Blessed to have these memories of our life at 175 Mill Street

To Begin... I was born on November 5th, 1929, and lived briefly on Mulberry Street (of Dr. Seuss fame)  in Springfield Massachusetts.  My sister Carol was six years old and my sister Katherine was five. Mother had a bad heart because of rheumatic fever when she was a child, so Carol and Katherine had experienced a number of nurse maids with various  idiosyncrasies. One had used my father’s tooth brush, another took to dancing in the kitchen when a psychotic episode came on her.  Another, when the parents were away,  beat my sisters’  legs with rose branches, thorns and all, as they knelt on a window seat. She also invited her mother over, and if the children spoke at meals she would switch their legs  under the table. In the strange way of children, Carol and Katherine didn't tell until years later. When this female Uriah Heep brought the parents home baked cookies along with elaborate praises of their remarkable off-spring, the happy parents called for the children to come and thank their care-taker.

On the third floor of the rambling old house, scrunched in a corner under an iron bedstead, were two  children. Did they rush to do their parent's bidding?  Did they hear their calls?  They were intelligent little girls hiding under a metal bed, who knew how to act appropriately in danger. They fell asleep.

On to Mill Street

After I was still a semi baby (about 13 months old) we moved from Mulberry Street to 175 Mill Street. This was a large three story ginger-bready house with a wrap around porch, good for roller skating on rainy days and tea parties on hot summer afternoons. Gas jets, were still in the walls throughout the house. Some were adapted to electricity. Fireplaces often smoked up the library, the dining room, the front hall, our parent's bedroom  and Grandmother's bedroom. Occasionally, a squirrel would plop down one of the chimneys, bringing soot and excitement.     

My earliest memory in that house was when I took my first step. Mother, Mrs. Fisk and I were in a sunny front bedroom

around a wicker tea table. I wobbled between two white wicker arm chairs while reaching for the wicker tea table. I imagine there might have been a plate of cookies. Then  a noisy ruckus ensued. Mother and Mrs. Fisk,   laughed and clapped  and hugged me.  I wonder if I would have remembered that auspicious day, if there hadn't been all that fussing! I knew I had done something spectacular.
Dr. Hopkins, who had just arrived for tea, was called upstairs and I was urged to do it again. I didn't understand so I went toward mother without holding on to the table. More ruckus. Dr. Hopkins laughed so heartily he scared me. What was all the excitement about? Later, I remember when father came home and we were downstairs in the front hall to greet him. Mother was holding me, then put me down. I went to Father. He picked me up, bounced me around and sang his favorite, “Old Dog Tray”.  Yes, I had done something momentous.  I was off and running!

  Mrs. Fisk,  an  English midwife,  had become  a  fixture

in our house. Father had met her on his rounds when he went on house calls into neighborhoods where people were too poor to go to the hospital. They had experienced some interesting cases together.  Father asked her to stay with his children on Wednesdays  when Etty, our nurse, had the afternoon off. Also,  Mrs. Fisk  cared for Grandmother in her final days.  She lived in a tiny apartment on State Street, but was always with us at Sunday dinner and all family occasions. I loved her.

We all have our different memories of life in that house. For me, it was the perfect house. Christmas was magic because Mother and Father made it so. Mother wrapped presents starting in the beginning of December, and no wonder! Aside from family, she had gifts for all the Doctors who had treated us over the year. In those days, Doctors never charged their fellow physicians. Since we ended up to be a big family, ( Grandmother , Viola ( Vee), Ethel (Etty), four girls plus Mother and Father ) this covered many obligations at Christmas. In spite of  her own family,  she bought and wrapped presents for the Hastings family who had 18 children. They were all patients of Father's. Mrs. Hastings paid her bill by bringing eggs and potatoes every week, from their farm. We loved Mrs. Hastings, and when she arrived in the kitchen with her bounty, she would have a cup of tea or two and tell us about her family and ask about us. She must have weighed  two hundred and fifty pounds. I'm sure her life wasn't at all easy, but her laugh and warm ways were the dearest part of her. All her children had the greatest  respect and love for her. Two of them she named after my father. There was Arthur Edgelow Hastings and Phillip Arthur  Hastings. Their Father was a bad man.

