canal in the Forties— Something Fishy

The Canal in the Forties— Something Fishy

Lift Bridge and Back Creek with area that is now Pell Gardens at left center 

Aerial View of old canal and Back Creek, 1929

Although Junior Digirolamo and I did just about everything together when we were kids, it was my father who introduced me to the terrific sport of fishing. When I was about seven, after a good bit of begging, he agreed to take me to the Burnt House, a popular fishing spot along Back Creek on the South Side of town. After digging the worms in a shady area beside the corn crib, we got our gear together and made the trek through town, through the rancid smoke and pot holes of the town dump, and stopped in the sand next to the Burnt House. Then we walked down the eroded bank, stood in the sand, and watched the broad expanse of water flow slowly towards Chesapeake City.

After rigging our bamboo pole with string, float, hook, and sinker, he helped me get the squirming, alarmed worm on the hook. I flung off my sneakers and walked out about three feet into the water. Then he stood behind me to help me cast the rig into the water. “Watch the float, Boy,” he said; “watch the float and when it bobs under you have a bite and can pull in the fish.” And, one thing I know: I’ll remember this till the day I pass on to the Happy Isles. When the float bobbed, I snatched the pole as hard as I could and whacked Pop—who, as you recall, was standing directly behind me—squarely on the forehead.

It made a loud crack and must have hurt something awful, and it made me feel terrible. My, but he was mad at me. He held his head and yelled some interesting words I had never heard before, words that I’ve been able to put to good use ever since. But, do you know, the thing I remember most, besides feeling miserable for what I had done, was that Pop tried not to act as mad as he was. Despite the obvious pain, he held back his anger to save my feelings and to save, for me, the rest of the fishing day. Now, why do you suppose that this event, an incident from so many, many years ago, is still so vivid in my mind that it could have happened yesterday?

I guess it was the following summer that Junior became my main sidekick during those slow-moving summer months, when swimming, fishing, crabbing, frogging, and maybe gigging a snapping turtle or two was our primary recreation. Back then, Junior used to tie his small rowboat at Borger’s wharf (now The Chesapeake Inn), and we would paddle out, tie her off, and climb aboard the broad, rust-covered deck of a barge. In those days there was always a large, black barge moored in the basin. We’d laugh when we thought of the poor saps—our schoolmates—sitting in class on such a beautiful day. And yet, we were always a little afraid of being caught by old man Barnes, the dreaded truant officer.

Every year I would rush the season, starting on the first warm day in March. Later in the spring I would catch some nice pan-sized white perch, sunnies, and catfish, but in the cold waters of early March I usually caught shiners or eels. The shiners would nibble ever so gently, and when I managed to hook one and reel him in, I enjoyed it as much as if he had been a two-foot rock. Pulling one in was magical, because he would flash out of the water, silver in the sun, and I would reel him to my hand and close my fingers on a three-inch living creature, vigorously flipping, spinning, and fluttering, showing just how much he wanted to live and return to his familiar life. Carefully extracting the hook from the fragile, gasping mouth, I noticed that I could see right through his body as his gills opened and closed, seeking oxygen. Darting out of my hand to freedom, and flitting back and forth almost subliminally before diving to dark comfort below, he left part of himself with me—a few silver scales and the (not unpleasant) ripe odor of fish.

The eels, though, were something else—disgusting, slimy tanglers of lines that left my hands so encrusted with slime that water and rags wouldn’t ever remove. Angrily, I would swing those eels overhead several times, smashing them on the steel deck, sometimes losing my hook and sinker in the process. But fishing and crabbing was a Godsend for me during those unbearably slow-moving days of summer. A certain morning, when I was about thirteen, stands out clearly in my mind. Junior and I rode our bikes down Chestnut Spring Road to an area he knew about along a wider section of Back Creek.

We rode through a fairly extensive wooded area, navigated around the stumps and fallen branches, laid our bikes in the grass at the edge of the woods, and stood looking out across the long shore at the shimmering, motionless river. A small, rickety wharf stood high in the distance, a ghostly silhouette in the eerie silence. Except for low, jagged stumps punctuating the shore at low tide, the wharf has long since disintegrated. But in my mind it's still erected there, a black outline against the hushed morning river.

