New England Son

Copyright © 2013 by Thomas Lee Mitchell.

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Rev. date: 08/21/2013

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Contents

The 2013 Recollections Of My Family History

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Early Years (1937 to 1951)

Chapter 2 Reading, Writing, Arithmetic and More

Chapter 3 Family

Chapter 4 Maine, The Simple Life

Chapter 5 Our Sister Is Gone!!

Chapter 6 Westwood Migration

Chapter 7 Northeastern University (1956-1961)

Chapter 8 A Blind Date And Marriage

Chapter 9 Called To Active Duty

Chapter 10 First Home

Chapter 11 Our Children

Chapter 12 A Career In Business

Chapter 13 Marriage Encounter

Chapter 14 Exodus to the Midwest

Chapter 15 Sorrow and Joy

This book is dedicated to my loving wife and to my family whose support

and encouragement have allowed me to follow my dreams.

THE 2013 RECOLLECTIONS

OF MY FAMILY HISTORY

Later years, thoughts flitter,

Shuttle through memories

Filtered by rays of time

Scenes, sounds, smells are

Drawn from wellsprings

Moments flash

Adolescent to senior,

Single to parental,

Dependent to experimental

In a fraction of planetary time

From Melting Pot to American Dream

INTRODUCTION

Interest in family history was sparked during events surrounding my 65th birthday in 2003. Throughout life I spent thoughts and energy living the moment or planning the future, proud of never looking back. This mind-set changed when Danny, my oldest grandson interviewed me for a sixth grade writing project. His assignment was to survey the teen history of an older family member. Danny presented his report to his class and later at my birthday party in Greenwich, Connecticut. His recitation and its reception encouraged me to share more from those early beginnings.

It was surprising that a grandchild was curious about my background with its ethnic neighborhoods, the frugal, simple, yet happy days, our values of faith, loyalty and self-reliance—the naivety and enjoyment of games like stick ball, houses fueled by coal, political rascals and war heroes. Family members who want to understand what it was like back then now have this opportunity. The objective is to tell a story that chronicles lives of interest to descendants.

Over the years I asked mother and aunt to share their ancestry. Unfortunately these pleas came too late. The trail was dusty and dark. Ninety-seven year old Aunt Jean, the last survivor of my father’s family, responded by saying, Why do you want to know all that old stuff? My mother’s memory and speech were stroke impaired. I realized that if our grand-children were to know our roots, it was up to me.

A cautionary note before beginning: Memory filters and glamorizes experiences while choosing to make trivial events significant. Gaps are intentional or accidentally erased from memory. Accuracy is a goal with a touch of exaggeration to maintain interest. Sequences may be rearranged by the storyteller. Infrequent but memorable encounters with the opposite sex are deleted to satisfy puritan ancestors. If you are keeping count, I had three serious girlfriends including my wife. Frankly most women frightened me as a teenager. Today they are just a pleasant but beguiling mystery.

CHAPTER 1

The Early Years (1937 to 1951)

Our family was launched on November 21, 1937 when Chester Charles Miecznikowski of Boston, son of Polish immigrants married Barbara Kane Anderson, a Yankee farm girl from Sedgwick, Maine. They were introduced by Barbara’s brother and co-worker, Velmore (Andy), Chester’s roommate. All were employed in Allston, Massachusetts in a restaurant-bar called Moscow’s. Mom was a waitress and Dad was the bartender, undoubtedly the center of attention.

Economic hardships were the norm. Residual unemployment from the Great Depression hovered at 19%. My parents wisely decided that working close to food would prevent hunger. Unemployment was never considered. Walking or public transit was the mode of travel to work and their apartment.

My first breath was 13 months later on December 21st, the winter solstice. Temperatures were below freezing. The birth certificate verified that I was legitimate. The birthing hospital was The New England Hospital for Women and Children in Boston’s Roxbury section. Dad changed his surname on December 8th so our new family could better assimilate into Anglo-American culture. I was born a Mitchell. As a responsible parent he joined the Boston and Albany railroad for job security and benefits. Our new home was a 10-minute trolley ride from the hospital.

