THE SOUTH SHORE TO MAINE by Quentin Sprague

Late summer I am sitting at the 169 with Peter Nolan Smith.

He comes from New England.

Same as me.

Franny Fitzpatrick hit the beach at the Bay of Pigs.

Hull fried clams

Boston. Boston.

Talk heroin.

Not a joke in New England thanks the Big Pharma.

Boston Boston.

Quincy Quarries.

They were a boy's dream.

White boys only.

"Let's get on a bus and head north. We'll rent a car and drive to Hyannis. My brother has a place not far away from the JFK compound. We can go the the cranberry bogs. I was there on quaaludes once."

Duxbury.

No one makes cranberry pie and I hate that Ocean Spray adds HFCS to their juice.

"I am from the South Shore, not Boston. We'll drive north listening to Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. Road road road a runner. We won't even stop in Boston. We'll go to Cape Ann."

"And Rockport."

"I dove into the quarries there. Almost broke my back."

"We'll have fried clams in Ipswich, but at the Clam Box and not Woodman's. The clams are the same, but I like the Clam Box's batter better."

"The place ain't what it used to be, but I like a bar there. I can't remember the name. Actually they have a lot of them. After a beer or two we'll drive through Portsmouth through Kittery and then to York."

I knew York well. I came from there.

I lost my virginity there.

A long time ago.

There were few places in the world better and Peter agreed with me, because he came from Maine too.

Columbia Wrightsville Bridge

This week I drove west from New York to pick up a sheet of laminated glass from York PA.

The clouds opened up several times, as I drove Studio 40's pickup on I78. The interstate skirted Easton, Bethlehem, and Allentown. I dropped south at Hamburg and followed the Schuykill River to Route 222. A patch of overcast opened for the sun.

I was unfamiliar with this part of Pennsylvania and caught off guard by the width of the Susquehanna River. Rocks protruded by the broad river lined by new forests. To the south an arched bridge traversed the river. I wanted to stop, but this trip was taking longer than expected, so I motored another 16 miles to York.

The city looked like it was auditioning for a remake of HBO's THE WIRE. Young men hung on the doorsteps of two-story row houses on East Philadelphia Street. Their business was obvious. There were no cops in sight. Scarface had won the War on Drugs and York wasn't his only conquest.

The glass factory was down to five employees from twenty in 2008.

No matter what the newspapers and TV were saying about a recovery, the Greater Recession was running strong in York.

John and V helped set up a pallet for the glass with an impact nail gun, power drills, and 2 by 4s.

We secured the glass with straps and covered it with a blanket.

I hate broken glass.

"Thanks, guys"

"When you come back, bring us some Blimpie Subs. We have nothing like that around here."

"Will do."

I bought a Philly cheesesteak sub at the beer store on North George Street and ate the delicious combination of steak, cheese, onions, and bread next to the old York Jail.

Nothing much was open in this city and I drove east on 462, which was the old Lincoln Highway.

I stopped twice to check on the glass.

It was secure in the pallet.

Route 222 was faster, but I wanted to see the arched bridge.

The western end was in Wrightsville.

It was a wide bridge and very long.

The river to the north was broad.

Over a mile.

It was even broader to the south.

I wanted to stop on the span, but continued across to Columbia. I later read that that this was the longest concrete arch bridge in the world. I was happy for the detour of a couple of miles, but got onto 222. I had to make time. It was raining again.

New York was over three hours away.