It was very early, just at dawn, and as we walked through the murky sand and sloshed up to the wharf, I felt as if I had just entered an enchanted land. Everything was dead-still all around. The dim gleam of daybreak, a gentle nightlight, was on the water, so unlike the floodlight that soon would glare. I looked back at the shore where we had been; it seemed a long way off. I looked again across the water to the other side of the river . . .  not the slightest current. It was dead-low tide.

I reached over and felt the piling where it met the water and part of it crumbled wet in my hand. I reached down and washed it off but its odor of decaying, saturated wood lingered. A muted echo sounded from across the water . . . and then again, silence. But soon, standing motionless, I heard the murmurings of tiny shore creatures, uttering evidence of their existence in the new day. Strange, that the scene—that moment of glory before sunrise—is still mysteriously powerful, just as it was when it stunned a gangly boy in 1949.

The water around the wharf was only a foot deep, but we threw in our crabbing lines and waded out chest-deep to cast out our fishing lines. Later, when the sun came out and the tide started coming in, the spell was broken, but we fished, crabbed, and swam till suppertime just the same.

          I wonder, contented reader, if you remember certain events crystal-clear like that? What makes our minds seize certain seemingly unimportant happenings and implant them into prominent areas of our brains, allowing us to re-experience those events as though they had just occurred? But, anyway, that’s how Junior and I made it through those steamy summer days, and it never crossed our minds that those seemingly commonplace activities would be part of us for the rest of our lives.

Canal in the Forties—Trapping Muskrats

Along the Canal in the Forties—Trapping Muskrats

Lift Bridge with east-bound ship in ice

Ship headed west through Back Creek with Chesapeake Boat Co. in distance

Joe Hotra was one of my best buddies during my early teenage years, and when I look back at some of the bizarre adventures we had, I’m surprised that we survived. Just about everything we did involved the water, either on the canal that divided our town or on Back Creek, the estuary west of town that ran eventually to the bay. In the winter we spent just about all of our spare time hunting and muskrat trapping. And, you know, come to think of it, we certainly had our priorities straight: hunting and trapping came first, and somewhere down the line school came into play. So, anyway, let me take you back sixty years or so, when time passed so slowly and the world was a captivating place for a scrawny kid. So lean back, relax, and settle in; I won’t keep you long.

It was February, 1949, when I first started trapping with Joe, my mentor. We were trapping muskrats in Continental, a marsh along Back Creek that in the old days was called Randall's Cove. It had a small stream running through it and was located on the South Side, pretty far below the Burnt House. And it was loaded with muskrats.

We got there at dawn to check our traps, but the tide was so high that the traps were covered so that we couldn't check them. So we went back by a tree and waited for a while. Joe was older than I and had much more trapping experience. Then, all of a sudden, he yelled out, "Hey, Geez, it's Sunday morning! I forgot! I have to go back to go to church. Now you stay here and when the tide drops far enough, you go out there and check those traps."

Well, after Joe left, there was more light but it was so foggy that I could only see about ten feet out; I couldn't see the river at all, but I could hear strange noises out there. At one point I heard the reverberation of oars striking the water, accompanied by harsh, angry voices. I was scared stiff. I heard other rough noises and unusual sounds of activity coming out of the fog. We were trespassing on the Howard property for one thing, and I was worried about that as well. I just sat there crouched under that tree the whole time, shivering with irrational fear, while Joe walked several miles to his home, dressed, went to church, walked back home, changed his clothes again, and walked back to the marsh. When he returned it was still foggy and the tide had been coming in for quite a while. And Joe was furious. "Why in the devil didn't you check those traps, you jerk!" he yelled. I didn't even answer him I felt so bad.

After that mishap I decided to give trapping by myself a try. I started trapping both sides of Back Creek, using a collection of steel traps that I bought with the money I had made from working at the Chesapeake Boat Company. I liked it so much that I would get up hours before school to check my traps. Sometimes, if the tide had come in far enough, the rats would drown and be dead before I got there. Many times, if it was freezing, a rat would be just a ball of ice. But often they would be alive, so I’d have to bust them on the nose with a stick. I would take them home and skin them, stretch their hides on a board, and gut their carcasses. They made a fine dinner, gentle reader—dark, red meat that was better than chicken or pork.

