On August 22, 1937, I was a 15th month old baby. After a rainy day, my Dad took us on a picnic somewhere near Boston. My brother Ed was sitting in front. In the backseat sat my Mom, brother Pete and holding me, was my sister Carmelina.
The bridge had an interesting feature. In those days, it had trolley tracks. Driving over the bridge, because of the precipitation, made the trolley tracks slippery as glass. Crossing over, losing traction and hydroplaning caused the car to spin out of control. Wildly, the vehicle and all of us inside, barreled over the side of the bridge.Continue reading