To continue with Christmas
On Christmas Eve afternoon, we would go to church in our best clothes. The full boy's choir sang and the older children acted out the Nativity. Later, we were privileged to be a sheep, or  Mary, or an angel. Every year we had a Carol Sing tea. A week before the gala affair, silver and brass were  polished, the piano tuned and best clothes washed and ironed. Our friends, all my parent's friends, and their families would come to imbibe tea, coffee,  and punch.  Vee's tiny hot toasted cheese sandwiches, were ever popular. A daffodil cake  and short bread cookies were a must.. Mrs. Southworth, who lived across the street,  played the piano every year and everybody sang their hearts out. Young and old had a great time, and when I was older and came from School in Toronto, I made my New Years Eve dates with one or other of the boys present. Christmas day, in the afternoon, we would go to another Carol Sing at the Lawrence's house. Bishop Lawrence was the Bishop of Western Massachusetts.  They had seven children. Huge fun!! Lots of boys and again lots of good food and singing.

Before the big day we children would go to the zoo in Forest park, at night, to see the creche. It was beautiful and

each year never lost its magic. Properly constructed with the Polar Bear cage in the back- ground,  the wonderful scene of the baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph , the shepherds and wise men was mesmerizing. Following,  we would get back in the car and do the rounds of the doctors, whose presents were carried in a big wicker basket  on the back seat. Father shooed us up the sidewalks to the front doors , but remained in the car with the engine running because he didn't like  being thanked. Once the package was in safe hands, we  dashed  back to the car  never stopping to chat in case the husband or wife might  follow us  down the walk in time to embarrass him.   

Once, we saw Santa. We drove by the Brooks' house in Longmeadow. Father shouted, “We'd better get home! There's Santa!”  There he was! His feet were sticking out of the chimney  and the reindeer  were standing right on that roof!!! There was a Santa for sure! We had seen him going about his work! Father put the pedal to the mettle to get us home before Santa got to 175 Mill Street. Mother, Etty and Vee were astounded when we  arrived  and told them the miracle. They hustled us into bed before Santa would catch us up or there might have been no presents! Mother created excitement in the house, at least for me. I expected her to do exciting things, and she never failed me.

One bathroom in our house was off the parent's room. It was so large it doubled as  a dressing room and a laundry room. Mother would pile the laundry on the floor in a heap then  sort it into separate piles, throwing it hither and thither, checking the articles of clothing off on her clip board. Then it would go to Mrs. Dorsey, who washed and ironed father's shirts and BVDs.  I remember when, wonder of wonders, we heralded a washing machine with a hand wringer. Big excitement when it was

placed in the laundry room. Everybody stood around in awe. We children would  wash the linen napkins in the set tubs by scrubbing them up and down on a metal scrub board. We loved helping Vee by cranking the new wringer 'til our arms were sore, then Vee would take over. Another bathroom, ours,  was at the end of the upstairs hall. The enamel had  disappeared from the bottom of the sink because Sister Carol sent for some hair dye in the mail order. It ate away the enamel in the sink. Under the enamel was copper. She left her mark. On the third floor there was one more bathroom. Today, the house is a nursing home. I wonder, how do they manage?  Tree roots used to clog up the sewer lines, and mice. Father didn't seem to understand, no matter what mother said, that when you put dead mice down the “Irish Channel” there are sure to be consequences.

 The Ring nursing home is next door, where Mr. and Miss Howard used to live. Miss Howard was an alcoholic, and used to peer at us wistfully from her upstairs  window. Mr. Howard ran a waste rag company at the bottom of Mill Street. He had prospered.   His house became a lovely nursing home where my Mum spent her final days.  My mother seemed to have one drama after another. One  fine freezing day, as we were spinning down Mrs. Griffin’s icy hill on our tin trays, the same ones we would slide down our front stairs. She took a sled and whizzed down on the ice. As she hit her speed, lying on her stomach, her sled broke through the ice, cutting her face and breaking her nose.  She took to her bed and stayed there for a week.  Much to poor mother's disgust,  her children treated her as if she was exhibit A,  and brought their friends upstairs to view her.  I know.  I was so impressed by my mother's drama and bunged up appearance, I asked Bob the postman if he would like to see mother. Reluctantly, he declined the opportunity.  

Another of Mother's  dramas took place in the attic. When Vee came upstairs to her room to change her apron, looked up and saw mother's leg hanging from the ceiling. At first it

terrified her. Vee was always on the alert for “spooks”.  Poor mother had decided to vacuum  the beams between the roof and the attic.   Why? Never mind. I too have often wondered. She had been stuck there for well over an hour and severely wounded herself. Etty and Vee and a ladder  came to the rescue. In the same year, Mum, who in reality was a mover and a shaker, proficient in every thing she did,  carried a tea tray  loaded with her best tea cups down the front stairs. She slipped, landed with a crash, and lovely bone china teacups shattered as she slid down the stairs on her back.  Another two days in bed.

