Dear Editor:

The current news reports are all about hurricanes and I have witnessed many during my lifetime.

My first memory of a hurricane dates back to 1938. I was 15 years old when the New England area experienced its most damaging hurricane on record. I lived in a comfortable home with my dad, my sister and my brother. I was the youngest. The school year had just started and there were no news reports of any hurricane activity expected. I lived at 21 Dell Ave. in Hyde Park, a section of Boston. My bedroom was on the second floor with a window looking out on the street, directly over the front porch. The property included ample land on which we had a vegetable garden, fruit trees and shade trees — and lots of grass to mow, powered by “muscle power.” The house contained six bedrooms, including two on the third floor, and one bathroom. Personal hygiene required a bath every Saturday night. I never heard of shower until I joined the YMCA at age 8.

I awakened on the morning of Sept. 21 and found the big maple tree draped over the roof of the front porch. Must have been a fair amount of wind noise during the night, but at age 15, kids tend to sleep soundly. My approach to this situation was to climb out my window, then down the maple tree and enter our house by the front door. Every part of day-to-day life that day was canceled, so my brother piled me and some of the neighborhood kids into his Pontiac convertible and headed for Wolliston Beach, which faced Boston harbor. Debris extended several feet out from shore, most of it remains of boats. This was before fiberglass was king in small boat building.

Recent curiosity led me to try a web search on the 1938 hurricane. What a marvelous age we live in. I learned more about that storm in a few minutes than I ever knew when I lived through it.

Encyclopedias were common and I worked as a door-to-door salesman, trying to sell sets. Actually, I did quite well but that business has disappeared.

Walter “Scotty” Scott

Sprucewold