75. The Impossible Dream
Don Sneade was someone I tried to avoid. He wasn’t a pleasant man. A lot of men back in the 50s and 60s fit into the role of head of household more easily than they did as father figures. My father was one of the head of household guys. I am speaking for myself on this subject, not for other members of my family.
Every household had rules and regulations, things that were dictated from the parental units and followed by the youngins. I don’t think kids fully knew there were differences in family household dynamics until they were old enough to visit friend’s homes unaccompanied by their rulers — I mean their parents. I know that’s when I figured things out about Don Sneade.
I learned there were dictator(ish) fathers and there were the other kinds of fathers, the ones who talked to their kids and not at them. Those kinds of fathers looked forward to seeing their children. That’s the message Paul Hackett sent out when he returned home. I’d been privy to the interactions between Mr. Hackett and his kids on many occasions simply because we all shared the Columbus Park neighborhood. For much of my elementary years, I hung around with kids on Englewood Avenue and therefore I saw the Hackett kids welcome their daddy home. It was nice.
I’m going strictly on memory here which I admit is iffy, but it’s what I do now, knowing full-well I’ll miss the mark from time to time. For instance, in my previous blog: A Dream of Michael, I said Tim and Kevin started their friendship in elementary school — it wasn’t until middle-school that they became friends. It doesn’t matter in the scheme of things, but it matters to me, strictly from a ‘how’s the memory-thing working’? perspective. That snafu aside, it’s working really, really well. In fact, I impressed Joyce McTigue with my ability to remember useless bits of information on several occasions recently, and it was a blast hearing her laugh of amazement. Such fun!
Back to this blog. In my mind’s eye, Mr. Hackett wore a police officer’s uniform for some part of my youth, but then I think he wore a sport coat and slacks. The transition probably took place when he left the rank of ‘officer’ and moved into the role of ‘detective’. I admit I cheated and read Mr. Hackett’s obituary to get reacquainted. I smiled when I saw his face, a much older version of the one I remembered, but still so easily identifiable with his casual smile.
I mentioned this blog to my mother and sister and asked what they remember about Paul Hackett. Both readily responded, “He was a very nice man,” Mom added on, “Paul and Blanche were really very nice people.” Then the two women in Auburn proceeded to take their own trip up and down Englewood Avenue, dragging my ass along with them. “I hung out at the other Hackett house with Mary, and Brian. And I hung around with Debbie Belec who married Brian,” Marjorie shouted into the phone my mom was holding. Ten minutes later, I managed to disconnect and get back to my writing. I think I left them somewhere near the Coyne’s, Maguire’s, McCabe’s, and Soutra’s houses.
As I said earlier, I witnessed Mr. Hackett’s arrival home on plenty of occasions. His daughters, Paula and Donna, readily stopped what they were doing and skipped toward him — smiling faces coming from both sides of the age divide. The trip down memory lane that I am on was prompted by the reemergence of the Hackett sisters into my life. Both reached out on FB and I am so happy we have reconnected. It’s caused me to think about lots of things from my youth. And it’s made me push against the easy labels I’ve slapped on my father and begin a search for things he did for the enjoyment of his family.
My father passed away some years ago, so this reflection may be sort of a just in case, cover-thy-ass strategy — on the off chance I bump into the dude who tortured me with corn chowder. It could happen and if it does, I’m gonna want a preemptive attitude adjustment and a benign talking point — ya know?
So here’s a good Don Sneade story.
The man was a jack of all trades. He could do just about anything — if he wanted to. He was capable of carpentry things, and tinkering with automobiles, under the hood and elsewhere. He much preferred putzing around outdoors rather than in the home. In my opinion, the most notable thing about my father was that he had the ability to imagine things and bring them to fruition — whether they should have been — or not.
One day, the old man drove a beat-to-shit milk delivery truck onto the driveway at 10 Hobson. It was a hollowed out, clackety hull of nothingness. I think the only things it had inside were two big-ass bucket seats and maybe some shelving. I’m not sure if my mother knew the monstrosity was being purchased, but I doubt she knew what his plans for the thing were.
