Come, Walk With Me....

This is the story of Hood Street, a tale of great personal strength as well as great personal failings. Hood Street is a cosmos of infinite magnitude as well as infinite limitations.

Hood Street is a collection of houses, built out of hope in a time of hope. It is a real street, part of a real neighborhood, Pine Point, part of a real city, Springfield, Massachusetts.

This book is based on real life events that occurred primarily in the 1920's, 30's and 40's, thinly veiled by an overlay of fiction. It was written in memory of my maternal grandparents Edward and Annie DeGuise, who built a house and made their home a place of love and welcome at 124 Hood Street from 1924 until their deaths in 1955 and 1963 respectively.

 

 

Walk with me down this dusty, unpaved street to another time, where within every house there was a story, behind every door a dream.

Welcome, dear reader, to Hood Street....

 

The Catalpa Tree

 

Laura was Grandma DeGriere's next to the youngest sister and was her daughter Irene's favorite aunt. Aunt Laura and her husband Vincent were married in St. Thomas Aquinas Church, and after their honeymoon at the Hotel Northampton, moved into a small house on Russell Street in West Springfield. In her youth, Irene used to visit her aunt at least once a month, with the ritual always pretty much the same. Sunday morning she would rise at seven o'clock, pack a small bag with whatever she was bringing with her, and then take the trolley downtown.

Irene would then walk across the new Memorial Bridge between Springfield and West Springfield that had been constructed to replace an old wooden bridge that had become decrepit. Crossing the old bridge had always been a challenge. Irene cringed at the sounds of the creaking boards and the clopping hooves of the big, dray horses as they hauled the rumbling delivery carts across the wooden bridge. Through the small open spaces between the boards of the floor of the old bridge, Irene could see the rushing water of the mighty Connecticut below. It didn't seem so bad in winter, when ice covered the water, but in the spring especially it was slightly unnerving to see the swift current passing beneath so intensely. Irene was glad for the sidewalks on the 1922 replacement.

Irene always considered these visits to West Springfield as great fun. After Uncle Vincent went to work at eight o'clock, she and her aunt had the whole day to themselves. First the breakfast dishes were washed and put away. Then it was time for "girl things" like sewing, and best of all, crocheting. They often sang as they worked, usually melodramatic old show tunes like "Please, Mr. Conductor," which was about the plight of a penniless child trying to get home to his mother, "before God takes her away" and attempting to prevail on the goodness of the train conductor.

One day, when Mother was visiting, Uncle Vincent came home with a tiny Catalpa tree which a friend at work had given him. It was barely a stick, so small that if it didn't have a tag on it, it would have been difficult to tell what kind of plant it was. "Oh, I just love Catalpa trees!" Aunt Laura had exclaimed excitedly. "They're so beautiful in the spring, all those wonderful blossoms and broad, green leaves." She didn't mention the mess the long green seed pods the tree would make in the autumn. Unfortunately, there was really no place for them to plant the tree, as the couple would soon be moving across the river to an apartment on Greenwood Street in Springfield's North End.

"Why don't you take it and plant it on your property on Hood Street?" Uncle Vincent suggested to Irene. When she left that day Irene brought the tree to Pine Point on the trolley, where Grandpa DeGreire planted it in the front yard that very afternoon. Over time, it grew to be a well known landmark on Hood Street.

While planting the tree that day, Grandpa DeGriere was reminded of how, during the time when 124 Hood Street was being built, as he was working on the sub-flooring for the first floor, he ran out of the rough timber he was using. He didn't need much more, just a couple feet. It was then that he noticed the discarded FOR SALE sign the realtor had left behind from when they had purchased the lot.

"Rose, hand me that sign," he asked his wife, who was watching him plant the tree. She reached for the sign and handed it to him and sure enough, it fit perfectly. Grandpa quickly nailed it into place. They both laughed considering how the sign had now become permanently embedded in their house where it would be visible to them every time they went down the cellar stairs. Perhaps the laughter stood out in his memory because Grandfather and Grandmother DeGriere didn't always laugh in the years that followed. A lot would happen in the neighborhood surrounding that Catalpa tree.

 

Uncertain Lives

Irene looked up from her packing and was startled by her own reflection in the full-length mirror across from the bed. Hesitantly, Irene ran her hands down her figure, trying to reassure herself that after four children she was still attractive. She sometimes saw evidence that she was still attractive when she would catch a man looking at her as she walked through downtown Springfield in that way men look at women. It pleased her, such evidence, even though nothing ever came of it, because it suggested that something could still happen if she were attempt to start a new life.

