On July 31, I happened to see this item at www.courant.com:

WESTBROOK – The Westbrook Fire Marshall is trying to determine the cause of an early morning cottage fire. Fire crews responded to a two-alarm fire at 20 Cherry St. at 3:16 a.m. Fire crews were able to get the fire under control with in 35 minutes. Most of the damage was done to the second floor of the cottage. The cause of the fire is under investigation. No one was home at the time of the fire. No firefighters were injured while fighting the fire.

In the summers of 1964 and 1965, my family rented a cottage on Cherry Street, which is in Chapman Beach, between Kelsey Point and Chalker Beach, along Route 1. Since those remain the happiest, most memorable summers of my life, the information in the Courant registered, made me wonder, then passed in the rush of work and life … until Labor Day.

On that Monday, I was coming back along Route 1, at the end of a training ride for the Vista Tour de Shore 100K charity event. As I approached the entrance to Chapman Beach, I recalled the Courant article and turned in to satisfy my re-piqued curiosity. On Chapman Beach Road, I passed cottages unchanged and memories undimmed for 45 years. I passed new cottages and new faces, reminders of the fact that change is as constant as the un-frayed fabric of our lives. Then I turned left and pedaled up Cherry Street.

Sure enough: to my left, in the lot on which the cottage in which I spent those wondrous summers once stood, was a vacant, newly bulldozed scar, still bearing charred remnants of the fire a month earlier. I unclipped from my pedals and stopped. I stood astride my bike for a hushed, frozen moment, recalling the old red cottage more vividly than I now saw its fragmentary remains. I wanted to cry … but not there. I wanted to mourn the cottage and the boyhood that were no more … but not then. I heard voices.

I looked to my right. On the other side of a hedgerow sat two elderly gentlemen. In lawn chairs, they sat at a glass-top table, shaded by an umbrella, sharing a drink and a conversation much like all the others they’ve been sharing for more years than I’ve been alive. Since they had no idea they’d be written about here, we’ll call the Italian gentleman Joe. We’ll call the Irish gentleman Pat.

I inquired if I might ask them some questions. Happy to be engaged, they went along with the helmeted, two-wheeled stranger, who was strange enough to wear gloves in the heat of late summer. I asked if the Warnes family had still owned the old cottage. I asked if the Hursts still lived next door and if the descendants of Old Man Spencer, the lobsterman, still lived out back aside the creek. I asked if children still netted blue crabs in that creek. They looked at me as if I were an apparition from their own pasts, rather than a nostalgic, middle-aged man, trying to recapture some of his own.

Joe said, “Young man, you know too much. You better come over here and sit down.” As he motioned me to join them, I pushed my bike through a break in the hedge, leaned it against Joe’s house, removed my gloves and my helmet, introduced myself, shook their hands, and sat down. Joe asked if I wanted a glass of water. I thanked him and declined. Then he said, “I’d offer you something else. But it’s too expensive.”

After sizing me up for a moment, Joe asked, “Did you know Vic Verdolini?” The Verdolini family had owned a cottage on Chapman Beach Road. I replied, “Yes. He was a Meriden native, just like me. Vic went to school with my Mom and Dad in Meriden. His restaurant on Hanover Street in Meriden made my all-time favorite pizza. And I went to school with Vic’s kids, Gary and Lisa.” Joe looked at Pat with raised eyebrows and said, “This guy might be for real.”

I asked them if they knew the Mottram family from Wallingford that owned the cottage at the end of Cherry Street. They did. I asked them if they knew the Bransfield family from Portland that owned the cottage around the block. They did. I asked them if they remembered a beautiful girl named Cathy Marotta from Hartford who stayed in a cottage on Fox Lane. They did. And they told me the Hartford family into which she married. I asked if they remembered the Lawton family from Wethersfield that rented the blue cottage across from the beach right-of-way. They did. I asked if they remembered what the name had been on the front of that cottage. Pat said, “Harvard. And the one right behind it was Little Harvard.” He was right.

Then Joe said, “You have a pretty good memory.” I assured him it was selective. I could recall every moment – almost every ray of sun, every smell, and every brush of soft sea air from those long-ago summers. I remembered going to the row of mailboxes along Cherry Street one day in 1965 to get The Morning Record, which was delivered to us in Westbrook during the summer. I remember seeing a photograph in that edition of Gerry Levy, a Meriden neighbor and schoolmate of my older sister. He was an Army medic in Vietnam. The photo showed him emerging from the jungle, carrying a wounded G.I. over his shoulder. I remember finding Gerry’s name on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington when I visited there in the early ‘90s. In contrast, just the week before, I’d forgotten to bring my wallet when taking a client to lunch. Joe replied, “Ah … you’re still a kid.” I told him I had a little too much gray hair to qualify as a kid any more. He pointed to his shining scalp and said, “At least you still got yours.”

At that point, Pat chimed in: “I’ll bet I was out of school before you were born.” I said I doubted that. He said, “I wasn’t able to finish college till I got out of the service after the war. I graduated in 1946.” Joe saw my eyes widen and added, “I’m 87. He’s 93.” All I could say in response was, “God bless both of you.”

With that, Joe looked at Pat: “Well, should we take a walk to the beach?” Pat bounced up and said, “It’s about time.” I took my cue, stood, shook their hands again, and thanked them for a wonderful conversation. Joe pointed at my bike and said, “The next time you come around here on that thing, you better stop and say hello.” I told him I was finally old enough and smart enough not to make promises. But for him, I’d make an exception. We parted company. Joe and Pat went their way talking and laughing. I went mine with tears in my eyes and goose bumps from a profound sense of connectedness. Life does, indeed, go on. And the threads of mine are unbreakable.

Someone once asked Louis Armstrong, “What is jazz?” Louis replied, “If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.” When people ask me why I live along the shoreline, I reply. “I can’t tell you. But I can tell you a story.” Life is full of such stories in this community.

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