“It’s gonna be a camper,” he declared.
My guess is, my mother was thinking, “Great, I'm going to be taken hostage in that thing and these three will be coming along for a ride through Hell.”
Nope. Nope. That’s what I was thinking. My bad!
The man had a vision and nothing was going to stand in the way of his achieving it — and nothing did. From afar, the women of the family watched the men of the family suction out dents, patch rusted holes, straighten bent bumpers, and sand off paint. When the exterior work was done, the truck looked like a big-ass tin box on wheels. It needed two things — a name and some paint. Don Sneade handled both. He painted the ‘Impossible Dream’ an ugly-ass, baby just pooped its diaper, sort of puke green(ish). It was lovely. It was not!
With those decisions made, Don and Donnie got busy on the innards.
Again, the women of the family watched from afar. Just as well because the driveway and certain sections of the yard surrounding it had piles of lumber, and sawhorses, and saws, and toolboxes, and extension cords, and a whole lot of other ‘man stuff’ piled high. My father worked his ass off on that camper. He was invigorated and engaged and always home. A rarity for sure. All in all, it was a good time for the Sneades — those who were doing the work and those who were watching it being done.
In the summer of 1967, Don Sneade loaded his wife, three children, and family dog, Pal Apache, into the big-ass camper and headed All Points North to Bar Harbor, Maine. He drove the Impossible Dream onto the Blue Nose ferry, secured her in the hull, took his brood deckside and relaxed into the beginning of the voyage across the Bay of Fundy to the shore of Nova Scotia, the place of my mother’s birth, the place where her people resided.
Donald and Cecile Lyle and their children hosted my family on their big-ass wooded piece of land. We parked our camper on their lawn, made ourselves at home on their beautiful shoreline, saw all kinds of wildlife up close and personal — some of which were way too ‘wild’ and way too up close and personal for my liking. Within minutes, we settled into the laidback life of Shelburne County. I think that’s when I started saying, “Yeup.”
You may be wondering how a family of five traveled and lived in a converted milk-truck camper.
This is how.
The truck had a door on the driver’s and passenger’s side. There was also a sliding door on the passenger’s side that gave entry to the back section. That was how the children of Donald MacGyver Sneade entered the living and traveling quarters. Remember, this was 1967, a time when no one was forced to use seatbelts, and apparently no one was even required to have seats upon which to sit. I’m going to explain the sleeping configuration first because you’ll be able to ‘see’ the traveling configuration more easily.
Scene: It’s getting near nightfall and it’s time for slumber inside the Impossible Dream. First up: Sheryll. My ten-year-old self would grab my sleeping bag and pillow and climb onto my bed. Where was my bed? On the dashboard, of course. Across the top of the dash, there was an affixed piece of plywood nestled under the windshield — yeup, that’s where I slept. How did I get onto my bed? I climbed onto the passenger seat, scooted onto my perch, wiggled into my bag, rested my head upon my pillow, and looked out at the stars. It was sort of like having my very own moonroof. Of course, the dashboard was at most 3 feet wide and the windshield was only 2 or 3 inches from my face, but I had a view. Is it any wonder why I’m effing claustrophobic? Nope. Hang on a second, I need to grab a Xanax.
Next up: Donnie. The twelve-year old boy had to wait until everyone was inside the ‘camper’ before he could nestle in for the night. Why? Because his bed blocked two entrances, the passenger side door and the sliding door. After last call on bathroom trips, the passenger seat would be lifted from its usual place and put outside. The sliding door would close behind the ‘seat-thief’, then a piece of plywood that was affixed to a wall by latches and hooks was unlatched and lowered. The bottom part of the board came to rest on the pipe that, moments before, held my mother’s traveling perch. Once the plywood was set in place, onto his ‘bed’ Donnie would go with his sleeping bag and pillow in tow.
Next up: Marjorie and the parents. The six-year-old girl would be hoisted onto a piece of plywood suspended from the ceiling by four sets of extra-sturdy chains. They looked extra-sturdy to me, but what the eff do I know? Nothing! Anyway, the ‘bed’ ran along the entire back of the ‘camper’ and hung above a double-sized plywood bed that Don and Shirl slept upon.
