Scott’s family arrived here when most of our generation did, in the late 1950’s. Main Street was transitioning from an enclave of summer homes to a neighborhood of young families. This was a special time when there were over 60 kids of the same general age in the one-mile stretch and many more in the surrounding hills and valleys who would make their way to our cultural ground zero, Fran Wade’s general store, by bicycle and horseback. Most families had at least one horse and it wasn’t uncommon to see a few tied to the porch railing as we socialized over popsicles, penny candy and soda. Mr. Wade’s tolerance, kindness and generosity knew no bounds.

It was a safe and quiet neighborhood where kids could roam freely from morning until dinner time. Older kids always looked after the younger ones.

Many adults back then smoked so the general store was always well stocked. One time Scott got ahold of a pack of “luxury” smokes, a box of fine tobacco miniature cigars that were soaked in Port wine. He and a couple of friends had a secret club in a barn where they would enjoy these sophisticated smokes. Unable to finish one between them they would stash the stub in a screw top jar for their next meeting. I wanted desperately to join in but Scott being the responsible 12- year-old would not allow a 7-year-old down the dark road of such sin, so he offered me an alternative. He said, “you know you can smoke grapevines don’t you?” I didn’t, but it seemed perfectly plausible so my peers and I ran down into the woods behind the store where Bob Cote built us a grapevine swing and the place was loaded with these potential treats. With our jackknives we carved out some excellent smokes, hard to keep lit, impossible to draw, but very rewarding and age affirming.

I remember the day Scott opened the door to me joining the older boys. He was organizing a football game and they were one short of having even teams so Scott looked at me and said “do you want to play?” Well the clouds parted, the angels sang, and I gave thanks to baby Jesus as I crossed the threshold of opportunity to hang with the big dogs.

Scott Johnson personified Hampton. There is an unmatched quality about the town that most people recognize but it’s tough to put into words. Scott recognized it and we would talk at length spinning old stories, and about how lucky we all were to be in such a special place at a special time with a close-knit group of childhood friends.

Louis Chatey