Name: Pete Smith

Age: 82 (But he made us guess)

Lives in: Marion

How he got here: Born and raised…

Favorite Tri-Town place: “I kinda like this place,” he says gesturing with his hands inside the Sippican Historical Society Museum office at 139 Front Street. “I must. I’ve volunteered here for over twenty years.”

What he’d change if he were the president of Tri-Town: Marion specifically, Pete supposes he would like to see fewer historical homes being demolished and replaced – the most significant one, to him, being the Town House.

Ever seen a celebrity locally? Perhaps, but he can’t recall anyone specific. “I guess I wasn’t that impressed.”

Marion Treasure

By Jean Perry

Pete Smith is one of those people you might compare to, of all things, an onion – not because he makes you cry, but because no matter how many layers you peel back another layer is revealed, and then another interesting layer and then another layer that’s even more interesting than the last one you peeled back.

Take his name, for instance. Most people who see him say, “Hi, Pete!” and assume that Pete was his real name.

“Your name’s not Pete?” interjects a museum employee nearby within earshot of us sitting at the large conference table inside the cozy office of the Sippican Historical Society.

It’s actually not Pete, as most people who are familiar with the man associated with all things history in Marion think it is. It’s Charles. Charles “Pete” Smith, longtime member of the Sippican Historical Society, volunteer at the museum, and guy responsible for supplying a significant bulk of the historic Marion merchandise on display inside said museum.

Smith is synonymous with history in Marion. In fact, he was even recently referred to as “Mr. Marion” during a recent meeting of the selectmen, which was a surprise to Smith who claims he has never heard anyone call him ‘Mr. Marion.’

But the other question still remains in this name game – why ‘Pete,’ Pete?

“I don’t even know!” he says, although it’s hard to tell sometimes whether he’s telling the truth or joking. Charles “Pete” Smith can be rather cheeky – but in a pleasing way.

“I don’t really know why,” he repeats himself. “My middle name is Robert.”

Pete’s mother couldn’t even tell him why he was always called Pete or Peter, he says. “Or maybe there was a good reason and they didn’t want to tell me.”

“I asked my grandmother,” Pete says, “and I guess she’s the one that put down ‘Peter,’ and my mother liked the name Peter.” But, Pete says, according to his mother, his great-grandmother didn’t even like the name, which (off the record) says Pete, must have reminded her of some old slang from the time.

Anyway, Mr. Marion – ahem, Pete – knows more about the history of Marion than your average Marionite (or historian). He’s been a member of the historical society for well over 20 years now and was named curator roughly 11 years ago, although Pete himself didn’t seem to notice when that happened. He’s listed as the curator in the 2007 book he edited titled A Picture Postcard History of Marion Massachusetts, but couldn’t recall the official appointment.

“I surprise all of them with the things I know,” he says without a hint of arrogance, for it’s true – the guy is a treasure trove of Marion history.

But how does the man some people refer to as Mr. Marion come to know so much about the seaside town he and roughly 5,000 others call home?

“Because I’ve lived it,” says Smith. “Plus, if I didn’t experience it myself, I’m here (in the museum). You can’t keep filing papers on everything without learning something about it.”

We’ve already established that Smith has lived in Marion his whole life – from attending Sippican School and then Tabor Academy, while leaving Marion for four years to join the Navy. He got his degree in business from Nichols College in Dudley, MA, and returned to Marion and worked for the Babbit Steam Specialty Company in New Bedford. He was also a special officer for the Marion Police Department for 20 years.

In addition, he’s stood in practically every social arena in town – the Council on Aging, the Lions Club (when there still was one in Marion), the Masons, the historical society, of course, and is also part of the Charles R. Washburn Memorial Trust board, serving as the treasurer.

“I’m treasurer of every darn thing I get into,” said Smith strangely enough. “Maybe they think I’m honest?” He shakes his head in wonder, oblivious of any significance.