Next up: Pal Apache. Who the eff knows where that poor pooch slept?
Every night the Sneade family from the land of: ‘What The Fuck Is Wrong With You People, United States of America’ disassembled a traveling freak-vehicle and turned it into a, “Shut your traps and go to sleep-vehicle.”
This shit would be criminal nowadays. Just sayin.
As for the ‘traveling accommodations’ — the parents sat in seats — you know, the kind that are attached to steel pieces bolted to the floor and set with seatbelts and shit. The children sat in the back. The double bed the parents slept upon was removable — or more accurately stated — movable. One piece of plywood came up and rested along the back wall. The other piece of plywood was pushed against it to form a bench. From somewhere there came cushions upon which three children sat, and fought, and rested, and bitched, and moaned, and groaned — and bounced the fuck around — untethered — like human projectiles.
Sounds fun — doesn’t it.
It was fun, believe it or not. It was especially fun during that trip to Nova Scotia and to Prince Edward Island. There were two very unusual things that made it all the more fun, and I’ll get to them in a bit.
The highlight of a ten-year-old girl’s life.
I’ve already told you in other blogs about my love affair with Nancy Drew, but the other fictional character whom I loved, loved, loved, was Anne Shirley, the main character in the Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables books. The primary setting for those stories was the home with green gables where orphaned Anne Shirley went to live. The real home was a 19th century farmhouse very near to where Ms. Montgomery lived as a child. ‘Green Gables’ was located on the Canadian Island the Sneade family visited in 1967. That home is now a National Historic Site situated on land designated as Prince Edward Island National Park.
I went there!
And I walked the land where Lucy Maud Montgomery walked! And I sat amongst hip-high blades of grass and Queen Anne’s Lace that was referenced in all of the Green Gables books! And I spent time perched upon a red-clay cliff overlooking the Gulf of St. Lawrence where Anne Shirley and her, “Bosom friend and true kindred spirit,” Diana Barry spent their time.
That place became part of me.
It is where Tim wants to spread my ashes.
Wells Beach — Prince Edward Island — I’d be honored to have either or both as my final resting place.
My final days could have come way back then — in 1967 — when I was ten. While on the Island, the Sneade family needed the services of a campground. The parents found a beautiful one, and our spot was very near the ocean. I had a gorgeous view of sand and surf and splendid moonlight right outside my windshield.
Not a sentence you hear everyday, but whatevs.
Anyway, the night in mention began with a midnight hopping of Donnie in his sleeping bag whilst sound asleep. The preteen had been known to sleepwalk on occasion — once even making it to the Gilchrist’s house on Hobson Avenue before the parents realized he’d made a slumberesque break for it. And now, he was entertaining the family — I mean he was freaking the family out by hopping like a damned fool up and down the tight quarters of the Impossible Dream with Pal Apache tugging on the sleeping bag and being whipped to and fro like a Cujo dust mop.
And that’s not the interesting thing that happened that night.
As soon as Hopalong Sneade settled back in and things quieted down for the rest of us, I nearly killed us all — by accident, of course. None of us knew about the peril I’d put us in until the next morning. As soon as Don and Shirl undid the double bed, fashioned a bench seat for their kids, removed their youngest from her plywood hammock, attached their son’s plywood slab to the wall, removed their daughter from the dashboard and opened the sliding door, they realized I had kicked the gear shift sometime in the night and put our ‘camper’ in motion. The Impossible Dream had rolled away from our campsite, down a small hill, to the sandy shore.
Well, hello, Gulf of St. Lawrence.
I remember the scolding I received. I thought the angry words were a tad unjust given I was a dashboard ornament and asleep during the kicking event. Anyway, setting the emergency brake became part of the slumbertime preparations from that point on. It. Did. Not. Matter. I never felt safe in the Windshield Accommodations again. We did a few more summers of death-defying travel in the Impossible Dream then went a bit more mainstream with the purchase of a 60’ double-wide trailer that Don Sneade gutted and built to his specifications. I’ll tell you all about that ‘camper’ in the next edition of: