The 6:18 from Boston

The 6:18 from Boston,

or

The Hard-Earned Cup of Hot Chocolate

It’s odd what you remember, or don’t, about your childhood. A comment, an old picture, or a song can bring it all back or leave a yawning space in your head.

I vaguely remember my Uncle Matty. He came home early from the Korean War. He had been shot in the back of the leg. My father said that Matty was never the same in the head after his experience, and he died mysteriously a year later. I was too young to attend his funeral, and that was that. 

Likewise, my older cousin Maryann was married when she was 19. The ceremony was held in June, and then she and her husband moved away to western New York state. I was too young for the wedding. My mother left me a plate of peanut and jelly sandwiches, and that was that.

I only mention them today because of this story. I don’t remember any context of their lives. How many other significant events happened when I was a kid that I don’t remember?

On the other hand, there was the big Valentine’s Day blizzard of ’58 when I was ten years old, the details of which are still crystal clear, as though it were yesterday.

It began snowing around noon the previous day. Our history teacher, Mr. Edwards, told the class to stop staring out the window. “You’ve seen snow before. Pay attention to the board so that we can finish up with President Jackson.”

But that was the thing about growing up in eastern Massachusetts, adjacent to the Atlantic Ocean. If the temperature was just above 32 degrees, a storm would produce rain. Move a few miles to the west or north where the temperature is just below freezing and there would be snow. Usually, lots of it. 

Everyone in New England knew the term snow line. On the evening weather, seen on our grainy black and white television, the meteorologist would draw a line along coastal New England announcing the rain-snow divide.  No simple line took on more importance in my life than that slash on the map.

President Jackson couldn’t help us with the weather but the class was hoping for heavy snow so that we’d miss a day of school.

We lived a mile from town. I could either walk to school or ride the bus, whatever the weather.   Strangely, I loved walking in stormy weather. If it were raining, rivulets of water would rush along the edge of the road finding the low point, which led to the stream near our home. The stream emptied into the Charles River on the edge of town.  Cold weather brought fresh snow which covered the dirty stuff from earlier storms. The deep snow drifts looked majestical. Walking to and from school could be an adventure.

In the cold winter months, my mother usually had a cup of hot chocolate waiting for me when I came home. She had a part-time job working as a secretary to the local insurance agent. She was usually home by 2:00 in the afternoon, in time to prepare our evening meal.   However, on the day before the Valentine’s Day blizzard she had to work late. The insurance agent anticipated a slew of claims from the damage of falling trees, banged-up cars, and broken arms as people slipped on the frozen snow.

Funny enough my father came home early that day. He was a plumber and the small firm he worked for didn’t want to send the men out in the trucks if the roads were going to become icy.

As I walked up our long driveway, I could see fresh tire tracks in the snow. My father was in the kitchen washing out his lunch pail. Just then my mother walked in shaking off the snow in her hair and complaining about the weather.

“It’s just going to get worse,” my father said. “Well,” replied my mother, “We’re going to have beef stew tonight if I can pull it all together at this late hour. A nice meal for a stormy night.”

“Is there any hot chocolate?” I asked my mother. She glared at me. “Look at the time. You have a choice. Hot chocolate or dinner.” My mother was flustered. She prided herself in serving supper at 5:30 sharp, in the Irish-Catholic fashion, and she was way behind in her preparations.

“Why don’t you just make hot dogs and beans,” my father asked. “That would be simple.”

My mother snapped a reply, “The beef, the expensive beef, has been marinating for two days, so it’s a tasty stew or scrambled eggs tonight.”

My father nudged me out of the kitchen and pointed upstairs to my room. This year I had entered 6^th grade and my father had made a desk for my room. I no longer had to do my homework at the kitchen table. He also bought me a new lamp and together, he reasoned, my study habits would improve. He also gave me his old transistor radio which I propped up next to the lamp. 

Some nights I would listen to the Boston Bruins on the radio and other nights I would listen to the Providence College basketball games. Sometimes my mother would make hot chocolate after dinner and I would take the steaming cup up to my room and sip on the heady mixture until I was ready for bed.

But tonight, I wanted to write my Valentine’s cards. I always gave one to my mom and one to my homeroom teacher who this year was Mrs. Russell. I also gave one to my Auntie Maggie who lived in town with her husband Fred.

Auntie Maggie was a master baker and kept our family supplied with apple, pumpkin, squash, and blueberry pies. Sometimes, in the autumn, she would make sour and tart pies like rhubarb and mince which I didn’t like very much. However, she would then spoil me for my birthday with a traditional Boston cream pie, filled with chocolate. I loved her very much.

I was also going to give a Valentine to a girl in my class. I was very nervous about this since girls had never interested me but there was something about Karen. When I was daydreaming, it was usually about baseball or ice skating which I loved but I found myself thinking about her. It was a strange feeling. In September, when school started, she had come home from sailing camp on Cape Cod. She was all tanned and her hair was longer and she looked pretty. Last year I wouldn’t have looked at her but times change. That was one of my father’s sayings, “times change” or “it’s time to move on.” That’s what he said.