You see, Smith might always be the ‘treasurer,’ but Smith is also a collector of ‘treasures’ – old postcards, antiques – especially antiques that originate from Marion or are associated with Marion. He goes out, a treasurer in search of treasure, often to flea markets where he’s found many a unique gem or to auctions where he’s encountered some pretty cool stuff, usually with a heavier price tag.

There is a colorful collection of souvenir china from places like the Sippican Hotel and Casino that Smith collected and donated to the museum. He’s also donated post cards like the ones featured in the aforementioned book.

“I’ve got tons of them!” said Smith, admitting that he’s got even more at home, and most of the Marion-centric antiques he’s collected he still keeps at home, too. “When I’m out and about if I see anything from Marion that I don’t have, it’s mine.”

There is a gold-leaf mirror featuring a painting of Eastover Farm on the office wall, purchased for $99 (a steal) and donated by Smith, as well as some local ship passports signed by various presidents – including President Martin Van Buren (“When have you ever seen something signed by Van Buren,” Smith asks in after-the-fact astonishment) that he helped acquire.

“Most people don’t realize it, but I collect anything, really – that looks good – about Marion’s history,” Smith said. Some items he has donated to the museum, some he has out on loan, “And there’s some of it they’re not going to get until I’m gone,” he adds, citing job security.

Smith knows everything there is to know about Marion history that’s knowable, of course. For instance, all of the information surrounding the Mary Celeste aka “The Ghost Ship” that is available – aside from the actual fate of the people who disappeared from the boat without a trace – Smith knows. It’s even possible that he knows what happened to them and he’s holding out on us. But you get the picture. He’s a living, walking, breathing history book on Marion.

It’s no wonder Selectman Jody Dickerson recently brought up the idea of officially appointing Smith as the Town of Marion’s appointed historian. (Speaking of selectmen, having been a lifelong resident, Smith says he’s known many of them since they were kids – but we will save that for another story…)

Smith knows history. “Marion history,” he says specifically. The rest of history he doesn’t reserve much of his time for. His passion lies in the Marion of the Golden Era, “when all the celebrities came to Marion,” he said.

“I’d like to have lived during that era, really,” he said.

Smith’s dedication to preserving Marion’s history is self-evident. He spends a lot of time seeking out relics from Marion’s past, chasing the ghosts of Marion’s hallways of history. And Smith knows about ghosts, just ask him about his table-tipping incident and the fact that if he ever has to come into the historical house that is home to the museum alone at night, “Let’s just say I’m in and out real quick.”

As much as Smith knits together the threads of Marion’s history to dress up our curiosity, Smith himself (or at least his ancestors) really did make up the fabric of the town’s history. Remember that little two-part history number The Wanderer published in the June 25, 2015 edition called “The Tar and Feather Incident” written by Kyle DeCicco-Carey? (If not, you can view Part One at www.wanderer.com/features/the-tar-and-feather-incident-2/).

Well, says Smith, Clara Mendel Potter was his great-grandmother.

And if you’re still wondering what’s so fascinating about the guy Pete Smith, check out his identification card for the Council of Seven Royal House Pokanoket Tribe. You don’t get to carry this card unless you’re one of seven chosen few who are descendants of royalty – Native American royalty – a descendant of Chief Quadequinah, brother of Chief Massasoit, the two kings that met Captain Thomas Dermer at Pokanoket in May 1619.

Ancestral roots in these parts don’t run that much deeper.

Smith says his memory isn’t what it used to be and he actually warned about that just a few days before his interview, prophesying that he would likely forget all about it on Tuesday morning. Which he did, of course, not to his surprise. The trouble with losing your memory, he said, is that there’s no one besides him willing to remember Marion’s past.

“Problem is, I have an interest in the town and its history, and more than most people do today,” said Smith.

And he’s still got so much left to discover, he says. For instance, why was one section of land at Tabor Academy documented on a 1903 map of Marion as being named “Red Rock”? And where on Earth can he find photographs of the artillery that was once out at Kittansett?

