One advantage of living awhile is that time allows more weird, funny moments and manifestations to accrue.
Here are four, all Cape-related:
The bridge
At 12 years old I first made it to Cape Cod. No one from my family had been here, I had seen a map and became intrigued with this hook, flexing into the ocean. One spring Saturday I convinced my parents to let me jump on a bus with a bunch of kids to visit a potential summer camp in South Yarmouth.
When we reached the apex of the Sagamore Bridge, a prospective counselor stood up and announced, “Hey everybody, I want you to appreciate this amazing moment. Look from one side to the other, because this is the only place in the world where you can see both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.”
Everyone was quiet. I conjured that map and blurted out, “NO WAY!”
The prankster counselor burst into laughter. “Well all right, we got somebody who knows a little geography! What’s your name anyway.”
That guy would become like an older brother to me in the years ahead.
The arm
Years later, long after I made the Cape my home, on a hot summer day I was musing about my bad fortune not to be here, boarding an MBTA Green Line train from Lechmere Cambridge to Park Street Boston.
The train was crowded, people standing. I squeezed in, and as the train rumbled and squealed along I noticed another man standing. He was wearing a short sleeve shirt, one arm raised to hang on to a pole for balance. His bent arm mimicked my Cape Cod thoughts. And then it got crazy: He had a map of the Cape tattooed on his arm. I could see Monomoy at the elbow.
I waded through the crowd to say how cool that was. Figuring he must be a native, I asked which town he came from.
He smiled. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off — revealing the entire Commonwealth of Massachusetts tattooed across his chest, the arm of the Cape fitting right in.
The number
My stepson Woody came barreling into the Orleans homestead from middle school, beside himself.
“We’re gonna be rich!” he exclaimed.
His mom and I, properly excited, wanted to hear how. “It’s our phone number!”
He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote it down: 508-255-2273.
“OK I was looking at the letters for each number. Are you ready for this? 255 is A-L-L. And 2273 is C-A-P-E.
“ALL CAPE! Can you believe it? We can sell our phone number for huge bucks to a fancy company!”
Kathy and I cracked up, then let Woody know that cool as his discovery was, we weren’t gonna sell our phone number to some corporation.
“Awww,” he groused, “I figured you hippies wouldn’t want to sell. So we’ll just keep it, I guess. Anyhow, you know what else it also spells?
“ALL BARF.”
The sign
Along Route 6 there is a blue signpost for a private road, “Kerouach Way.”Spelled with an “h” at the end.
Literary types know that Jack Kerouac did not spell his name with an ‘h.’It ended in a “c.” And while he did spend time on the Cape, this small road has nothing to do with his presence, except that the man who named it was an admirer.
Then why misspell the great Beat writer’s name?
According to one resident of Kerouach Way (who swears the story is true), originally it was spelled properly. But there was a problem; people kept stealing the sign. It’s easy to imagine: A drink or two, on the way home, Wow! Wouldn’t that look cool above the bookshelf? Go for it!
The developer/admirer came up with a solution: Misspell the name.
The sign hasn’t been lifted since.
Literate thieves.