In the kitchen, the only heated room in the Alert Street tenement, she could hear the sounds of the children at play. Her first child, a girl named Doris who was born in her parent's house on Hood Street but had lived only a few days, now lay forever at rest in St. Michael's cemetery. She was grateful for the four children she now had and loved them dearly, but they were also a barrier to what she had always wanted and once thought she would have.

Her thoughts wandered back to how she had first met her husband in at the Butterfly Ballroom on Dwight Street in downtown Springfield, on an evening when the Edwin J.McEnelly Orchestra was playing. She had initially refused her future husband's invitation to dance, in fact she did so twice. Irene thought her suitor was charming but too bold, and she was made even more uncertain over the fact that she smelled liquor on his breath. Irene recalled how her mother had warned her to never marry a drunkard. But he was persistent, and she could see he was a very good dancer, so finally, she accepted. They danced together for all the rest of the band's set.

 

Eventually, the band took a break, so they had a chance to sit and talk a little. She learned that he was a young Irishman called Jimmy from a large family named Flagg, but he was vague when she asked him about his employment. Yet he was funny and smart, and like her he definitely liked to have fun. "You know," Jimmy told her, "I really believe that life is one big party! And you know what else, it's MY party and I'm going to enjoy it to the fullest!" She smiled at his confidence and enthusiasm, then blushed with delight when he told her, "You know Irene, it could be OUR party!" He asked her if she was coming to Lorraine Hall to dance by the lake the following weekend. She heard herself saying yes.

As the weeks passed, Irene found herself dancing with the fun-loving, if somewhat boozy Flagg boy, until the regular crowd at the ballrooms began to think of them as a couple. Despite their growing closeness, she was surprised when he asked her to marry him so soon. This happened in March, and with little preparation, they married in April. Irene didn't even have a wedding gown until one of her future sisters-in-law offered the one she had worn just a few months before.

At their wedding in St. Michael's Cathedral, Irene was struck with a flash of panic as she stood at the altar and faced the man she was about to marry. A sudden, powerful urge struck her to turn around and just walk out of the church. However, she reassurred herself that she was just being silly, regained her composure, and went through with the ceremony. Later, at the reception at her parent's house on Hood Street, her new husband got embarrassingly drunk and argued with her sister and upset her parents over something trivial. However, she reminded herself that people often drink heavily at weddings. Irene felt confident that the drinking would moderate once her husband began to accept the responsibilities of married life.

Now, as she continued to pack her things, those Roaring 20's seemed to be in the long ago past, swept away by the current hardships of the Great Depression. The aftermath of The Crash was hardly much of a time for ballroom dancing. They rarely went out anymore. 

Yet, there were nights when they had been drinking and Irene and Jimmy would try to recapture some spirit of the optimistic frivolity of those days. They took out the Victrola from the closet in their apartment, pulled to one side the kitchen table and chairs, and as the children looked on, delighted and bewildered, they watched their parents dance around the kitchen, Irene with her eyes closed, trying to feel again that she was back in the Butterfly Ballroom and living the magic of that vanished era.

Now the party was definitely over. It had been weeks since Irene had heard from her husband. Maybe he was still in Springfield, or he might be with relatives in Hartford. For all practical purposes their marriage was over on an emotional level, and she knew that her dreams were forever dashed as long as she remained in it. That is why she was packing. Her sister had come over as Irene had asked, and knew her intentions, and she agreed to watch the kids until arrangements could be made. She hoped her kids would go to live with their grandparents in Pine Point. Whatever happened, Irene was determined to embark on a whole new life.

Her few possessions packed, Irene snapped shut the suitcase with a sense of finality. She pulled on her heavy winter coat, picked up the suitcase with all her worldly belongings, and walked through the door leading to the kitchen. The children, Haskin, Walter, Robert and little Sally, were startled into silence by the sight of their mother carrying a suitcase. They quickly made the connection. Standing there silently for a long moment, the children burst into a chorus of tears. Irene looked over at her sister, closed her eyes as she fought back a tear, and then slowly took off her hat. Something inside her had suddenly changed. Irene sadly but finally accepted that the parties of her youth were forever over and could never be recaptured again. It was time for her to grow up and face the responsibilities of the children who depended upon her and the life she had chosen, be it for better or worse.

 

 

From his base at the Butterfly Ballroom in Springfield, Massachusetts, McEnelly and his band toured the Eastern Seaboard in the 1920s playing dances and competing in "battles of the bands" (famously “beating” the Jean Goldkette band on one occasion).

 

 

The Decision

 

Jimmy Flagg sat staring into a cold cup of coffee. A crumpled Lucky Strike package lay next to an ashtray full of smelly cigarette butts.

