An Island Memory

 

The factory whistle blew at precisely 3 o’clock on Friday and from the sun porch we watched the men, women and children trudge out and onto the dirt road for the walk home. There were very few cars in those days and those who had them were careful with using them frivolously. Walking was more than good enough for most even on the foggiest of days when you could barely see your hand in front of your face. On those days, we couldn’t see the ragged little parade but we could hear their footsteps and voices and the occasional clang of a lunch box. After a long week of hard work, they were ready to shed their day dresses and hairnets, their overalls and hip boots, and there was always laughter.

After a quick stop at the post office, a hot shower and a cold supper, most would gather on the Westcott steps, the closest thing we had to a town square. The men would patiently wait for their turn at the barber shop while the women visited, smoked, and drank icy cold Orange Crush from the general store. As the sun set, everyone would head lazily for the canteen (for the juke box) or the Masonic hall (for beer and cribbage) or the Baptist Church (for Bingo). By midnight, there wouldn’t be a soul stirring and the only sounds would be the tide and maybe the foghorn.

On Saturdays, people caught up with their shopping, cooking, cleaning and chores. The cargo ship, the Prince John, arrived regular as clockwork and always drew a crowd. More than one islander would collect a half dozen family and friends and make a quick trip to the mainland. Every other week, the meat man in his refrigerated little blue truck would arrive from Church Point and make his rounds and now and again, a traveling peddler in a horse drawn wagon passed by. My grandmother welcomed the first with open arms but refused to tolerate the second – it was well known that she would violently run off any peddler who dared come down our drive.

“Snake oil salesmen, every last cussed one of‘em,” she was fond of saying, “Sooner set the dogs on’em as shoot‘em.”

And then it was Saturday night, time to let loose with the newest Martin & Lewis film at the movie house and – if’n you were old enough – to kick up your heels afterwards at the dance hall or – if’n you weren’t old enough - get companionably drunk and disorderly on vanilla extract and maybe start a not-very-serious fight in the parking lot.

Come Sunday morning though, the Baptist Church would strain at its seams, saints and sinners stood side by side, singing the old hymns with ferocity and filling the collection plate with whatever they had left from the night before. Redemption was always patiently waiting, James liked to preach, all you needed to do was ask. The island children, freshly scrubbed and in their Sunday best, sat obediently through their Bible lessons and watched the old clock on the wall. By early afternoon, we had all had dinner and a nap and changed back into jeans and sneakers for the regular Sunday baseball game. No bruise or black eye or small town sin could keep anyone from Sunday services or the ball field.