Another {Summer on the Cape Is Over

By CHARLES V. MATHIS As summer ended calender-wise on Sept. 23, we eagerly await Indian Summer (tbe first warm spell after the first frost). 4 _ However, natives, colonists and conventioneers are enjoying the lazy and wonderful pasttimes of sailing, swim raing, crabbing, digging dams and loafing. Now many forced to go home due to college, business or other con ceras are shedding bitter tears For many who live in smoggy, crime-ridden cities, their main joy will he look ing forward to the summer of ’M Boats will be hauled out of tbe water to be forlornly in

tall beach grass — only.the very rich from Cape May, Stone Harbor and Avalon still go to sea during October. Collages will be boarded up. The raw clam bar and dance pavilion will bs deserted. The tidal pool and tbe lonely sea beach will again revert to the rabbits, the sand crabs and tbe sandpipers. Many days the surf will boil with fish southward bound with nary a fisherman in sight for miles. A MONTH AGO. we rejoiced in what seemed to be an endless procession of days with relentless sunshine. Now suddenly those days are changing and will soon be gone Tbe mornings are still the same. It is still hot and fragrant in the inland cranberry bogs and blueberry bush fields,

hot on the white sheO roads, hot on the beaches and Boardwalk and streets. Everywhere is the strong smell of pine, bay leaves and salt'water But late afternoons and nights are different. It gets dark early and sometimes cool — a shivery omen of thing* to come. The late swim is a. shivery business, but nonetheless enjoyable in 76-degree water temperatures. In the evenings, going to the. movies, the fog is wet in the streets. Heavy fogs roll in from Davy Jones Locker and as you walk aiong tbe beach, you can swear you can hear the babble of poor lost souls drowned at sea. All night tbe horns and beQs sound in the inlet warning mariners of tbe pea fogs. FA1UERS JOIN their families for a last weekend, a last sail, a last swim, a last picnic. Mothers launder tbe linen in rented bungalows and shake the beach sand out of the rag rugs. Dinner may be a hodge-podge of remaining odds

How’Well I Remember the Town

(ED NOTE: Following letter from Tuckahoe native Franklin H Madden. 92, ■now living in Florida, was sent to free-lance writer Clare Campbell in response to her recent two part story on Tuckahoe.) j Dear Clare Campbell, ( 'A friend by the name of Louisa yangilder of Ocean View sends me dippings and among those just received was your article, Tuckahoe, (God BlessTSu^ What a thrill to read! I was born there 92 plus years ago. My mother was postmaster for 37 years with the office located in the parlor of our home, next door to the present Post Office. My mother once received an inquiry about the saying mentioned above She replied, “When fishermen went down the nver and had a good catch, they expressed their -delight by saying “Tuckahoe, God bless you!" But when the catch was poor, they said, “Tuckhoe, God you!” *1 remember the beautiful town and the roads I bouse, Middletown, Marshallvilie ’’-NOT Corbin City About the railroads, the station agent was Harry Morgan, Welshman, a wonderful person who made train traveling a pleasure. BEFORE THE MAIL was carried on the Reading Rail Road, George Dukes, or his father took it to Woodbine. In regards to George being the owner of the first auto, it is my impression it was Sam Goff and I think an Okfemobile In reference to grocery stores, one of the most impor tant was Ward Stille.’s,- next to my mother's home and in turn to his beautiful home next to his store on the corner of Station Road Your statement concerning my mother was both kind and gracious She kept the office open 6 days a week until 8 p m and it was not unusual for people to come to our side door on Sunday for their mail Ed Robinson was barber throughout my childhood days; a very deyer man whose hobby was fixing clocks . A

me eaten was poor, tney Hop well I remember leading to the school h and”Over-Tbe-River”-

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hair cut was 25 cents, and a shave was 15 cents’. On Satur d&y evenings his waiting room was a place where the pro-blems-of the world were settled. Gne of the sons of th? hotel proprietor was Chris Kerchoff, a dear friend of mine. He died two years ago. IN SPEAKING OF Dr. Ran Marshall, I can remember him pulling my tooth and giving me 25 cents. He had a brother. Dr. Joe. My grandmother was a Marshall. Of course Marshallvilie was named after that family, which started glass making in that area, some of the earliest. The Upper Township High School was where I graduated in 1911. I remember very well the canning factory, the gas works, and tbe silk mill; also the peddlers. On one occasion a small circus caipe through, so we boys duplicated it in Squire Shoemaker's haymow. I was the camel Thank you very much for the pleasure you have given me. FRANKLIN H. MADDEN

Many natives and chambermaids rejoice with the acquBdtion of desirable leavings of wine, foodstuffs et ai in rattagr and motel refrigtfators. Boys spend last weekends surfing, boogie Boarding, picking beach plums at Higbee's and chasing crabs in the water. THESE ARE SAD and disturbing days. Everything is being seen for the last time, everything done for the last tune. The last eyes glowing with happiness as they enjoy the latest thrill rides from around the world at six amuse-

ment piers.