The small Hood Street dwelling he and his wife Irene had moved into to be closer to her parents had neither inside plumbing nor electricity. Make shift walls and curtains for doors divided the kitchen and living room from the sleeping areas. A tin sink with a water pump stood in a corner next to a stove for heating and cooking. Jimmy hated living in a place like this, but when the company he worked for as a traveling salesman went belly up, he became just another victim as the Great Depression settled on the nation like a pall.

Somehow during the night the fire in the stove had gone out. Awakened by the cold, Jimmy discovered that the water pump had completely frozen. He knew it was no use trying to prime it, because once frozen the only solution was to get some heat into the house. Jimmy looked out the window over the sink. There were heavy snow flurries in the air, early warnings of an approaching storm. If there was to be a lot of snow, Hood Street may become difficult to traverse, even on foot. He needed to take action now, but what could he do? Jimmy had no money.

 Sadly he looked on his wrist, where he wore a watch he had been given as a reward for outstanding salesmanship. Surely it was worth a bag of coal. Trade it? He would try.

Jimmy put on his overcoat and headed towards the store. At one point he slipped on the increasingly snow covered sidewalk, but caught his balance and didn't go down. The Boston Road Variety Store across from Friendly's was not yet open at that early hour, so he had to wait for the storekeeper. Finally, the trolley arrived, the proprietor got off and unlocked the door. Summoning up his courage, Jimmy pleaded with the storekeeper to trade the watch for a bag of coal.

In a stammering manner he explained the situation, but was finally reduced to ending with, "Please, as you know I have a wife and kids...." then he trailed off mid-sentence. Pitifully, his former skills as a salesman failed him. He turned to walk away.

The storekeeper responded in a tone that was mingled with both annoyance and sympathy. It was clear he didn't really want the watch, but he took it anyway, saying simply, "Pick up a bag of coal on your way out." Pity had won out where salesmanship had failed.

Elation at his success made the bag of coal feel light as Jimmy headed back home, yet by the time he got back he was still glad to put it down. While he was out, his wife, awakened by the cold, had dressed the kids and brought them over to her parent's a few houses away. She had just returned with her father and a kettle of hot water. The two of them were fussing with the pump when he walked in. His wife was delighted at the sight of the coal, but his father in law just stared at Jimmy without speaking, in a way that made Jimmy ashamed that he was unable to prevent the pump from freezing in the first place. Never in his marriage did he feel more like a failure than at that moment.

Jimmy's wife Irene, who could always read her husband's face, tried to reassure him by cheerfully exclaiming, "It's wonderful that you were able to get us some coal, darling! Light a match so we can make a fire in the stove. That pump will be defrosted in no time!"

Once the house was warm enough so that the pump was working, Grandfather DeGreire left to return home. It was still snowing outside, and Hood Street had become impassable to automobile traffic. Jimmy spent the rest of the day sipping from the pint he kept on the top shelf. "Jimmy do you have to?" was all his wife said when he first reached for the bottle, but then she resigned herself to the inevitable.

That evening, after a supper of hotdogs and beans, the bottle was down to just a few good swigs left. There was no money to buy more, and Sullivan's was certainly closed in this weather anyway. Jimmy could show a mean streak when he was drinking, and he was especially mean when he wanted to continue to drink but couldn't. There were words. Irene cried. He shouted at her to stop and when she didn't, he slapped her. Irene put the kids to bed, then went to sleep herself.

Jimmy sat at the kitchen table for a long time. Feeling a chill, he tamped out his last cigarette, added coal to the fire and returned to the table. Picking up the bottle, which had one last sip in it, he drank it down in a single gulp. Jimmy wanted more but knew the desire was futile. "A drink won't solve this anyway," he thought. Turning out the kerosene lamp, Jimmy went to bed. Laying there in the dark, he made his decision. "Tomorrow," he told himself firmly, "I will go seek a job with the WPA."

 

The Pine Point Lunch

 

The yellow and green Pine Point Lunch on Boston Road was a place to grab a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee. Despite its midday name, the diner was open 24 hours, as in the 1930's it was the last place to get a bite to eat before heading towards the then sparsely settled 16 Acres neighborhood, meaning travelers would stop there at all hours. Whether late in the evening or early morning before sunrise, the lights were always on at the Pine Point Lunch.

When Morty, the proprietor of the joint, had bought the place it was a thriving business with plenty of customers. Times were good in those early years, but then came The Crash of 1929. Before long, running the diner came to feel like drifting along aboard a slowly sinking ship. The Depression caused many local business to close. The Indian Motocycle cut back and Van Norman Tool laid off scores of workers. Package Machinery was operating with a skeleton crew. Many of the workers at these establishments were Mort's customers, and if they had little or no extra money, that meant they couldn't afford to patronize the diner. Still, there were usually at least a few people at the counter, if only a few unemployed guys nursing a cup of coffee. Could he hang on? Mort was afraid to answer his own question.

