Ralph Ayers is a self-professed fibber. Ordinarily this would not be a problem, but Ayers leads tours of Newburyport during the city’s annual Yankee Homecoming celebration.
He’s also been known to be abrupt, he notes. For instance, he believes building a whole building for “seniors” is “a crock of crap.” He is quite sure he does not want to sit around and talk about his medications. “And those are the sum of my thoughts,” he adds. What he does believe in is a community center, keeping himself busy, and the Boston Red Sox.
Ayers grew up in Newburyport’s Ward 5 – the Irish ward, he says. His mother Pauline ran the family grocer, Ayers Busy Corner, on the corner of Kent and Munroe streets after his father died young. In that store – just one of many on the street – he saw and spoke to everyone. Or so he says. It’s hard to tell because – again – he admits to the liberal ad lib. “It was like a melting pot of the whole neighborhood … this is where a lot of my stories came out of.”
And he does have stories. They have come in handy every year for the last 52 or so, as he runs the Homecoming tours, a favorite during the multi-day celebration held each year in the last week of July. During the tours he explains that people used to be heading “up along” (as he jerks his thumb one way), “down along” (the other direction), “out back” (Low Street area to the west of downtown) or “over home” (Seabrook).
His stories also came in handy on May 3, as he and Newbury native Dick Cunningham met head-to-head in the Newburyport Public Library. The equally straight-talking Cunningham could only look on with amusement as Ayers told story after story, some of which were not entirely flattering to Newbury (the city and the town used to be all Newbury).
“I wish I had brought some paper,” Cunningham said, “so I could have written down all the things you just said that were wrong.” The two then went on to talk about “Polish Blast” (200 percent moonshine, Ayers said), icehouses, and how Ayers and company blew out the windows on the top floor of the c. 1805 superior courthouse with cannon fire during a long-ago Yankee Homecoming.
About the moonshine – Ayers tells a story of a police raid on a home, during Prohibition. The culprits put the booze in a wash tub, plopped a kid in there, and when the police came into the kitchen, the lady of the house asked them indignantly to please leave as she was giving her children their bath.
But Ayers’ life is not full of mischief and stories. A widower, he visits the grave of his late wife and those of his old friends lost in World War II. He paints. He plays pool with his buddies in his basement rec room. In general, he keeps himself busy. “It is keeping your mind busy,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s a secret; I’m saying it works for me.”
Don’t ever confront Ralph Ayers about his habit of smoking and how it will kill him. He’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that he is 87 years old and it’s taking a hell of a long time. He also writes a monthly column for the local daily newspaper and fields all kinds of comments, good or bad. Don’t point out that he left out a restaurant in his latest column reminiscing about old Newburyport eateries, or that this one wasn’t on this street, it was on that street. “I’m 87 years old and that’s the first mistake I’ve ever made,” he told one such critic. “Can you go 87 years without a mistake?”
That was a lie, adds Newburyport’s favorite local character with a grin.
Remembrances – Ralph Ayers
He’s also been known to be abrupt, he notes. For instance, he believes building a whole building for “seniors” is “a crock of crap.” He is quite sure he does not want to sit around and talk about his medications. “And those are the sum of my thoughts,” he adds. What he does believe in is a community center, keeping himself busy, and the Boston Red Sox.
Ayers grew up in Newburyport’s Ward 5 – the Irish ward, he says. His mother Pauline ran the family grocer, Ayers Busy Corner, on the corner of Kent and Munroe streets after his father died young. In that store – just one of many on the street – he saw and spoke to everyone. Or so he says. It’s hard to tell because – again – he admits to the liberal ad lib. “It was like a melting pot of the whole neighborhood … this is where a lot of my stories came out of.”
And he does have stories. They have come in handy every year for the last 52 or so, as he runs the Homecoming tours, a favorite during the multi-day celebration held each year in the last week of July. During the tours he explains that people used to be heading “up along” (as he jerks his thumb one way), “down along” (the other direction), “out back” (Low Street area to the west of downtown) or “over home” (Seabrook).
His stories also came in handy on May 3, as he and Newbury native Dick Cunningham met head-to-head in the Newburyport Public Library. The equally straight-talking Cunningham could only look on with amusement as Ayers told story after story, some of which were not entirely flattering to Newbury (the city and the town used to be all Newbury).
“I wish I had brought some paper,” Cunningham said, “so I could have written down all the things you just said that were wrong.” The two then went on to talk about “Polish Blast” (200 percent moonshine, Ayers said), icehouses, and how Ayers and company blew out the windows on the top floor of the c. 1805 superior courthouse with cannon fire during a long-ago Yankee Homecoming.
About the moonshine – Ayers tells a story of a police raid on a home, during Prohibition. The culprits put the booze in a wash tub, plopped a kid in there, and when the police came into the kitchen, the lady of the house asked them indignantly to please leave as she was giving her children their bath.
But Ayers’ life is not full of mischief and stories. A widower, he visits the grave of his late wife and those of his old friends lost in World War II. He paints. He plays pool with his buddies in his basement rec room. In general, he keeps himself busy. “It is keeping your mind busy,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s a secret; I’m saying it works for me.”
Don’t ever confront Ralph Ayers about his habit of smoking and how it will kill him. He’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that he is 87 years old and it’s taking a hell of a long time. He also writes a monthly column for the local daily newspaper and fields all kinds of comments, good or bad. Don’t point out that he left out a restaurant in his latest column reminiscing about old Newburyport eateries, or that this one wasn’t on this street, it was on that street. “I’m 87 years old and that’s the first mistake I’ve ever made,” he told one such critic. “Can you go 87 years without a mistake?”
That was a lie, adds Newburyport’s favorite local character with a grin.