Every Sunday after church, my grandfather took me to Castle Island. He, armed with the paper, headed for a bench, and I, with my best imagination, ran for the tiny playground. It was the usual: slide, seesaw, jungle gym and swings, but it had seagulls and 747s and these made it special. The gulls swooped up and down and around and screamed and begged for food, and the 707s, 727s and 747s, the grand dames just swooped by. We made up a game we called Plane Name. The first to call out which kind of plane won. He let me, mostly. Their plane bellies hung right there � right there � so close I cold kick them if I swung high enough. �Maybe next time,� Baba said each week.
Then we walked around and Baba told me an Interesting Tidbit of the Day. Like: �In 1634 they built a fortress right here in case of attack. There were three cannons and gunners fired at oncoming vessels until the ship raise her flag.� Or �Captain Davenport, taking his nap in his apartment next to the powder magazine, was struck by lightning and killed. Miraculously, the Castle was not damaged.� All the while he spoke, Baba gestured toward the sea or the fort, wherever danger was imminent.
My favorite was: �Once a part of Indians was sent to the Castle as captives but they escaped under the regiments� noses.� We acted this one out many times as it gave Baba a chance to sit and close his eyes for awhile.
We had lunch at Sully�s. Sullivan�s was the real name, but we were regulars. Baba got a clam roll, I got a hot dog and an ice cream. Over time, I digested this combination, as well as a strange brew of information no one else in the family cared to know. The one time I tried to charm my friends with a story of the hated Governor Andros who revoked the colony�s charter and had his redcoats take over the Castle, I got the dreaded eye roll.
So it was just Baba and me. He delighted in telling me that Paul Revere had been commander of the Castle in 1776, although I found this confusing. I could only picture Paul glued to his horse and way back then Castle Island was really an island (a wooded causeway was not built until 1891). How could he get his horse over?
As they do, things changed: my baby brother became big enough to come on Sundays but he showed no interest in takeovers and attacks. He cried if we had to leave the sandbox. Then, we didn�t go one week and it was over.
Years later, on a trip home with my husband and children I insisted we all go to the island. �Like Gilligan�s?� my oldest asked. I spouted on and on about it: how you could see the city, how the planes tear over your head, how Sully�s was now open for the season. �Do they have Dove bars?� my middle one asked.
Of course, it was different. �Is it supposed to smell?� the baby asked. I never remembered such a odor, fishy gasoline. My children refused to play on the playground (�boring�). It did look like the original equipment, peeling paint, dingy grass, and most of the swings seatless.
I took them all around anyway and showed them the exact spot where I, a sorry British solider, met my fate when the Continental troops blew up the Castle. �You�re stepping in dog poo,� my husband said, unimpressed.