A few blocks away on Hood Street, Jimmy Flagg looked at the alarm clock in the half light. He was glad there was no patter of raindrops outside - rain meant no work. Irene, his wife, rolled toward her husband asking, "Six o'clock already?" Jimmy said nothing as he shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the single bulb above the sink. He dreaded having to shave with a dull blade. "Not even enough money for razor blades," he muttered under his breath.

As he was carefully shaving, Jimmy could hear Irene preparing a lean breakfast in the kitchen. Her father had brought over some eggs from his hen house the night before. Irene also had a ten cent soup bone and a loaf of Hathaway's bread. Without these things, there would have been no breakfast. Sometimes Irene had to make a hard decision between who would get the most of what little they had, her husband, who needed nourishment so he could work, or the kids, who of course also needed to eat. She hated being put in such situations, resenting that her husband, who had once promised her a life of fluttering around the Butterfly Ballroom, had instead brought her to this place of hard choices.

"When we got married I didn't really know him," she thought, "and I'm not sure I do now."

Jimmy was glad to see the eggs and toast on the breakfast table. Sitting down, he lowered his head and mumbled a short prayer. Hunching his shoulders, he ate his breakfast without looking at his wife. He didn't like to remember the pretty young girl who had once danced with him beneath the rotating crystal sphere that twirled over the Butterfly Ballroom. Certainly he didn't want to contrast that memory with the care worn, seemingly terminally tired woman in the kitchen with him now. Was it he who had done that to her with all the drinking and the fighting?

Last night there had been a battle royale. Jimmy came home feeling good, not really drunk, just feeling in a playful mood. Irene had been waiting for him in the kitchen by the big black stove. Their food had nearly run out, and all the kids had for supper that night were "federal foods" pancakes. "Jimmy," she groaned, "how could you drink up the last few pennies we had!"

"Aw, c'mon Irene. Can't I have a little fun?" His wife's eyes flashed with anger and she spoke with contempt and disgust, "You're not married to me! You're married to the bottle!" The condemning words hit Jimmy hard, sparking a blinding red rage that made him lash out at his wife. Irene screamed as she fell on the kitchen table and slithered to the floor, where she lay, sobbing. What a terrible night, but not the first that had ended in violence. "Why think about it?" he told himself. "Why remember? No point."

*

To save money, Morty and his wife Dora had recently moved from the Forest Park neighborhood to State Street Hill. From their third floor attic apartment on Andrew Street, it was easy to catch the trolley to Pine Point. Mort got up in the dark at 6am each day and then made his way a half hour later down the narrow stairs and outside to the trolley stop by the Indian Motocycle factory. He got off the trolley at St. Michael's Cemetery and would always arrive at the diner before 7am to relieve Bill the cook, who had been up all night preparing food for the next day and serving the occasional night owl at the counter.

"Morning Mort," Bill greeted him as usual. They talked a little about what had happened overnight, and what Bill had prepared for the day's luncheon special. At one point as they chatted, there was an odd change in the pitch to Bill's voice, as if he was nervous about what he was about to say. "Morty," he finally blurted out, "this is my last day working here."

Mort was startled. "What's wrong, Bill?" he asked, "Can I help?"

"Nothing is wrong," Bill said sadly. "It's just that I got an offer to cook downtown at the Bowles Lunch. They pay better, and I really need the extra money, plus my wife wants me to get a job where I can be home at night." Bill sighed and added, "I'm starting tomorrow." 

Mort knew he couldn't afford to match the salary of the Bowles Lunch, and had little else to offer to entice Bill to stay, so Mort replied simply, "You're a good man, Bill, and I wish you and your family all the best of luck." Mort opened the safe and paid Bill his last week's wages. "Thank you, Morty," Bill said, "I sure do hope things work out for you." They shook hands, and Morty had to face the fact that he was without a night cook.

*

Finishing his breakfast, Jimmy gave his wife a peck on the cheek and left for the WPA job he'd been working for the past few weeks. Soon, as he had every day after signing in, he was standing on the edge of a hole dug beside the overpass on State Street near Mass Mutual that was slowly becoming a stairway to the street below. There were two large boulders that had to be removed, and Jimmy and his co-workers Knight and Holmes were the ones who had to dig them out. How Jimmy had come to hate coming to this job every day. So this was President Roosevelt's answer to the Depression? Jimmy was almost regretful that he had worked on the Roosevelt campaign..

There was no doubt that the government relief job constructing the stone staircase on State Street was a long way from his former life as a traveling salesman known in bars all over Springfield as "Coast to Coast Jimmy." Now stuck in Pine Point in an increasingly loveless marriage, Jimmy was beginning to feel trapped. Just before 10 o'clock break, Jimmy heard a boy's voice calling him. "Dad! Dad, it's me, Haskin!" Suddenly Jimmy was acutely aware of how he looked, all dirty and dusty with the hard physical work, but despite his embarrassment, Jimmy still managed a friendly wave.