How can you find out, I ask him?

“Keep asking,” said Smith. “You just keep asking.”

And you keep peeling, I think to myself. Keep pulling back those layers and another facet is revealed of the gem we call Pete Smith: Marion’s ubiquitous treasurer … Marion’s treasure hunter … Marion’s treasure.

This is the epic tale of how I fight a continuous battle against executive dysfunction.

Executive function (self-regulating skills) affects three key areas of a person’s ability to carry out a task: planning, organizing, and completing.

With executive dysfunction, one’s ability to understand how to do a task, get started, organize thoughts, focus, follow through, and process the different steps of a task are affected. As an Autistic, this is something I struggle with, not only in writing, but with any activity I do.

My story begins as always with the mysterious inner wizard enticing me with tedious errands – quests, if you will. I, being the wide-eyed adventurer, am excited to undertake any quest. Part of me would like to do all the quests at once. I am reminded I must do only one at a time – like this particular article, of course – a quest on which I can take you along.

My inner wizard then talks on and on and on, giving me all sorts of knowledge and helpful advice that might aid me on the quest. However, I eventually realize that all this time I’m listening to the wizard go on about endless lore concerning the quest and offering me his seemingly endless wisdom, I have not moved from that spot since the wizard began and have not made any tangible progress.

I now politely excuse myself from the good man’s company and move beyond the rambling wizard.

Knowing that there are many tests yet to come, I venture forth (with you alongside) until I meet the great monster at the mouth of the dark forest. The devious demon’s name is “Procrastinatus,” and he has many methods of sucking me in and barring my path to victory.

Procrastinatus tells me to be afraid, for the journey will bear many tedious struggles so frustrating that the prize simply won’t be worth it. Then he tries to divert me to the fun activities he has to offer – dumb YouTube videos, Netflix shows, anything that doesn’t involve me advancing. I do not fight hard, for I know there’s no real way of truly killing the beast. He makes no effort to slay me either; he simply wishes to keep me captive and harvest my energy. To get past him, it takes the willpower of a steam engine to drop the remote.

Eventually I break free of his spell! I push past him and make a rush for it, eyes on the prize. Oh, but how he pursues! The more I slow down, the more he speeds up. He catches me, and I am caught in his spell again. But each time gets easier to leap over him, and I get better at staying ahead.

Still, Procrastinatus is always in pursuit and has a legion of minions at his command to surround me and ensnare me.

The first line in Procrastinatus’ army of vicious denizens is the Distractites. There are two classes of Distractites: external and internal.

External Distractites lay siege to the senses – different things around me that I want to look at, touch, hear, or things I want to eat. I can combat these Distractites by limiting or organizing my surroundings.

The less ‘extras’ I have around me, the less power those external Distractites can have on me. I can also block out the sounds of the Distractites by donning earphones. The trusty earphones give me some resemblance of solitude. Still, those external Distractites whisper things to entice and ensnare me. “Chuck, look out the window.” – I lower the blinds. “Chuck, don’t you want to watch YouTube?” – Nope. “Chuck, don’t you want to check Facebook?”

One thing about Distractites is that their time-warping powers make me think ten minutes goes by when really it’s been more like an hour and a half. Still, with willpower, I remind myself that I really want to finish this quest and ignore my temptation for mediocre Internet distractions.

Now, more devious and vicious than the external Distractites are the internal Distractites. Those are the ones that seize dominion over my emotions. “Chuck, are you feeling anxious? Chuck, you’re getting depressed.” – I rationalize it as simply brain chemicals.

Fortunately, I have a strategy to counteract these internal Distractite attacks. I stick in my earphones and listen to special playlists to direct my mind. For example, feeling depressed? I’ve got a playlist called “Up Beats.” Feeling anxious? Try listening to “Mellow Songs.”

I have a playlist for pretty much any mood or occasion. The key is to have songs I’m already very familiar with, but not yet bored of – songs that can divert me from these troublesome distracting thoughts, but not too invasive to distract me from my work. With anti-distraction strategies in place, I can elude both classes of Distractites and continue on my quest.

