Growing Up in Rehoboth: Memories from Golftown U.S.A.

I grew up in Rehoboth from the early 1950s through graduation with the class of 1968. My hope is that some readers will reminisce, while others might enjoy turning back the pages to a different era—the one my generation grew up in.

Back then, Rehoboth was mostly known for its farming. Most of the farmers were of Portuguese descent. Families like Bettencourt, DeMattos, Gouviea, Silva, Santos, and Amaral worked the land and produced crops such as sweet corn, potatoes, strawberries, green beans, and all kinds of squash. Some of these were sold at roadside stands, while the rest went to market in nearby Providence, Rhode Island.

Growing up, many of us heard that Rehoboth was once almost named the capital of Massachusetts. The story went that Boston won out because of its ocean access. I’ve never found any evidence that it’s true, but it was one of those tales we all loved to believe—it made our town sound bigger and better.

One thing that is true is that Rehoboth was officially recognized as Golftown U.S.A. by the Guinness Book of World Records in the 1960s. At that time, our little town had more golf courses than any other in the country—you can look it up! I can remember seven of them, possibly eight. Some were nine holes, others eighteen. The crown jewel was a new private course on Wheeler Street, developed in 1959 on land once known as Lush Acres Farm. The property was transformed into what became Crestwood Country Club, a beautifully designed 18-hole layout that opened the following year.

Bordering the Palmer River, the club had plenty of water for irrigation, so even in the driest summers its fairways stayed green while others turned brown. When it opened in 1960, it quickly became a sought-after destination, drawing members from Massachusetts and nearby Rhode Island. My parents and I saw it as a great opportunity for me to caddy and earn some money. We lived close enough that I could walk there—a big advantage over the kids who had to hitch rides from Providence or take the CYO bus from Fall River. Competition for caddying jobs was fierce.

Working there taught me a lot about life. One lesson was that knowing the right people sometimes mattered more than being the most qualified. Still, because I played golf myself, I soon became one of the better caddies. Golfers asked for me because I knew every yard of the course—the distances from trees, sand traps, and landmarks to each green. We didn’t have rangefinders back then, just experience and local knowledge.

When I was a junior in high school, I got the chance to work on the grounds crew under head greenskeeper John Petraitis. At sixteen, I was mowing greens, raking traps, and cutting fairways on a championship layout. I quickly learned how much hard work went into maintaining those pristine conditions—and how frustrating it was when golfers dragged their spikes, ignored divots, or failed to fix ball marks. Hours of care could be undone in minutes.

By my senior year, a former caddie who had become the locker room attendant invited me to help him inside the clubhouse—a whole new world to me. I learned how to clean and polish golf shoes, some made of fine leather that required just the right shade of polish, others of a new fabric called corfam that needed special spray cleaner. While the golfers were out playing, we’d also shine their dress shoes so they’d be ready when they came in.

Not every job went perfectly. I still remember one member’s light brown shoes that I ruined by using tan polish instead of neutral. The more I tried to fix them, the worse they looked. He wasn’t pleased, and neither was my boss—but that was the only pair I ever messed up.

I didn’t make much money at the club, but the memories and lessons were invaluable. I came away with a lasting love for the game and a deep respect for the care that goes into every fairway and green. Today, when I take my children and grandchildren golfing, they first learn how to respect the course before they even swing a club. They know when to be quiet, how to rake a bunker, fix a divot, repair a ball mark, and drive a cart safely.

There were many other parts of growing up in Rehoboth during that time, but I hope today’s column brought back a few smiles, chuckles, or special memories of your own. Thanks to each of you so very much.

Wayne Pacheco