Sometimes All You Need Is a Thirteen-Foot Travel Trailer to Get Away...
Douglas Keister. Getty Images.Irv was born in Dorchester, Massachusetts, on the last day of April 1918, and by the time I became his apprentice in 1981, he was 63. He had worked hard his entire life and was getting ready to reduce his hours and semi-retire. But once I expressed interest in learning the plumbing trade, he had a reason to continue working full-time. And he thoroughly enjoyed passing his knowledge on to me, his son-in-law.
After high school, Irv served in the army. When he got out, he went to work for his uncle, the plumber, and when he wasn't busy, he worked for his other uncle, the steamfitter. He once told me that when he was working for his uncle, the steamfitter, after tightening a cast iron fitting, his uncle asked, "Is it tight enough for a plumber, Irv?" When Irv said it was, his uncle replied, "Then tighten it another turn and a half for a steamfitter!" They were working on high-pressure steam.
Irv loved hard work, and although plumbing back in the days of cast-iron pipe, bathtubs, and full-sized boilers was dominated by big guys, Irv, who was only five-foot-seven, was incredibly strong and could do the heavy work. He wasn't built like today's gym rats, more like the hard-working blue-collar workers of the '40s and '50s. He had huge hands, Popey-like forearms, and thick, muscular legs that looked like they belonged on an Olympic speed skater. Everything was kept well hidden beneath his dark blue Dickey work clothes, which became the company uniform, and he had me wearing them as well.
I arrived seven minutes early on the very first day, and as I pulled my '67 Volkswagen Beetle in front of the house and parked it on the street, I saw Irv standing by the driver's side door of the plumbing van, waiting impatiently. I jumped out and hurried over, and by that time, Irv was already behind the wheel. He immediately turned the key, and before I was totally in, he slammed it into gear and took off. My door closed with an assist from the forward momentum.
Irv was a man on a mission, and he wasn't about to let me slow him down. I knew enough to get there 15 minutes early the second day, which I believe was his intention.
I functioned solely as a helper at first. I carried the tools in, handed them to him while he worked, and got parts out of the van. I drove to the supply house in Norwood to pick up more parts, fueled up at the local Exxon station, and took old water heaters to the town dump. Once I had the tanks out of the van, I stripped all the copper and brass, much to the chagrin of the guy operating the bulldozer, who was salivating and hoping to score some precious metal. Not gonna happen on my watch. Irv made a lot of money scrapping, and he always gave me a couple of bucks.
I was only paid $8.00 an hour to start, but Irv let me fill up my VW at the Exxon on him, and he let me out early on Fridays so Susan and I could get an early start on camping.
Susan and I bought a used thirteen-foot Shasta travel trailer from a guy in Easton, and we went away every weekend during the summer. We always made reservations so we knew we had a spot with hookups for water and electricity.
There was no one better than Susan at packing a travel trailer. She got ice, food, all the paper goods, and plastic silverware we needed at Shaw's and had it in the trailer by the time I got home from work. She always made sure we had plenty of towels for the beach and for showering afterward. Once I was cleaned up, I hooked the trailer to the Camaro, and we wasted no time heading out for the weekend.
We went to several local camp sites in Massachusetts and one in Meredith, New Hampshire. As soon as we got to our campsite, I'd park the trailer, level it, put jack stands under the frame, and wedge the homemade wheel chocks I cut from pressure-treated 6 x 6's up against the tires.
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Once the trailer was secure, we'd build a fire and get the hibachi going. The Shasta had a refrigerator, so after we plugged in, Susan transferred everything from the cooler to the fridge.
Susan drank Asti Spumante, and I guzzled beer, usually cheap stuff like Red, White, and Blue or Old Milwaukee. We sat by the fire and listened to music, and sometimes we played Uno at the picnic table. The next morning, we headed to the beach where we'd spend the entire day.
One time, we were camping in Wompatuck State Park in Hingham, and after supper, we took a stroll through the park. Susan was swinging a bottle of Asti, and I had a beer going, and three more in the plastic ring holder I was carrying when we heard live music coming from a campsite up ahead, and it sounded really good.
It was one guy singing and playing an acoustic guitar. We took a seat on the ground next to a few others who were enjoying the music. It was pitch-black; the only light coming from the stars in the sky and the well-stoked campfire. I looked at the guy sitting next to me and commented, "He sounds a lot like Stephen Stills, doesn't he?" He laughed, "That is Stephen Stills."
We spent the rest of the night there and even had a chance to talk to Mr. Stills and smoke a little herb with him, too. We couldn't believe what we stumbled into. It was so surreal.
We spent the next day working on our tans at Nantasket Beach.
We went camping every weekend that entire summer, and we took a week's vacation in New Hampshire and stayed in the Shasta. I look back at those simpler times, and we were so lucky to have each other.
Susan was my best friend, and there was no place I'd rather be than with her…
Susan and I loved the perfect harmony of CSN. Listening to Stephen Stills sing under the stars by a campfire in Hingham, Massachusetts, was nothing short of spectacular.
Here's one he wrote that was one of our favorites…
To be continued…