My crib was placed in a tiny but cozy rental at 69 School Street in Roxbury. The Great New England Hurricane had cleared the seaside months earlier. Sea Biscuit had just won the Triple Crown. Hitler was escalating his programs to eradicate Jews and communists. Notables who share this birthday are Christopher Columbus, Joseph Stalin, Jane Fonda and Benjamin Disraeli, a diverse mix of famous and infamous. I preceded the post war baby boom generation by eight years.

Roxbury was a mélange of Victorian, Colonial Revival, Second Empire, wooden three-decker homes laced with corner variety stores and delicatessens. It was an early Street Car neighborhood a few miles southwest of central Boston. Electric trains ran up and down Washington Street on overhead structures that darkened the streets below. The elevated cars added sparks, the odor of ozone, and mechanical thunder.

I was baptized Tomasz (Thomas) in the family parish, Our Lady of Czestochowa, on Dorchester Avenue in South Boston. This church was founded in 1893 as the first Polish church in Boston. The parish has survived in spite of financial stress within the Archdiocese. The school did not.

My French Canadian Aunt Mina, Andy’s wife, joked that I looked like a chubby Polack. Mom was upset by the remark though my ample round face, endearing in baby photos, was evidence. They gave me the name Thomas because I was born on St. Thomas the Apostle’s Saint’s day. The Church has since revised this Saint’s calendar but I still think of myself as a doubting Thomas and jokingly as a peeping Tom.

December 21st is on the cusp of Sagittarius. Though I am astrology agnostic, my wife thinks the horoscope fits. I am outgoing, impatient, independent, and direct, a risk taker, romantic, and have a yearning for the new and exciting. Some just say I have many interests. It may be the fear of boredom that drives me to constant change. I am a curious student of life, who is uncomfortable with the status quo.

These early years were special. The secure, positive environment of being the first child instilled confidence. This feeling wasn’t a future calling like being President of the U.S. or a popular sports hero. I don’t know the reason, and I am not famous or great except perhaps in the eyes of those who love me. Anyway, I think optimism has always helped me to be resilient and rise to challenges and opportunities.

Our home was a stroller ride from the Franklin Park Zoo where family photographs taken with a Kodak Brownie camera captured my mother wheeling me amongst sashaying elephants, exuberant monkeys, colorful aviaries, and sunbathing jungle cats.

After two years, we moved to a larger apartment at 40 Washburn Street in Dorchester, closer to dad’s family and church. A few years later mom and I took the trolley to the Roxbury Memorial hospital where I was the subject of weekly blood tests. Doctors discovered an RH factor in my blood that is normal today but unknown at the time. It worried us needlessly until further research discovered rare RH wasn’t an issue.

Gas Lights and Cobble-Stoned Streets

Dorchester, adjacent to Roxbury, is located in the southern most section of Boston. Early colonists arrived in May of 1630. When the Mitchells came in 1940 the neighborhood had shown remnants of the Colonial era. Streets were cobble-stoned, complemented by red brick sidewalks and gaslights. Most windows faced front and rear for a semblance of privacy.

Backyard air space was precious. It contained a tangled web of utility and clothes lines connecting poles and houses. Trash was carried to covered sheds near gardens that grew in season. Some residents emptied garbage from their porches on their back yards resulting in aromas of decay. It was a custom inherited from their native countries. Fortunately these neighbors were in the minority and several houses distant. Though it may be acceptable to wear frayed clothing, no one tolerated dirt. The saying was Soap is Cheap (so use it). Another saying Cleanliness is next to Godliness reinforced the opinion.

Historians describe Dorchester in the 1930’s this way: . . . Housing was triple-deckers built to give low—and moderate-income families the benefits of suburban life and the convenience of living close to city jobs. This type of housing can be traced to the Colonial wood building tradition. They have flat tops, wood frames, narrow shapes, and back porches. This arrangement allowed extended families to live nearby but not with one another. Wood frame houses were separated by narrow alleys. In some an adult walking between them could stretch to touch both walls. The proximity was hazardous as fire in one could easily leap to another, and run for blocks. The inevitable happened in May, 1964, when flames, starting on adjacent Bellflower Street, fed by strong winds, destroyed 22 homes in a southerly direction, sparing Washburn. It was the greatest fire in Boston since 1872. Fortunately no one died or was injured. The eventual reconstruction incorporated fireproof materials.