Since it happened to be time for the 15 minute morning break, Jimmy took his son aside and asked why he had come. In a brave, but trembling voice Haskin said, "I wanted to talk to you about all the yelling and stuff last night." Jimmy looked at Haskin and felt ashamed to have upset his son by his actions the night before. On the other hand, Jimmy figured Haskin was almost ten, so perhaps he would understand. "Haskin, I'm sure you are aware of the problems your mother and I have been having...." He paused, dissatisfied that his tone sounded so academic.

Jimmy started again. "Haskin, after last night, I've made a decision. I will never fight or lay a hand on your mother again. I swear to God." Haskin looked deep into his father's eyes, and he believed him, even though he had heard that people can't control themselves when they drink too much. "There's demons in a liquor bottle." he recalled his grandmother saying. Did no fighting also mean no drinking? Still, Haskin felt better about the night before and his father felt relief when he saw it in the boy's face. When it was time for Jimmy to return to work, Haskin, who was visibly more cheerful, headed back towards Pine Point.

At noon, the foreman called a halt to the back breaking work and the three men climbed out of the hole. Only the first boulder had been successfully pried free, removing the other one would be the task awaiting them when they got back from lunch. "Hey Flagg," Holmes exclaimed, "why don't you join me and Knight for lunch at the diner in the Point?"

"Nah, you go ahead," Jimmy replied, "I'll just rest here until you guys get back."

"Oh c'mon," Knight urged, with Holmes joining in.

How to tell them? "I don't have any money," Jimmy finally admitted.

"C'mon anyways," Holmes said, "between the two of us we can get you a sandwich. Besides, we need you full of energy this afternoon so you can help us get that second boulder out!"

The three men jumped on the trolley and took the short ride to St. Michael's, then crossed over to the Pine Point Lunch. "We'll each have a Western," Knight yelled at Morty. "Sure enough," he replied, and as he cooked Mort told them about how his night cook had quit that morning. The three men sat talking at the counter until the sandwiches arrived, gulped them down with coffee, and then caught the trolley back to the job. Working with great effort all afternoon, just before quitting time the boulder finally came free. The foreman congratulated them and the crew clocked out. Knight and Holmes asked him to join them for a beer at the Charm Cafe, but Jimmy reminded them that he was broke.

"What am I doing working for the WPA?" Jimmy asked himself as he began walking back towards Pine Point. "Working like a slave for fifteen lousy dollars a week? There's gotta be a better way!"

All afternoon, Jimmy had been thinking about the cook vacancy he had heard Mort mention at the Pine Point Lunch. He decided he would walk over to the diner after work. "You still need a cook?" he asked Mort. "Sure do!" came the hopeful response. "What time do you want me to work?" Jimmy asked. "11'o'clock tonight until 7am?" Although Jimmy had already put in a full day's work, he replied, "That will be just fine."

There would only be time for Jimmy to take a nap before reporting for work. The truth was Jimmy knew very little about cooking. As he cut through Dorman playground heading towards Hood Street, Jimmy's elation at landing the job was tempered by the challenge of learning to cook in only a matter of hours! When he told Irene about his new job, she exclaimed, "But you're not a cook! How are you going to do the job?" The two of them spent most of the time before Jimmy had to report to the diner going over some very simple recipes for meals of the sort that would be appropriate for a diner. Beyond that, Jimmy would just have to show up and fake it as best he could.

After a brief nap, Jimmy arrived a few minutes before 11pm, and Mort showed him the kitchen. Jimmy's first few customers at the counter wanted some sandwiches, which were easy. No one complained, in fact the next morning when Knight stopped by for breakfast, he told Jimmy afterwards, "Hey Flagg, you cook pretty good!" Jimmy was glad that how to cook various styles of eggs was one of the basics he and Irene had gone over.

As the nights working at the Pine Point Lunch turned into weeks, all continued to go well. Jimmy's reputation as a maker of good, simple food got around, and soon Jimmy was boasting to his kids that he was actually "The World's Greatest Chef" at least when it came to sandwiches! Jimmy even started to get a bit adventurous, making a macaroni and hamburg dish that Grandmother DeGreire had suggested and which was very well received. Business started to pick up a bit, and Morty was nothing but delighted. "You're helping to save my business!" Mort exclaimed one day with genuine gratitude, praise he backed up with a small raise. Jimmy's home life was also improving, since having to go to work each night at 11pm eliminated the opportunity for drinking too much earlier in the evening.