One brutally-cold late February day is still vivid in my mind. I had most of my traps set in the leads (tunnels that musket dig) along the banks of the north side of Back Creek, which meant that I had to row my small skiff across the river and a few hundred yards east of where I docked my boat. I remember one morning well. The temperature had been below ten degrees for about two weeks, and on that particular morning the entire width of the river was covered with ice floes about seven to eight inches thick. The ice had been broken by ships and tugs, so some of the floes were stacked upon each other and the whole mass was moving slowly with the tide—crackling, creaking and popping eerily as they drifted.

I couldn’t row because the oars wouldn’t go through the large chunks, so I had to shove the ice away from the bow and push an oar through the ice from the stern to scull across and back. Because of the swift current, I was never able to push in to where the traps were, so I had to lug the boat up onto the ice-covered bank and walk quite a distance. It was dangerous fun but I loved it, in those days when nothing, except home work, seemed to be too much trouble.

Now, don't you know, this muskrat business reminds me of a time when I really messed up as a teenager. I was working at Franz Kappel's Chesapeake Boat Company, and had just stepped on the wharf to go out and check on one of the yachts, when I saw a fresh muskrat lead. It was a dark hole, conspicuous against the snow-covered bank. I could tell that a muskrat had been in there recently, so I thought I would set a trap in there. I jumped down onto the ice-crusted snow and shoved my hand into the hole to see if it had promise. Well, the lead went in about a foot, and as soon as I got my arm in I felt a sharp pain and yanked it out of there. My finger started spouting blood and I realized that a rat had bitten me. So help me, he had chomped down on the tip of the middle finger of my right hand.

         But I had him trapped, so I stopped up the hole with a heavy chunk of ice and went to get Joe, who worked with me there at the boat yard. I grabbed a shovel and Joe grabbed a club and I started digging him out. It only took a couple of shovel loads and out he came. He was a nice, black muskrat, frantically scurrying—slipping and sliding across the ice—trying to reach open water. Joe and I, also slipping and sliding comically on the ice, started whacking at him. I missed him with the shovel and Joe missed him with the club. But after a few swings Joe got him. That was a trophy rat, but I paid the price; there was blood all over the snow—mine and his. I still have the scar on my finger after 65 years. And I’ll show it to you if you ask me; it’s just below my fingernail.

The Special Gift

The Ride to Elkton

 

The Elkton Train Station, circa 1946

 

The Gotham, with the North Side ferry slip at right, circa 1946 

It was the summer of 1946 when my father got the notice from the Chesapeake City Post Office. World War II had just ended the summer before when the Japanese surrendered, and I was sure glad they did. I was nine when they gave up and for some time had worried my head off about them. They were responsible for the red rationing tokens that my mother had to use at the American Store; they were responsible for white margarine that we kneaded to give the appearance of butter; they were responsible for the frightening news reports on the radio.

I had dreamed about them, and one of the nightmares I remember clearly. In my dream, I had cycled into town to Beiswanger’s for an ice cream cone. Well, instead of old, stooped Mrs. Bieswanger grudgingly dipping out the ice cream, and short, dapper Mr. Beiswanger fumbling around in the back, there—replacing them in the store—were three or four Japanese clerks. And there, looking right at me from over the ice cream counter was one with protruding teeth and a demented, kamikaze smile. Before I turned and ran, I looked around to where Mr. Beiswanger usually was and saw another Japanese, who was even wearing a leather aviator’s helmet—with goggles.

                             Then the dream ended. But the worry remained even though they had surrendered, and by that summer of 1946 I was still not over the fear. My Uncle Warren was in the war and at that time was in occupied Japan. We all worried about him, yet we were pretty sure that he would be home soon. But on that Saturday morning, when my father told me what the notice from the post office said, I was pretty excited. It said that we were to go to the Elkton Train Station to pick up a large package addressed to me.

