For you readers who travel Interstate 95 from Rocky Mount to New Jersey, New York and New England, just be apprised that I’m never doing it again!
Making good time for an appointment in Wyckoff, N.J., we approached Alexandria, Va., when the road split in two, offering an HOV path for “any vehicle.” I sucked into this invitation and in less than a mile met a very friendly Virginia state trooper. He had been waiting to trap me into a speeding ticket.
When he finished reading me my rights, he asked, “Here for the President’s Cup?” He had seen I was from Pinehurst. A curt “no” was followed by an urge to peel rubber out from under this syrupy lawman. Later, doing a rough sample over the highways, I concluded that 90 percent of Interstate drivers are speeding over the limit.
Got to the Wilson Bridge over the Potomac. Interstate 95 south of Washington is an abomination worse than any WPA project in history. Took us one hour to cross the bridge.
We arrived a few minutes early to baby-sit our grandmonsters as their parents were headed out, with friends, in an ultra-stretch limo to witness Elton John at Madison Square Garden.
On to Hanover, where I was attending Class Officers’ Weekend at Dartmouth. Coincidental with this annual event was the one-time dedication of the Corey Ford Rugby House on the outskirts of Hanover. Corey was a resident writer for The New Yorker and English professor in the 1950s. He loved rugby, and when he died he left his spacious property to the ruggers who used the proceeds for their new elegant quarters.
Drawn like a magnet to the rugby ceremonies, I bypassed much of the class stuff.
My heart belongs to Dartmouth rugby. In the spring of 1958, I joined the Dartmouth Rugby Football Club because I could kick a rugby football farther and better than most. Suddenly I found myself on the rugby team that went to Bermuda for a tournament with Harvard, Princeton and the Bermuda police team.
The round-trip fare from Boston was $99. The Bermuda Chamber of Commerce gave us cots in the Bermuda army barracks with a continental breakfast.
The rest was on us. It was spring break for a lot of schools that attracted females. In fact, the ratio of females to males was 5 to 1. The girls had package deals including box lunches. My friend and I went to the Princess Hotel and saw a young lass sitting in the lobby awaiting a friend.
She had a lovely straw hat on. She provided me a box lunch and a date that ended in our marriage of 46 years. She still has the straw hat.
It took my father-in-law 25 years to like me because I didn’t go to Harvard and I was a rugby player. Speaking of Harvard, at the Harvard-Dartmouth rugby match in 1958, I remember it was a rainy and muddy day at the pitch near Soldiers Field in Cambridge. On one play, a Harvard player drew in the ball, while he was prone and someone kicked at the ball, which had slipped out of his possession, landing a foot in the mouth of the poor guy. I’ll never forget seeing those three or four front teeth lying in the mud.
So meeting the swell of former ruggers that attended the weekend celebration was like a large family reunion. So many tight relationships were renewed. I, of course, love to take the missus around and introduce her as the person I met on a rugby trip.
But it was fun to be back in New England. The scenery, people, accents. (“Ayah” means “yes” or “yep.”) The colors were just on the verge of turning. Brilliant weather.
On to Boothbay Harbor in Maine, where my wife’s best friend put us up for the week. I managed a fishing trip that took off at 6 a.m. and returned at 6 p.m. — a 12-hour trip that took us 45 miles out to sea to fetch cod, cusk, pollock and haddock.
About 20 of us caught about a half-ton of fish. The guy next to me snagged a 27-pound cod, which won the pool pot. These fish hang out around ledges that are about 300 feet deep. It can wear you out just reeling them in.
Then it was back to Hanover, where we had a mini-reunion and class meeting including watching an inept football team get beaten by Penn. Stayed at the quaint Norwich Inn across the Connecticut River.
The Friday-night bash at the old Norwich train depot was fun, as was the tailgate party and dinner Saturday evening.
We left New England literally in a fog and look forward to our return there in 2006.
Andy Thomas lives in Pinehurst. Contact him at dahtmuth58@aol.com