But something there is in good times that can make a man feel subversive. Very late one night, when there were no customers at the counter, Jimmy stepped out on the front sidewalk to smoke a cigarette. He looked up into the dark, moonless sky, and beyond the trees of St. Michael's he could see stars. Although it was the middle of the night, from somewhere nearby he could hear very faintly the sound of a baby crying. In the direction of Old Point Street, a light was on in a single upstairs room of an otherwise dark house. Jimmy felt a sense of  romantic alienation and of being very alone.

Suddenly Jimmy was jolted from his thoughts as Clancey the cop appeared, making his usual rounds. "James, my man!" Clancey exclaimed. "Can an old cop get a wee bit of coffee?" Jimmy tossed his cigarette butt into the gutter of Boston Road and held open the door for the cheerful police officer, a frequent late night visitor. But although everything was going along like any normal night, Jimmy knew that something had fundamentally changed.

Sure enough, the next night, instead of walking to the diner, Jimmy Flagg found his feet heading, for no reason that he could articulate, in the direction of the Charm Cafe. Looking in, Jimmy saw Knight and Holmes seated at the bar where they had been perched since they got off work. "C'mon in Flagg," Knight encouraged. "Lemme buy you a drink."

Soon, Mortimer realized he had to hire a new cook.

My Summer Vacation

 

The year was 1935 and Haskin Flagg was in Miss Cleveland's 4th grade class at the Hiram L. Dorman Elementary School. "Now children," she said with insistence, "write a composition for me entitled, "My Summer Vacation." The topic was decidedly uninspiring. Haskin picked up his pencil and began thinking over the events of the past summer. He found himself staring at the blank sheet of paper, with the three notebook holes and the light, blue lines, wondering why the red margin was only on the left side of the paper. With a deep sigh, he wrote the title:

My Summer Vacation

"There!" he told himself, "I've started." Now what to write about? "Oh yes," he thought, "I went to summer camp at Forest Park." That had been fun for the most part, although things did not go well at sign-up time on the first day. All the campers had to fill out cards giving certain information. Haskin filled out his name and address, then handed it to the Camp Councilor, not sure how to answer the remaining questions.

"What's your nationality?" came the abrupt inquiry.

"American." Haskin answered.

"American? With a name like Flagg?" Next to the word "nationality" he wrote, "Irish."

"And your mother? What's her nationality?"

"She's American too."

Exasperated, the Councilor shouted, "What was her maiden name? You know, the name before she married your father? They are married, aren't they?"

Haskin replied, "DeGriere, D-E-G-R-I-E-R."

"Oh, a Canuck," and he wrote, "French-Canadian." Next the Councilor asked, "What's your religion?"

"Catholic!" Haskin shot back.

"What kind of Catholic? Roman Catholic, Greek Catholic, Russian Catholic?"

" American Catholic." Haskin replied.

"Ain't no category called American Catholic!" the Councilor barked. Then he added as he dismissed Haskin into the park, "Jesus, you welfare kids are dumb!"

Somehow Haskin felt sure that an incident like that was not something Miss Cleveland would want him to put in his composition, so he wrote simply:

I went to camp.

"Okay, that's a beginning," Haskin thought. "What else happened?"

After a minute's reflection, he recalled how he and Grandfather DeGriere had gone blueberry picking. They had left together right after breakfast, with Haskin carrying the smaller pails while his grandfather carried two large pots. The object was to fill the pails and then dump them into the pots. When the pots were full, they could go home.

Grandfather DeGriere knew where all the good spots in Pine Point for picking blueberries. The old man didn't talk much about human activity, but he surely knew the natural world. They had little trouble filling the first pot, but then the picking got slim. "Better switch to another location," Grandfather said, "pretty much picked out here."

Together they started down the woodland path, going deeper into the woods along Bay Street, until Grandfather came to a stop. "Okay, Haskin," his grandfather said, "let's try here." Again, Grandfather had chosen a good spot. In about an hour both pots were full.

"Time to go home, Haskin," Grandfather said, tying the two small pails to his belt. Grandfather carried the larger of the two pots, while Haskin carried the other. Together, they retraced the path through the woods.

Suddenly, Grandfather DeGriere jumped back in a panic, his heels hitting a log and sending him toppling backwards, with blueberries flying in all directions! Haskin was amazed and alarmed, crying out, "Grandfather! What's wrong?"

The old man said one word, "Snake." Haskin could not believe that he was seeing in his grandfather's eyes something he would never have believed possible - fear. Haskin had always believed his stoic grandfather to be completely fearless, but now he had learned that even his grandfather was vulnerable to fright. The boy looked in the direction his grandfather had indicated. "Grandpa," he said, "that ain't no snake, it's a vacuum cleaner hose!" His grandfather looked hard in that direction. Sure enough, the boy was right.

