A Boat Named Bingo
By J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
Alexandria, Virginia
June 25, 2009
My parents, Jay and Joe Eugster, moved our family from outside of suburban Roslyn, New York(NY)in suburban Nassau County to a tiny hamlet, surrounded by wetlands and potato fields, called Laurel in rural Suffolk County. My parents both loved the water and the North Fork of Long Island was an ideal location for them since it borders the Great Peconic Bay, Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. My mother loved to swim, sunbath, clam, and beach-comb. My father also loved to comb the beach but his true passion was surf and boat fishing. The move to the “East End” offered the family a number of assets, including more affordable housing, more open space, but nothing motivated my parents more than increasing their access to water.
My father, before and after the move to Laurel, would often fish off my grandfather’s boat which he kept moored in a small marina off of the Great South Bay on the southern shore of LI. My grandfather, also named Joe, came to America from Switzerland, worked on dairy farms in northern New Jersey before settling in Westbury, New York. His boat was 19 feet long, wooden, with a small cabin enclosed on 3 sides, and an inboard engine. It was an excellent craft for 4-5 people to go fishing in for fluke, flounders, or porgy‘s and my grandfather, father, Uncle Joe, and their other friends and co-workers would spend many a Saturday or Sunday fishing.
The more my father fished on my grandfather’s boat the more he longed to someday own a boat of his own. When we arrived in Laurel my father quickly obtained a row boat for us to use. It was a second-hand wooden boat, old, very sturdy, heavy, and covered with multiple layers of paint. I spent the first summer we had the boat trying to scrape and caulk it so that one day we could launch it and row up and down Brush’s Creek and into the Great Peconic Bay, close to where we lived. Unfortunately the paint was hard to scrape off, the bottom of the boat required a great deal of caulking, and I was a skinny 8 year old with little skill and even less strength and perseverance.
After six torturous weeks of scraping and caulking my father joined the effort and within a few days the boat was ready to paint. Shortly thereafter we launched the boat, without a name, at a right-away for the land bound residents of our unpaved street, and I spent many of my days rowing the creek and gradually venturing into the Bay. When I caught the tide it was a magical sensory glide along the channels that meandered through salt marsh and mud flats. Day after day that summer I was satisfied with the ability to row our boat. Having a boat seemed to be a dream I shared with my father.
Not surprisingly my father had greater nautical aspirations than our row boat. The image of his father’s power boat must have stayed with him as the summers passed. Although his interest in buying a power boat never wavered my families finances hardly allowed my father to acquire one. I’m sure my father kept is eyes open for a good second hand bargain but it would take some real money to buy a boat and lease a place to moor it.
Each summer the Town of Mattituck, the more sophisticated urban neighbor to Laurel, would hold the annual Fireman’s Bazaar in July. The bazaar was one of the seasonal treats of the North Fork which included the Memorial Day Parade and the Strawberry Festival. To a shy, unsophisticated child from a sleepy potato field hamlet these three events were the “Triple Crown” of summer excitement and entertainment. While I was usually able to march in the parade, and eat large quantities of strawberry shortcake at the festival, the bazaar was the event that was most exciting.
The Fireman’s Bazaar was intended to raise money for the town’s volunteer fire department. Tickets were sold for various rides like the merry-go-round and Ferris wheel, and the bazaar also introduced young and old to games of chance. Within the firehouse parking lot there were games of chance where you could pick a number on a wheel, throw a ball at a milk can, or toss coins into a floating plate all with the intent of winning some type of prize. This activity created a lure that was hard for most to resist and even harder for most to convert into a prize.
The big money prize of the bazaar was the Bingo game that was played continuously in an area that was set aside for people to sit at tables holding their cards and recording numbers that were called out by the barker. Bingo always seemed to me to be slow-paced and a game for the elders. To my surprise it turned out to be a game of skill, multi-tasking, and cut-throat speed. Seasoned bingo players would work numerous cards simultaneously with an intensity that would have made a professional athlete envious. As you worked you card with the illusion of success and the optimism of youth the real gamers would be calling out “bingo” before you had anything close to a winning row.
In the summer of 1960 my mother decided to play a few games of bingo at the bazaar. Although she never seemed like a gamer she obviously was quite skilled and probably more than a little bit lucky that night. After a few hours of playing my mother managed to win the big prize of the night which was $250.00. She was thrilled that she won and my father, sister Claudette, and I were all very proud of her as she accepted her cash prize.
