If you resided in Riverside, Rhode Island, you were a Clamdigger. You did not have to dig them or even eat one to be a recipient of that title, you only had to live there.
Riverside was bordered on the west by miles of waterways. This geographic happenstance was the ideal setting for the habitation of those tender, succulent sea creatures called Little Neck Clams, hence the name Clamdiggers.
I lived in a three-bedroom, yellow, arts and crafts style bungalow with my father, mother, and sisters: Mary and Alicia. Mary, born 18 months before me, and Alicia nine years my junior. Riverside, Rhode Island, was my home until I left to be married.
Mary always said if you looked up Riverside in the dictionary the definition would read: Boring. I didn't agree. I loved where we lived and was convinced we had as much adventure, intrigue, suspense, and just plain fun as any place on the planet.
They were years of innocence. The community was my world. For me, growing up in the nineteen forties and fifties were days that were simple and secure and brimming with interesting and entertaining people for me to observe.
These stories are about my childhood. I was a daydreamer and watched, with curiosity and wonder, as exciting, endless, tales of daily life unfolded.