Now, the next set of opponents I face on my quest are the “Tangent Tempters.”

The way my mind works, everything makes me think of something else. You probably had a conversation where you stay on one topic and then someone says something that reminds you of another topic, right? With writing, we begin with a broad topic and then several subtopics. Sometimes though, I will focus too much on a subtopic or even veer off on a topic that eventually reminds me of the topic I’m actually supposed to be on.

This is the work of the Tangent Tempters.

Fortunately, the wizard and I had already mapped out a clear out list of only the essential topics and subtopics. Armed faithfully with my well-crafted outline, I ignore those devious Tangent Tempters whose goal is to make my quest longer than it needs to be.

When it comes to a task or craft that an Autistic person cares about, many of us will often play the part of a perfectionist. When working on a special project, we will put the most painful and precise thought into every detail. Who could I blame for all this? The Perfectionist Pixies!

They buzz around my head and show me the weakness in everything I write. Maybe I glossed over a detail or am having trouble finding the right word to demonstrate my precise meaning. There are times when I spend twenty minutes just searching for the perfect word. I realize that this is a pretentious waste of time at a certain point, and part of me fears regretting submitting something less than peak excellence for the sake of time.

It is like I believe if I just spend enough time thinking about each word in such a precise, persnickety, poetic manner, I’ll produce a practically perfect piece that will provide me with such proclamation and prestige that I’ll be presented a Pulitzer and be perceived as a proud poet in his prime, pursued by publishers making proposals of mutual prosperity. It is this particular pompous pipe dream that the Perfectionist Pixies persuade me to pursue. Their pestering pressures me to pointlessly prolong this prattling and plunders my precious time. This persists until I finally petition the Perfectionist Pixies to let me ponder in peace and not partake in any further self-indulgence.

As I near the end of my journey, I face one more denizen of the forest – “Hasteus.”

Hasteus, the impatient fiend of shoddy work, urges me to throw together some wrap-up to this and any other written work. He tries to tempt me, reminding me that I’ve spent too much time on this tedious essay and suggesting that it would be nice just to have it done and over with. He tries to assure me that a rushed ending is acceptable, convincing me the endings aren’t really important and I can give you some subpar clincher.

Just to write this article I had to escape the entrancement of Procrastinatus, shield myself from a constant swarm of Distractites, avoid the luring of the Tangent Tempters, and appease a cult of Perfectionist Pixies! Now, at the end, I refuse to blindly give in to the demand of mediocrity of Hasteus himself.

Still, not wanting to be at the mercy of the Perfectionist Pixies et al., I negotiate an end to my executive dysfunction journey now, for I am admittedly weary of this quest and a few Distractites are on my heels in pursuit. I must rest and prepare for the next time that wizard calls my name and I’m off dodging Distractites once again.

The Autistic Experience

By Charles McIntyre

The annual sixth graders versus staff basketball game at Rochester Memorial School on Friday night was a close one, but the teachers remain undefeated.

The night’s referees were Butch Lepage and retired sixth-grade teacher Danni Kleiman.

Everyone rose when the RMS band, led by Chris Williamson, played the “Star-Spangled Banner.”

At the end of the first 24-minute period, the score was 30 to 20 with the teachers in the lead.

Students Mandy Menard and Kiaya Savaria gave a brief Student Council update to the crowd before the second 24-minute period began.

The sixth graders were able to tie the score and even gain a small lead, but it was brief. In the end, the teachers won, 60 to 56.

However, there were only smiles and cheers, no matter who scored and no matter who won. (Apparently, every year the fifth-graders half hope that the teachers will win, so their class can be the one to beat them the next year.)

The annual basketball game is one of several yearly fundraisers organized by the Student Council for the Nurse Thayer Memorial Scholarship, which is awarded to a graduating senior from RMS who is entering the field of medicine.

By Deina Zartman