On the other side of 175 Mill Street, dear Mrs. Griffin lived in a comfortable brick house, replete with room after room , perfect for hide and seek.  Also, of extreme interest was a laundry shoot where my younger sister and I were told fairies  lived. Mrs. Griffin   gave us free reign of her house and gardens, and had us to lunch on occasion.  Often on Sundays she would call to ask us over for dessert  after our mid-day  roast. Always, we said “yes” to the angel cake , chocolate sauce and whipped cream. At the end of our desserts, we were told to go into the kitchen and thank Mary, the cook, and Mabel for waiting at the table. Usually, the chauffeur, either James (the kind) or Bruce (the grump) would be having their dinner. James would take us for ice cream at the pharmacy across from father's office. We would then be allowed to ride on the running board of the limo, until father found out. James used to call us Madam Patti and Madam Duclous, after opera singers of the day. He would cover our knees with bear rugs for our trip for treats and we felt very special. After dessert, the big fun  took place. On the third floor of Mrs. Griffin’s house we could play billiards,  and wind up a beautiful old polished mahogany music box,  about two feet in length, inlaid with mother of pearl.  Inside the cover, painted in soft  blues and grays, were languid nymphs in diaphanous clothing lying back on clouds , heads thrown back, hair blowing hither and thither. I loved that picture of those lazy  self satisfied wisps better than I loved the music. I would imagine myself joining them to drift around in those soft warm clouds.

Forbidden to go into the  cluttered attic off the billiard room,  temptation  drew us in. We discovered a large glass box and would take turns climbing into it. Someone, usually one of the Hopkins boys from down the hill, would put the glass cover  over the occupant then throw a blanket over the top. Even today I am thankful that no one was left to smother in there. As the boys teased me from outside, the last time I was trapped in the box, I panicked and screamed my head off. Finally, my sister Katherine came to the rescue.  She was famous for giving the “evil eye” when she didn't have her way. Nobody crossed boundaries with Katherine.

Ellot, who gardened for Buckingham Palace for many years, mowed the large property and tended the lovely rose garden. His gnarled hands were scarred-over from rose bush thorns.  He persuaded  Mrs. Griffin to give us a penny each  rose bug we could catch and squash.  We must  extinguish its little life. Sister Margy was the champion at this game, and therefore the richest! One day she made a dollar! When Ellot died, our family went to his funeral. My mother, was appalled that we viewed Ellot covered in  pink satin with only his head on view.“ He would have hated it,” she announced rather loudly, stating the obvious. I hoped none of the family heard the remark, as I  think the pink satin was chosen to

do honor to their father.

The great front porch of our house has now been removed.  The back garden, where mother grew her pansies while she enlisted us to kill cut worms; where father and I would play baseball every evening after dinner;  where Marge and I planned how we would be circus performers as we hung from our knees on  the climb around. The beautiful lilac hedge which ran from the front to the back garden, is no more. There could no longer be garden parties with the pool  taking up the lawn.The enormous Chestnut tree which dropped all the “magic “ fall chestnuts  so precious to collect, has long since been axed.  Father taught us how to cut a  hole in each chestnut and thread the  string through  one on each

end  of the string,  making  a knot not quite in the middle. We would hold onto the knot and spin one chestnut on its end of the string, until it was whipping around . Then we threw in  the other part of the string and the two chestnuts would fly simultaneously going in opposite directions. It was very satisfying.

Today Mrs. Griffin's house is owned by the Odd Fellows Lodge and their sister lodge, known as the Rebecca's. After she died, Mrs. Griffin's lovely estate was sold to Tony Yacavoni , who dug it up for top soil , destroyed the beautiful willow trees, and in general decimated the lovely grounds.  He sold the house to the Odd Fellows for their headquarters. At least the  house is well kept. It was a great house and perfect for children. When it rained, I'd go to the library and hide behind my Father's Morris chair and read books and look at Arthur Rackham's pictures of mysterious trees, almost human in their threatening presence, N.C. Wyeth's pictures in Treasure Island, and my favorite, Thackery's drawings in The Rose and the Ring”.  

Enough! For tonight, I have said enough, although a book could be written about our life in that house.

Note: 175 Mill was a tax foreclosure. Though the wild ghosts of wonderful landscape remains, it appears in recent times to be abandoned. "You can tear a building down, but you can't erase these memories... "