My mother and father returned home that evening in a joyous mood. The prize was a blessing given that they typically struggled to stretch my father’s paycheck to make ends meet. As we drove home with them I couldn’t help wonder how my mother would use her winnings. I could imagine her treating herself to new clothes, a meal out, perhaps something for the house, or maybe just getting out in front of the monthly bills.
That night my father acted quickly. After we arrived home my parents disappeared into their bedroom and didn’t reappear until the next morning. My parents loved each other throughout their life but more often than not slept in different rooms and rarely were intimate in any obvious way. Although it was nice to see them acting as one it was unusual enough to seem confusing. Early that Sunday morning the confusion continued as my parents let my sister and I know that they were using my mother’s winnings to buy a boat.
Evidently my father had found a 19 foot, wooden power boat, with a cabin enclosed on three sides that just happened to be $250.00. It needed some work but it was, according to my father, a great buy. As good as the news was about the boat I was baffled. Never did I ever hear my mother say, “Joe… Glenn… Claudette… you know, what I really need is a boat“. Without a word of reluctance or resistance my mother was a willing partner in this nautical purchase and talked about how wonderful it would be to have our own boat. Her support of my father’s dream reminded me of how much she loved him and his ideas.
My father bought the boat and found a place to moor it in New Suffolk, NY. It needed work and he spent many days working on scraping it, caulking it, and fixing the engine. He enjoyed working on his boat and it kept him close to the water and other ships that used the area. He worked it with persistence, patience, and perseverance and it wasn’t but a month or two before it was ready to take out into the Great Peconic Bay.
Our first cruise brought a day filled with blue skies, light breezes, calm waters, excitement, and pride. Unfortunately it ended with clouds, strong winds, rough waters, engine trouble, and the embarrassment of a tow back to the mooring. That day promised to be a snapshot of what would follow. More often than not my father had to do work on the boat rather than enjoy using it. I often would accompany him to New Suffolk to spend time with him as he caulked leaks and repaired the engine. Over time I found the routine to be enjoyable and eventually the dream of actually using the boat was realized when my father and the family took the boat out once again.
The second launch was as exciting as the first and far more successful. The plan was to cruise from New Suffolk to a beach not far from the inlet to the mouth of Brush’s Creek. The weather was good and the water calm as we cruised along the coastline to our destination. When we arrived we dropped anchor just off the shore and with great pride wadded to shore for a picnic lunch in view of our boat. The rest of the day was spent talking about places we would go with the boat and how great it was to finally have one of our own.
That evening my father and I took the boat further from shore, on water as flat as glass, and securely anchored it. We wadded back to shore and walked, with a little bit of nautical swagger, the short distance to our home feeling a type of kinship with the sea.
The next morning the weather had changed, the wind shifted, and the Great Peconic had a serious chop to it. Waves were rolling under the family boat and because it was anchored it rhythmically bounced up and down hour, after hour, after hour. As I approached the boat it was obvious that the up and down bouncing had jarred some of the boards loose and the boat was taking on water. Although it wasn’t much water it was clear that caulking would be in our future again.
We hoped the weather would change but that week, while my father worked, the boat continued to bounce until the leaks were more and more frequent. By the weeks end my father took the boat back to New Suffolk and it was lifted out of the water so the hull could be repaired. The repairs, either due to cost, limited time, or the time of year, took away the rest of the summer for us. Shortly after the cruise my father had the boat on a trailer and placed in our backyard.
When the boat first docked in our backyard my father and I continued to enthusiastically work on scraping, painting, caulking and tinkering with the engine. Over time our visits to the boat became less frequent until they stopped and the boat was placed on the never-ending list of unfinished projects that my father seemed to create. It rested for more than 25 years, in view of potato fields and winter farm ponds, before rot, time and neglect drew the nautical life from the boat leaving it an aged, grounded monument to lost optimism and pride.
After my parents died my sister and I took time to clean out our home and yard. As part of the effort we dismantled the garage and removed the unnamed boat. I took a long-handled axe to the rotting hulk of the boat and each blow gave me both joy and sorrow as I reduced it to a pile of wood and an engine block. As I smashed the last of it I shouted “Bingo” and thought of my mother’s love for my father’s dreams and her luck at the Mattituck Fireman’s Bazaar.
