Dime Toll - Portsmouth Bridge

My Uncle Russ grew in Portland, Maine. The Whitest State in the Union. The only excitement in that town was watching sailors fight East Yard workers in the harbor dives. This show grew old fast after a Portugee fisherman picked a brawl with these young lads and old salt wanted blood. The teenagers ran for their lives and caught the trolley to the quiet safety of their homes.

Sin in Portland was dangerous and the teenagers planned an excursion to Boston's Sculley Square. The Old Howard Theater offered a taste of the wicked unavailable to anyone living north of the Charles River.

"Always Somethin' Doing' was its motto.

Russ' friend borrowed his father's Studebaker Champion on the pretext of an excursion to Sebago Lake.

"Be back by 9."

Keys in hand the friend pointed the car south and drove the 100 miles to Boston. The teenagers spent the afternoon touring Scollay Square various attractions. One boy hocked a gold ring at Simpson's Loan to finance their adventures. Haircuts at Tony Ruggiere's Barber Shop, lunch at Waldorf's Cafeteria, pinball at the Amusement Center, Hot dogs at Joe and Nemos, and then they attempted to enter the Old Howard. They were 16. Old enough to pay for the tickets. The usher sat them in the darkness of the back row. Only bald men sat in the front row.

Uncle Russ had never spoken about the show, however the afternoon had become evening.

6PM

Portland was a four-hour ride. The boys jumped into the car. The driver stomped on the accelerator. Traffic over the Old Charles Bridge was light. This was a Saturday and the Studebaker passed every car on Route 1. This was a race against the clock.

80 mph through the hilly straight-aways of Topsfield.

No stopping until they hit the Portsmouth rotary. It was 8PM. Curfew was one hour away. Portland was even farther. $2 filled the tank and the Studebaker picked up speed along Congress Street approaching the bridge spanning the Piscataqua River.

"We have to stop to pay the toll." Russ shouted over the roar of the engine and the whip of the wind.

"Gimme one." The driver took a dime from Russ and flung the coin at the toll booth.

The booth collector ducked the toss. The dime plunked into the wood with force. Russ swore the sliver of silver was buried in a pine timber. The boys arrived in Portland around 10:30. The friend was cool. He dropped off everyone before returning home to face the music.

"How fast were you going through the toll booth?" I asked Russ this evening.

"I don't recall." It was over 70 years ago.

"80?"

"No." His memory was keen.

"60."

"No, more like 70. Studebaker built a good car."

"I know. I drove a Studebaker Hawk across country in 1996." Meg Grossendt was hot to be with her beau. They married and had two kids. I understand speed for a reason.

"That was their last good car."

"We blew a carburetor in Colorado. A mechanic had the part."

"Probably the last one in America."

"We made them extinct."

It was a good trip. Same as Russ' ride from Scollay Square. Fast with a destination.

The only way.