“What’s in it, Pop?” I asked.

“Don’t know, boy,” he said. “We’ll go get ’er and find out.”

So after we fed the chickens, dumped some scraps and corn into the hog trough, and made sure that they had water, Pop changed out of his work clothes and we drove down our long lane, swerving to avoid the areas mined with potholes. Then we reached the asphalt road, and we were off—bound for Elkton. At that time Pop had a black ’41 Ford. Oh, she was beautiful on the outside, but under the hood she was dirt-ugly. The thing would hardly run, so going anywhere was always an adventure.

We chugged into town, up the hill to George Street, past Foard’s Hardware Store, turned right onto Third Street, past the Methodist church, and headed down Ferry Slip Road. Halfway down we had to stop to wait in line to board the ferry. Riding the ferry was nothing new to me; it had been there since 1942, when our bridge was taken out by a tanker, so I had ridden it many times.

Finally, we saw it enter the slip and after a while we drove up the ramp and boarded it, coasting in on one side and braking abruptly behind the car in front of us. We made the crossing and Pop drove off the ramp with a clatter and soon we started laboring up Sisters’ Hill. The rings were worn out in the old V8 and about halfway up the hill large puffs of blue-black smoke began flowing from the exhaust pipe, causing the car behind us to fall behind. Pop just shook his head and kept the accelerator down. For a minute or two I thought we’d have to get out and push, but she finally made it, barely creeping over the crest and leaving an amazing cloud of smoke behind us.

We made it to Elkton all right, crossing over the bridge at Elk Creek and rolling into the parking area of the train depot. We went in and I followed the clerk and Pop to a dark room cluttered with packages and large articles of all kinds. The clerk rummaged around for a while but then found our item standing up in the corner. It was a long, slim wooden crate, addressed to me. I started carrying it out, but soon realized that it was too unwieldy, so Pop put it over his shoulder and took it to the car.

The long package wouldn’t fit across the back seat so we put it lengthwise from the back window ledge and across the seat between our heads. The crate was about five feet long, eight inches wide, and four inches thick. It was exciting and mysterious to me because I had no idea what would be in such an unusual package. And I don’t think that Pop knew either. I read the label on the crate; it was to me all right, in “Chesapeake City, Maryland, USA.” The crate was made of rough wooden slats, nailed together—solid.

We drove on back from Elkton and our Ford descended Sisters’ Hill like the most powerful vehicle on the road. When we got to the ferry slip the boat was just pulling out. We were the first car in line so we sat there with the gate down in front of us and peered across at the South Side. We could see the Mindy Building over at the government peninsula, where the old Causeway used to be. We watched a tug surging against the current with a barge in tow. Rees’ warehouse next to the wharf loomed in the distance and, of course, the famous Hole-in-the-Wall where, Pop said, the drunks would have riotous fights when everybody else was home in bed.

Then we saw the ferry on its way across. But something was wrong. The current was strong and the wind had picked up. And both were taking the ferry east, away from the slip. Oh, it was struggling hard for sure—bereft, askew—and belching black smoke from its stack. Smack in the middle of the canal, it lost its battle and was blown east about as far as the old waterwheel near the Corps of Engineers’ office. I sat bewildered as Pop explained what was happening. Then, somehow, it straightened itself and, favoring the North Side, fought its way back to beyond the ferry slip.

It made a big circle and came in towards the slip, sideways like a crab in the current. Then it came roaring in, churning swirls of water as it maneuvered through the black, heavy pilings. It bounced off the east pilings and sloshed, banged, and hissed into the slip like some squat, bulky sea monster. Pop looked at me, chuckled, and said that Captain Ed must not be on duty today. Captain Ed Sheridan was our cousin and the best pilot on the water.

So we boarded and got back to the farm without incident, and Pop put the crate on a bench in the shed, and with a hammer and a small crow bar opened it. I couldn’t believe what lay in that box. Filmed with a thin coat of grease was a full-sized Japanese rifle. It had a heavy wooden stock and a shiny, black barrel. The front sight was bigger than any I had ever seen, and the back sight could be adjusted for long-distance firing. Pop read the note that was in the box: “For Bobby from Uncle Warren. Hope you like it.”