Tbe last dam is eaten. The last bag is packed. Tbe last plastic bag of discards joins a sand dune-high pile at curbside. The codage door is locked and the key turned over to

the agent.

Heading back toward the chaos of cities, the bridge provides a last glimpse of tbe white gulls turning in tbe sun, egrets on marshlands and the sound of throbbing fishing boat engines. They take a last deep breath of sea air as pure as, the notes of a violin — the air, EPA declares is the cleanest and the best in all America. They are swallowed up in the incalnilahle stuffiness of the toll roads.

Another summer on the Cape is over!

: lippin£ Thru the 'No' File Remember a Thin Liz Taylor?

, By JOE ZELNIK On her last day on the job, one of the brilliant young ladies who worked for us as a reporter this summer handed me a manila folder labeled “Leftover Ideas.” That impressed me. Any. reporter who has a file labeled "Leftover Ideas” will go far in this business. This is a prof ess too where file cabinets are second in importance only to typewriters. ' VMy leftover ideas, I think, go back almost 35 years to when Life Magazine showed a teen-aged Elizabeth Taylor wading in a stream, her skirt raised to reveal her thenthin legs. Liz and I are about the same age. I had ideas, but they’re leftover. THE IDEAS OF our summer reporter, of course, are leftover because she left. My tile of story “ideas" is label ed “Future." That means they still have potential, »nti) I leave, in which case they will then be “leftover future.” Think about it. The file is very thick and grows weekly, like a beer drinker's stomach. I’d tell you one of my future story ideas, but then tbe Atlantic City Press would send in a team of writers from Pleasantville and devote a full page to it and that would make me grind my teeth at night while I sleep. After less than 10 months in this county, my files already fill three cabinet drawers. Realtors should note that, at that rate, we’ll be needing a larger office within two years. Many of my files are pretty ordinary, like one for each municipality in the county, for example. Then there are the more esoteric ones with labels like seboois. health, crime, tranqurtation, social services, ethics, etc. THERE IS A FILE called “Used” which, you may be surprised to learn, is not a list of local single women, but, rather, a collection of original news items that c»m» into tins office and were rewritten prior to publication. Ttieo, when we spell tbe bridegroom's name wrong, I can look up the anginal and see whether you, or I, goofed.

My saddest file is one simply labeled “No.” It means, no, folks, this didn’t get in the paper. I hang on to those items in case someone calls to ask, “How come you didn't use that picture of my cat decorating an Easter egg? ’ ’ or, “Why didn’t you publish my poem about bleeding gums?” or, “Why didn’t you use tbe color photo I sent of my 16»rv4i zucchini?” --Hopefully I can dig out the item and give a reasonable explanation as to why it didn’t appear. Often the reason is .that the item arrived after deadline. It seems to be very difficult to convince Cape May Countians that a news release abotk a Saturday event can't Rpfyar in our Wednesday paper if we receive it Tuesday. FLIPPING THROUGH my “No" file, I find: A picture of a stork. A note saying Middle Township Mayor Mike Voll would Uu^a photo taken of himself proclaiming Canstitutiao A photostat of a letter from Ronald Reagan to Ray Britton telling turn his apple fritters “were wondeml.” A picture of Bill Bogey signing an autograph A poem entitled “Sad September.” Photocopies of a half-dozen letters to the editor from Samuel M. Stubbs, who doesn’t seem to understand we prefer original letters to the editor A FIVE-INCH WIDE photograph of 49 Sea Isle City beach patrol members wearing new T-shirts Each face is about the size of a pepper corn. A pictare of BiD Bergey at a sports clinic. A photo of the hacks of a number of people at Stone Harbor’s Sadewafc Sales Days. A carbon copy of a letter to President Reagan from the wife of a man who walked out on her. A picture of Bill Bergey urging people to come to his Angelaea liquor store. A copy of a letter from Ronald Reagan to “Dear girls •“f boys” thanking them for their poem. No iivticatkm which girls and boys he was writing to. I told you that file was sad.

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