"We better pick up all these berries," was all his grandfather said.

This too didn't seem like the type of memory Miss Cleveland would like to hear about, so instead, Haskin wrote simply:

I went blueberry picking.

"Well, that's two sentences," he thought, congratulating himself. "What am I going to write next? Oh yes! the Fourth of July!"

Haskin's father had started to celebrate early. By the time he came home from the bar in the wee hours of the night of July 3rd, Haskin's mother had locked the door. Haskin and his younger brother Walter were sound asleep when suddenly both boys were awakened by the sound of glass shattering in their bedroom window. Their screams were quickly followed by their mother rushing into the room, grabbing them out of bed and running into the kitchen.

Haskin's father stood up in the boy's bedroom, brushed the glass from his clothes, then staggered into the living room. Swaying unsteadily, Jimmy collapsing onto the couch and fell instantly to sleep, dead drunk. Irene brought the boys into her room and tucked them into her bed. Finally, they all fell asleep.

The next morning, the family went to the 4th of July parade in downtown Springfield as promised. His mother and father hardly said a word to each other. Excited by the parade, the boys almost forgot the traumatic events of the night before. After the parade, as they were walking down Main Street to take the trolley back to Pine Point, a balloon vendor walked past.

Haskin asked carefully, "Can I have a balloon?"

Walter chimed in, "Me too?"

Mrs. Flagg looked at her husband with a look of anger. "Any money for balloons," she said bitterly, "your father drank away last night." This memory too, felt inappropriate to get into too much detail about, so Haskin added a just a sentence to his essay:

We went to the Fourth of July parade.

As Haskin puzzled over what to write next, he heard over his thoughts, "Alright children, finish the sentence you're writing. Time's up!" It was Miss Cleveland. Hastily, Fred wrote:

It was a good summer.

*  Now, many years later, on a bright September day in 1957, Haskin had become, "Mr Flagg, teacher." He was in his first year of teaching in West Springfield. On the day before the first day of school, the English Department was having its first meeting of the school year. The purpose was to go over the curriculum, and in time it came around to assignments concerning English composition. Mrs. Phillips, the Department Chair, suggested that their first assignment of the school year should be to write an essay on the topic, What I did on my Summer Vacation.

"Mrs. Phillips," Haskin interrupted, "may we assign another topic? The children have been writing that same paper every year going back to 4th grade."

Mrs. Phillips glared at him. "Mr. Flagg," she began deliberately, "you are new this year. The children have been away from academics for the whole summer. They wouldn't know what to write. I suggest you stick to the curriculum and do as I suggest. There will be other composition assignments on other topics for which you can adequately prepare the children." Adjusting the collar on her dress she stated, "I would prefer, Mr. Flagg, My Summer Vacation as a start." Turning to the other English teachers, she said with finality, "Are there any more questions?" She paused, acknowledged the silence, then declared, "Meeting adjourned."

Haskin returned to his classroom to finish putting up his bulletin boards. School would open the next day and now it would be he who would be giving the My Summer Vacation assignment. The next morning the bell rang and the hallways were filled with young voices and the sound of lockers slamming. One by one, somewhat apprehensively, the 9th grade students filed into Mr. Flagg's English class and took their seats. The second bell rang. Haskin crossed the room and closed the door.

Once the roll had been taken, Haskin began. "Since we are all new to each other, let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Flagg and I will be your 9th grade English teacher. To give me an idea of how well you write, I am assigning a composition to be completed during this class period. I'll put the title on the board." Haskin walked to the chalkboard, selected a piece of chalk, and wrote, "My Summer Vacation."

The class groaned.

Haskin turned around. "Why are you groaning?" he asked. "It's just to give me an idea of how well you write." No one responded. "Really, please tell me what you don't like about this assignment, I'd like to hear your opinion."

Still, no one said anything. Finally, a shy voice came from the back of the room, "Mr. Flagg?" It was a farm boy named Grey Edwards. "Mr. Flagg, we have been writing that same composition every year since 4th grade."

Haskin recalled saying the same words the day before. "You're right Grey. Thank you. Those of you who want to write the summer vacation paper may. Anyone who wishes to write about something else may also do so."

"But what can we write?" asked a student named Betsy.

"Everyone has a story within him," Haskin began. "You must reach deep into your self, find it and pull it out. Each story will be different, because you are different. Truly, whatever you write it will be YOUR story."

One by one the students slowly picked up their pens and began. At the end of the class, Haskin collected the papers. After the bell had rung and all the students were gone, Haskin looked over the student essays. Most of the students had indeed written about "My Summer Vacation," but when he came to the one submitted by Grey Edwards, he saw that it had an intriguing title, "Winter, Come Slowly."