Pop lifted it out of the crate and wiped off some of the packing grease. We took it outside and he let me aim it at the corn crib in the distance. I could hardly hold it level it was so heavy. But it was wonderful; my Uncle Warren was wonderful. Pop put it back in the crate and we stored it in the corner of the shed for years to come. As I grew up there on the farm, I would take it out once in a while and have great fun with it. Because we had no shells to fit it, there was no danger. Then, later, in my late teens, I bought some 7.7 millimeter shells and fired it a few times.

About six months after the rifle arrived, Uncle Warren returned home to his family in Wilmington, bringing with him a framed picture of himself in uniform, painted by a Japanese artist. He was to visit our farm often on Sundays and, tilting his beer, he’d joke about the Geisha girls in Tokyo.

But on his first visit after his arrival from Japan, I ran to his car, and when I smiled at him through the open window he said, “Do you like the gun?” And I could tell by his eyes and his voice how much pleasure he got from sending it to me. And I’m sure that he could tell just how much the gift meant to his ten-year-old nephew. After that I didn’t worry or dream any more about the Japanese invading our town. Why should I? I had their gun.

The C&D Canal at Chesapeake City - Early Forties (Part 2)

The C&D Canal at Chesapeake City - Early Forties (Part 2)

Bobby Hazel Jumps from the channel marker in 1948

 

Mules on the Towpath - Inset: Harry Borger, former muleskinner

I used to dive into the canal and swim all around for hours. Sometimes I would swim across to Ticktown on the North Side; I’d take my time and let the current carry me; I’d float a while on my side or on my back; I’d try the breaststroke, then switch to the doggie paddle, but usually end with the powerful side stroke, which worked best for me. I would always end up far from where I had been on the other side, either east or west depending on the direction of the current. Swimming was such a great joy for a country boy with nothing to do on those long, lazy summer days. In those ancient days of glory, I would sometimes hook school and spend the day fishing on a barge in the Basin. And I think that when I die and go to heaven, when everyone else is praying in a celestial church service, I’ll be lying in the sun on an old rusty barge, reclined easily on my wings, trying to hook a nice catfish or yellow Ned.

As a boy of seven or eight, I remember always having an indescribable foreboding or sense of uneasiness in the back of my mind because of all the talk about the war that was raging in Europe and in the Pacific. But at that certain time, as I sat there on the grass next to the Hole-in-the-Wall on that special evening, I recall vividly the feeling of comfort I derived from the stillness and beauty of our canal. I peered out into it and noticed that it had reached full high tide, for the water was almost touching the cross boards on the crumbling granary. And yet the stillness on the proud canal was eerie. The contrast of light and dark images spread out against the silent waters made me feel a little strange.

And then, from my right side, out of the Basin, a small rowboat slid into view. It was powered by an old, old man whose rowing skills were so good that I could hear only a slight, dull thump of the oars rolling in their oarlocks. The skiff was small and the man, whose face was dark and wrinkled, was rowing in the forward-facing method, the ancient method, which I had never seen before or since. His strokes were effortless. As he passed in front of me, the oars feathered the still water, hardly breaking the surface as man and boat, centaur at sea, glided past at a surprising pace. After it passed, its gauzy wake was barely visible on the water, a brief remnant of an essence that is with me still. Soon small, silent ripples made their way to the sandy beach, nudging ever so gently the thin strands of sea grass next to the piling. I found out later that the rower was Harry Borger who, in his youth, had walked the tow path as he led the mules that pulled the barges through the narrow canal.

Did you ever watch as darkness descends on the water? It’s an odd sensation if you catch it just right. As I sat there alone, waiting for my father to pick me up, the current had started moving slowly the other way, and the moonlight, pinch hitting for the sun, illuminated the surface, giving the colossal, living body of water an enchanting, silver glow. The vast giant was on the move again; the world was in motion, breathing once again. With all the uncertainties of those war-plagued, furious Forties, at that special time I felt that everything was going to be all right.