Downstairs I could hear the phone ring. My mother was yelling something at my father who must have been reading his paper. In the kitchen, my mother and father were talking on the phone to Auntie Maggie. She did not like to drive in snowy weather and her husband, Fred was due in on the 6:18 train from Boston. Once every winter, on average, she called my father when a big storm was approaching.

Normally, it was not a problem for my father to drive to the train station in the next town to pick up Fred. However, supper would now be delayed by another hour which would upset my mother.

Fred, or Freddie as he like the family to call him, was not my mother’s favorite. He was one of a couple of men who had married into the family, which had a disproportionate number of pretty daughters. Freddie was the only one in the family with a college degree at that time. He was a Boston banker and took the train to and from work each day.

My father agreed, of course, to Maggie’s request. She was the youngest in the family and lived near us and he still called her his ‘little’ sister. My mother wasn’t pleased. Supper was going to be held up which was a calamity in our house.

My father announced that he was taking me to the train station to keep him company. I was excited to be going out into the storm but disappointed that I had missed my hot chocolate and that our meal was going to be even later than usual. I was hungry.

“I don’t know why Freddie doesn’t come home earlier,” my mother said. “Poor Maggie spends half her time driving to the train station.”

“He’s a busy man and in Boston, the big city, they work late. Coming in at 6:18 is reasonable,” said my father. “They still manage to have dinner at 7:00 each evening.”

This, of course, annoyed my mother to no end. “Why do they have dinner and the rest of us have supper? Just because he comes from old New England money?  Dinner is a pretty fancy term for the same food. And why can’t he have a sandwich on the train?” It didn’t take much for my mother’s Irish temper to show.

“Well,” said my father. “You know Freddie. He likes to have his martini before they eat.”

“One?” asked my mother sarcastically. “It’s usually two. And remember Thanksgiving? Freddie managed three or four martinis in the middle of the afternoon. He didn’t carve the turkey, he butchered it. He served up chunks of turkey, not fine slices. And he almost knocked over the gravy boat. Those things are noticed. I don’t know why our lives revolve around him.”

My father ignored this crack and said, “Okay, kid. Let’s go rescue Uncle Freddy from the blizzard.”

I helped my dad put his toolboxes into the trunk of the car to give it some traction in the snow. He owned a clunky Chevvy Bel Air, which he bought after the war, and the heater didn’t work very well in the winter.

As we drove through town, my father wound up behind the big snow plow which was doing its first run of the night. “It’s good that we are behind the plow,” said my father. “But it will cost us a few minutes because he is so slow.” Ahead, the blinking red and orange lights of the truck looked like a crazy kaleidoscope of colors dancing in the falling snow.

“Don’t worry, Freddie knows what to do if we are late. The station café is open until the last train comes in.”

Once we crossed the town line at the Charles River, the plow left us and we climbed up the long hill and then drove very slowly, slipping and sliding into town and the approach to the station. We were ten minutes late and the parking lot looked desolate. Snow was eddying around the station lights.

Alone, the station master was sweeping off the main platform. My father said there was one last train from Boston, a short, two-car Buddliner which would arrive soon.

But no one else was in sight. In a panic, I could just see us going home empty-handed while my mother fumed about wasted time, dangerous driving, an ungrateful relative, and a late meal.

Just then, someone appeared at the door to the station café. The shadow backed out slowly and it was hard to see the person through the falling snow and his heavy coat and hat.   Then I realized it was Uncle Freddy carrying a tray, a newspaper, and his briefcase.

“Go help him, kid,” said my father.

I relieved Freddy of his briefcase and he turned and put his head down into the blowing wind. The snow was swirling around my father’s car and I opened the door for him. He took my place in the front and I jumped into the cold back seat.

“God damn weather,” said Freddy as he shook my father’s hand. “Thanks so much for the ride. Given the storm, I thought it would be you.” He was balancing the tray on his lap.

“Here’s one for the kid,” he said, passing a large cup to me. “Be careful. It’s a special hot chocolate just made by Nick in the café. It’s a double with dark chocolate chips, extra marshmallows, and a shake of cinnamon. Give me the briefcase if you would,” he asked.

Freddy reached into his briefcase and took out a small bottle. He poured half the bourbon into my father’s cup and the remainder into his. “This will keep us warm on the way home.”

While my father and Freddy talked, and the car drove into the blizzard, I sipped on the best hot chocolate that I ever had. It immediately took the chill out of me and sent a spark of energy to my brain. 

The heavy snow muffled all the sounds on the road and the passing landscape was no more than a whiteout. Nothing mattered now. In my mind, I was working on the Valentine’s message for Karen’s card. Should I sign it “sincerely” or “your friend?”.  

We were late getting home but surprisingly my mother was relaxed. “The beef stew is just cooling,” she said cheerfully. A bottle of sherry was open and she remarked to my father, “Remember the old saying, it’s one for the pot and two for the cook.” A small glass sat on the edge of the stove. My father put his arms around my mother and said that the kitchen smelled heavenly.

In a soft voice, she said, “Now light some candles before the power goes out, and let’s enjoy our meal. I hope that Freddie showed some gratitude for the ride home?”

My father just winked at me as the blizzard of ’58 howled outside.