By J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
Alexandria, Virginia
June 25, 2009
My parents, Jay and Joe Eugster, moved our family from outside of suburban Roslyn, New York(NY)in suburban Nassau County to a tiny hamlet, surrounded by wetlands and potato fields, called Laurel in rural Suffolk County. My parents both loved the water and the North Fork of Long Island was an ideal location for them since it borders the Great Peconic Bay, Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. My mother loved to swim, sunbath, clam, and beach-comb. My father also loved to comb the beach but his true passion was surf and boat fishing. The move to the “East End” offered the family a number of assets, including more affordable housing, more open space, but nothing motivated my parents more than increasing their access to water.
My father, before and after the move to Laurel, would often fish off my grandfather’s boat which he kept moored in a small marina off of the Great South Bay on the southern shore of LI. My grandfather, also named Joe, came to America from Switzerland, worked on dairy farms in northern New Jersey before settling in Westbury, New York. His boat was 19 feet long, wooden, with a small cabin enclosed on 3 sides, and an inboard engine. It was an excellent craft for 4-5 people to go fishing in for fluke, flounders, or porgy‘s and my grandfather, father, Uncle Joe, and their other friends and co-workers would spend many a Saturday or Sunday fishing.
The more my father fished on my grandfather’s boat the more he longed to someday own a boat of his own. When we arrived in Laurel my father quickly obtained a row boat for us to use. It was a second-hand wooden boat, old, very sturdy, heavy, and covered with multiple layers of paint. I spent the first summer we had the boat trying to scrape and caulk it so that one day we could launch it and row up and down Brush’s Creek and into the Great Peconic Bay, close to where we lived. Unfortunately the paint was hard to scrape off, the bottom of the boat required a great deal of caulking, and I was a skinny 8 year old with little skill and even less strength and perseverance.
After six torturous weeks of scraping and caulking my father joined the effort and within a few days the boat was ready to paint. Shortly thereafter we launched the boat, without a name, at a right-away for the land bound residents of our unpaved street, and I spent many of my days rowing the creek and gradually venturing into the Bay. When I caught the tide it was a magical sensory glide along the channels that meandered through salt marsh and mud flats. Day after day that summer I was satisfied with the ability to row our boat. Having a boat seemed to be a dream I shared with my father.
Not surprisingly my father had greater nautical aspirations than our row boat. The image of his father’s power boat must have stayed with him as the summers passed. Although his interest in buying a power boat never wavered my families finances hardly allowed my father to acquire one. I’m sure my father kept is eyes open for a good second hand bargain but it would take some real money to buy a boat and lease a place to moor it.
Each summer the Town of Mattituck, the more sophisticated urban neighbor to Laurel, would hold the annual Fireman’s Bazaar in July. The bazaar was one of the seasonal treats of the North Fork which included the Memorial Day Parade and the Strawberry Festival. To a shy, unsophisticated child from a sleepy potato field hamlet these three events were the “Triple Crown” of summer excitement and entertainment. While I was usually able to march in the parade, and eat large quantities of strawberry shortcake at the festival, the bazaar was the event that was most exciting.
The Fireman’s Bazaar was intended to raise money for the town’s volunteer fire department. Tickets were sold for various rides like the merry-go-round and Ferris wheel, and the bazaar also introduced young and old to games of chance. Within the firehouse parking lot there were games of chance where you could pick a number on a wheel, throw a ball at a milk can, or toss coins into a floating plate all with the intent of winning some type of prize. This activity created a lure that was hard for most to resist and even harder for most to convert into a prize.
The big money prize of the bazaar was the Bingo game that was played continuously in an area that was set aside for people to sit at tables holding their cards and recording numbers that were called out by the barker. Bingo always seemed to me to be slow-paced and a game for the elders. To my surprise it turned out to be a game of skill, multi-tasking, and cut-throat speed. Seasoned bingo players would work numerous cards simultaneously with an intensity that would have made a professional athlete envious. As you worked you card with the illusion of success and the optimism of youth the real gamers would be calling out “bingo” before you had anything close to a winning row.
In the summer of 1960 my mother decided to play a few games of bingo at the bazaar. Although she never seemed like a gamer she obviously was quite skilled and probably more than a little bit lucky that night. After a few hours of playing my mother managed to win the big prize of the night which was $250.00. She was thrilled that she won and my father, sister Claudette, and I were all very proud of her as she accepted her cash prize.