I walked across the hard ground towards the barn. The frozen grass crackled beneath my boots....

The composition was a short sketch of how Grey began his morning chores, and how much more difficult those chores were in the winter. It was truly an original and inspired piece! It was then that Haskin Flagg promised himself that he would never again assign My Summer Vacation to any of his classes. And through the many generations of students that followed, he always kept that promise.

 

The Ghost of Joshua Blunt

Among the Pine Point children of the Great Depression, the name of Joshua Blunt was typically mentioned only in whispers. He was alleged to have been one of the earliest settlers of the area of Springfield that would later become known as Pine Point, but because very little else was known about him, many doubted whether he had ever actually existed.

Joshua Blunt was always described as a big giant of a man with a long beard who had once lived somewhere deep in the woods that would ultimately become St. Michael's Cemetery on Boston Road. Travelers in the olden days sometimes encountered him along their way, often seeing him simply standing a little ways in the woods, silently staring at them as they passed. Many found his presence unnerving, and hurried on their way whenever he appeared. Others stopped and addressed him, and he would sometimes help with directions. But beyond his name, no one claimed to know anything more about him.

As the years passed, occasional reports of sightings of Joshua Blunt persisted, even though after so many years there was no way Joshua Blunt could still be alive. Claims of sightings, especially by children, continued through the 1800's and into the 1900's, so that even in 1936, the name of Joshua Blunt was known to Haskin Flagg and his contemporaries. Still, most of them, including Haskin, did not truly believe that the supernatural sightings were real.

1936 was the year Haskin attended Summer School to make up a math class he had failed during the regular school year. Haskin hated getting up for Summer School five days a week. Worse, he had to walk further to attend the Summer School, which was being held at the Thomas M. Balliet Elementary School on Seymour Avenue, rather than at the much closer to Hood Street Hiram L. Dorman School, where he attended during the regular school year.

 

 

One day, Miss Waters, his teacher, and Mrs. Berry, who taught the younger kids, decided that on the last day of Summer School they would have a picnic in the nearby dingle infomrally known as Snake Woods. It got that name by virtue of the many harmless, green snakes residing there, although some older kids tried to scare the younger ones by falsely claiming it was a home to dangerous rattlers.

On the last day of Summer School, a troop of chatty youngsters, lunch bags in hand and led by Mrs. Berry and Miss Waters, marched two by two down the woodland way across from Balliet into Snake Woods. When they reached a clearing near the small brook that ran through the woods, Mrs. Berry announced that here was where they would eat their picnic lunch. She warned the children to stay within this clear area and not venture any deeper into the woods itself, lest someone get lost. No one wanted anything to happen that might cause the Principal Miss Ramsdell to regret approving their picnic plans.

During their picnic lunch, Mrs. Berry told the children about how she had seen a deer crossing the playground when she arrived at Balliet earlier that morning. When they had finished eating, Miss Waters took out her flash cards and began a competitive mathematics game that Haskin found boring. When no one seemed to be looking, Haskin slipped away and headed down the path deeper into the woods. At first the walk was pleasant, with the sound of his nearby classmates giving him a false sense of security.

Soon the trail had narrowed into a mere footpath, and Haskin became more apprehensive. The woods had become unfamiliar, and his classmates could no longer be heard. Haskin found himself struggling to avoid admitting to himself that he was lost. Apprehension was evolving toward panic as he turned to go back to the group, but he couldn't find the path. A dark maze of green shadows gave the woods an increasingly forbidding and unfamiliar appearance. Suddenly Haskin felt himself in a place where he couldn't help but feel that very dark forces might dwell.

That was when he saw, standing just a short distance away, the shadowy figure of a man with a long beard. Silently, the figure motioned for Haskin to come to him. Haskin found it impossible to disobey. When the huge man took his hand, Haskin realized that he had never felt skin so cold in his life. It was even colder than his great-grandfather had been the time when his mother had made him touch his relative's hand as he lay in his coffin. After a short walk with his ghostly companion, Haskin suddenly recognized where he was as he heard the voices of his classmates calling his name.

The mysterious man let go of Haskin's hand and was instantly gone. As he vanished, an Oriole flashed orange and black through the trees. "Haskin Flagg!" Mrs. Berry exclaimed as he approached the group. "Where have you been? We were worried about you!" Haskin told her he had gotten lost, but nothing more. Aside from a stern rebuke from Miss Waters, Haskin's brief disappearance was quickly forgotten as the students soon headed up the trail back towards Balliet. But as they were leaving Snake Woods, Haskin heard the Oriole chirping overhead, 

"Thank you, Joshua Blunt," he whispered, "I will always believe in you."