Washburn Street allowed one traffic lane between the parked cars uniformly aligned with tenements. Some had back porches but all enjoyed backyards similar in shape, space and design. Doorstep entrances called stoops were wooden and served as places to congregate in the evening. Rentals were less cared for than owner occupied homes that had more invested in their upkeep. Owner alleyways were locked to discourage intruders. When chasing an errant baseball over a fence, it was moments before we heard shouts of warning to Stay out, I’ll call the cops! Because space was precious, residents were alert to any intrusion.

Bats, birds and moths flew around gaslights on warm summer evenings. These posts also served as gathering places for street games.

Monthly rent was fourteen dollars handed weekly to the landlord two blocks distant. Mom kept the signed receipt for her records. She organized and managed our modest finances allotting cash from dad’s pay to brown envelopes ear marked for purchases and placed in a metal box. Bills were paid on or before their time. Debt was avoided as sin.

A Working Class Neighborhood

Our world was blue collar, Christian and patriotic. Families were first and second generation Americans. Women cared for the children at home and the men worked long hours as bread winners. Sexual roles were clearly defined and rarely breached.

We lived three blocks from St. Mary’s and six blocks from the English speaking church, St. Margaret’s. Whenever meeting a stranger, conversations invariably moved to asking which parish one belonged. The next question was nationality. There were no native Americans in our little world. We introduced ourselves by our nationality followed by—American. In spite of my mother’s family arriving shortly after the Pilgrims, I was considered Polish-American. Students in St. Mary’s were slotted as either Polish or Irish. There was no popular branding for other or mixed ethnicity.

Education, worship, and entertainment were conveniently accessed. Our neighborhood abutted South Boston where a park, stadium, and seaside beaches were a 15 minute walk. During Lent it was customary to visit seven churches on Holy Thursday walking to each in less than three hours.

After WWII trackless trolleys replaced railed cars along Boston Street, thirty paces from our doorstep. We preferred to save carfare and walk. The rare times I did take the trolley, it was a custom for passengers to bow heads when passing a Catholic Church. Some even crossed their forehead with a thumb. With the mention of Jesus Catholics would nod their heads. Of course the faithful would never use His name in vain.

Located on the neighboring corners of Bellflower and Howell streets were variety stores that sold groceries including pickles soaked in vinegar in old, deep wooden casks. The pickles were so sour they would make taste buds ache. Penny candy was displayed behind glass smeared with children’s hand and nose prints. Sherbet was sold in a small white cup for a nickel. Multi-colored candy drops stuck to strips of rolled white paper were an innovative delight. The closest corner store had the best selection of sweets. I was a frequent shopper.

On a corner in the other direction, Kizel’s, sold Polish ethnic food. For weekly bulk shopping, we hiked six blocks to South Boston near Columbia Park where they had the first Stop and Shop super market. Elm Farm, an equally super market, was a similar distance in the opposite direction.

An abandoned Protestant church was a stone’s throw away, covered with years of city soot and secured by chain-locked iron gates. It was an artifact of early worshipers and sign of community transformation. The church and street names were the only remnants of a Puritan settlement once there.

Boys Will Be Boys

Our neighborhood had inadequate space for our favorite game—baseball. There was a risk that a moderate ‘Fly ball could break a window. I accounted for three accidents. Dad, who wasn’t known as handy," was able to repair them. Two were from hit baseballs and one from a rock fight against rivals on Rawson Street. My athletically-launched missile broke the side window of a car centered amongst the enemy. That mistake cost dad the equivalent of a day’s wages. He promised me that he would frame the bill and put it on my bedroom wall as a reminder. He didn’t need to. I knew how hard he worked to provide for us and how much my thoughtless act cost.

Dad was soft and the threat never materialized. He was tolerant of sports accidents understanding that Boys will be boys! The surprising thing was though I ran away immediately after each incident, I was identified as the culprit within minutes. Did one of my friends squeal under threat of torture or were neighbors always watching? The mystery remains.

Washburn Street lacked ideal hiding places for Cops and Robbers and Cowboys and Indians so we infiltrated backyards. The police were called when we trespassed onto private property or the domain of a protective neighbor. We were leery of police with good reason.

My young brother Chet was apprehended when we entered a warehouse filled with military supplies. The facility had a gaping hole in the wall that lured the curious. Unfortunately my brother was too occupied with the wares to hear our warnings. He was found hiding behind some boxes and taken to the local station. My mother, angry as I’ve ever seen, marched