My mother and father returned home that evening in a joyous mood. The prize was a blessing given that they typically struggled to stretch my father’s paycheck to make ends meet. As we drove home with them I couldn’t help wonder how my mother would use her winnings. I could imagine her treating herself to new clothes, a meal out, perhaps something for the house, or maybe just getting out in front of the monthly bills.
That night my father acted quickly. After we arrived home my parents disappeared into their bedroom and didn’t reappear until the next morning. My parents loved each other throughout their life but more often than not slept in different rooms and rarely were intimate in any obvious way. Although it was nice to see them acting as one it was unusual enough to seem confusing. Early that Sunday morning the confusion continued as my parents let my sister and I know that they were using my mother’s winnings to buy a boat.
Evidently my father had found a 19 foot, wooden power boat, with a cabin enclosed on three sides that just happened to be $250.00. It needed some work but it was, according to my father, a great buy. As good as the news was about the boat I was baffled. Never did I ever hear my mother say, “Joe… Glenn… Claudette… you know, what I really need is a boat“. Without a word of reluctance or resistance my mother was a willing partner in this nautical purchase and talked about how wonderful it would be to have our own boat. Her support of my father’s dream reminded me of how much she loved him and his ideas.
My father bought the boat and found a place to moor it in New Suffolk, NY. It needed work and he spent many days working on scraping it, caulking it, and fixing the engine. He enjoyed working on his boat and it kept him close to the water and other ships that used the area. He worked it with persistence, patience, and perseverance and it wasn’t but a month or two before it was ready to take out into the Great Peconic Bay.
Our first cruise brought a day filled with blue skies, light breezes, calm waters, excitement, and pride. Unfortunately it ended with clouds, strong winds, rough waters, engine trouble, and the embarrassment of a tow back to the mooring. That day promised to be a snapshot of what would follow. More often than not my father had to do work on the boat rather than enjoy using it. I often would accompany him to New Suffolk to spend time with him as he caulked leaks and repaired the engine. Over time I found the routine to be enjoyable and eventually the dream of actually using the boat was realized when my father and the family took the boat out once again.
The second launch was as exciting as the first and far more successful. The plan was to cruise from New Suffolk to a beach not far from the inlet to the mouth of Brush’s Creek. The weather was good and the water calm as we cruised along the coastline to our destination. When we arrived we dropped anchor just off the shore and with great pride wadded to shore for a picnic lunch in view of our boat. The rest of the day was spent talking about places we would go with the boat and how great it was to finally have one of our own.
That evening my father and I took the boat further from shore, on water as flat as glass, and securely anchored it. We wadded back to shore and walked, with a little bit of nautical swagger, the short distance to our home feeling a type of kinship with the sea.
The next morning the weather had changed, the wind shifted, and the Great Peconic had a serious chop to it. Waves were rolling under the family boat and because it was anchored it rhythmically bounced up and down hour, after hour, after hour. As I approached the boat it was obvious that the up and down bouncing had jarred some of the boards loose and the boat was taking on water. Although it wasn’t much water it was clear that caulking would be in our future again.
We hoped the weather would change but that week, while my father worked, the boat continued to bounce until the leaks were more and more frequent. By the weeks end my father took the boat back to New Suffolk and it was lifted out of the water so the hull could be repaired. The repairs, either due to cost, limited time, or the time of year, took away the rest of the summer for us. Shortly after the cruise my father had the boat on a trailer and placed in our backyard.
When the boat first docked in our backyard my father and I continued to enthusiastically work on scraping, painting, caulking and tinkering with the engine. Over time our visits to the boat became less frequent until they stopped and the boat was placed on the never-ending list of unfinished projects that my father seemed to create. It rested for more than 25 years, in view of potato fields and winter farm ponds, before rot, time and neglect drew the nautical life from the boat leaving it an aged, grounded monument to lost optimism and pride.
After my parents died my sister and I took time to clean out our home and yard. As part of the effort we dismantled the garage and removed the unnamed boat. I took a long-handled axe to the rotting hulk of the boat and each blow gave me both joy and sorrow as I reduced it to a pile of wood and an engine block. As I smashed the last of it I shouted “Bingo” and thought of my mother’s love for my father’s dreams and her luck at the Mattituck Fireman’s Bazaar.
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