Sandwiches of my youth

In Bucksport, Maine there used to be a small store, Dena's, that sold groceries, beer, and sandwiches--"Italian" sandwiches, which meant they contained either ham or salami and cheese, tomato, green peppers, pickles, onions, and lots of cayenne pepper on submarine-style bread. Dena lived upstairs, owned and ran the store, and made the sandwiches.

For many years my family, friends, and I would go inside Dena's and order a ham Italian or a salami Italian, and even though people often requested a fresh sandwich, which Dena would gladly make on the spot, they were best when they were a day or so old because the flavor intensified and the cheese became more like a cheese spread than a solid slice. And if you weren't careful the cayenne pepper would leave a burning ring around your lips, but that was somehow satisfying, too.

In the summer my pal Glenn DeRedin and I used to buzz up the river to Bucksport in my dad's rowboat, the heavy old Johnson outboard growling, the boat planing perfectly when we both sat on the stern seat, and tie the boat to the town dock and walk just up the bank and get a couple sandwiches. Not understanding that Dena's would not be there forever and we should therefore savor these sandwiches, we would often race to see who could eat one the fastest.

One evening we were eating, sitting on the edge of the dock, and a Coast Guard guy coasted up in his Boston Whaler, tied it quickly, ran up the bank, and ran back a few minutes later with a big bag of Dena's sandwiches under his arm. "How you doin', guys," he said casually, and warped the Whaler away from the dock by putting one of the big Evinrudes in reverse and one forward, and disappeared very quickly down the river. We thought that was the height of cool and were ready to join the Coast Guard on the spot.

And of course this post has an inevitable and maybe even trite ending: Glenn and I grew up, stood up as best men at each other's weddings, are now in our forties and still great pals, but Dena's store and her sandwiches are gone.

No Peas, Thanks

Peas topped my most-hated food list when I was a boy, and I still dislike them. Almost all other items on my list now seem tolerable or even tasty, but not peas. They have an odd skin on them, with odd white stuff inside. You can say this about lots of other vegetables, too, I know, but peas are green. I can't eat them. I won't eat them.

However, if you make soup out of them, I'll eat the soup.

Strange dog episode

In Georgia we lived next door to a terrific family, the Wetheringtons. The dad, Phil, was around my dad's age--at that time he was a captain in the Air Force--and they had four kids around my age and my sister's age. Our families got together frequently for cookouts, pizza nights, camping trips, and so on. Once an old dog, some sort of big Lab or Golden, wandered into the odd ravine between our yards and lay down to die. We kids brought it food and water, but it knew what it was there for and ignored us. Our folks were concerned, so they called people in the neighborhood to try to find out whose dog it was, but had no luck. So after a day or two my dad and Phil quietly shot the dog (they must have done it when we were at school or asleep, because I don't remember the sound of the shot) with Phil's Air Force sidearm. Then they buried it in the woods behind our houses. Two weeks later, a family arrived looking for the dog, and Phil told them that he was sorry; they'd tried to find the owners but had had to put the dog down. And the family dug that dog up and took it home with them. This says a lot about dog owners or central Georgia, or both.