Miss Zib

By Richard Tobin

Miss Zib-the title of Miss Zib came from a story Ellen told me years ago. She said, "Rich, when I was in grade school, a teacher could not pronounce my name, Zbyszynski, so he called me Miss Zib!" When writing the book, looking for an unusual title, I thought back to the time she told me that story. I envision in my mind that sweet little Polish girl in grammar school in the 1940s. I wanted to create the image of her from our wonderful "Salem village" Polish community of the 1940s. Miss Zib personifies all that is good in womanhood. To me it combines that wonderful little Polish girl making her first Holy Communion and learning from that time on what "true love" was all about and continuing to practice it to everyone through her entire life! She would say to me, "I didn't like the fact that I was called on last because my name started with the letter Z!" Later, when kidding around, she said, "You know, I married you for your name!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098030865

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Miss Zib

Richard D. Tobin

Copyright © 2020 by Richard D. Tobin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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This book is dedicated to the memory of Mrs. Ellen Sandra Tobin

Major percentage of profits made from this book will go to CHaD, Children’s Hospital at Dartmouth-Hitchcock in Memory of Richard James Tobin, Ellen’s first-born son who lived only four days after his birth in 1955; and for Alzheimer’s research in Memory of Ellen Sandra Tobin Miss Zib who died from this disease in 2018

Permission was given to the author to use Images of Restaurant Row and other information from an article by Jen Ratliff, and are from their collections at the Salem State University Archives and Special Collections, Salem Massachusetts.

Photo of Richard and Ellen walking down the path of eternity is by Laura Harper Lake of New Hampshire.

Wings on Miss. Zib is by artist Lisah Plumley of New Hampshire.

I want to thank the following people for their support throughout the process of developing Miss. Zib. My daughters Sandra and Laurie and her husband Gary.

I want to thank GOD for being there as always for me; during the most difficult year in my life, just after Ellen’s passing.

Those who bring sunshine into the life of others cannot keep it from themselves.

Preface

The story begins with the mysterious birth of an Irish baby boy in Salem, Massachusetts, in the 1930s. It continues using his adventures of growing up through the 1940s, until he meets a young Polish girl at the age of fifteen. It then develops around the young Polish girl whose love for the young Irish boy was so strong she devoted her life to him. He became her purpose. Because of her, he accomplished considerably more than anyone could possibly imagine in his lifetime! The love story takes place in Salem on the same street as the House of Seven Gables.

She worked at the Gables Drugstore, which was on the corner of Turner and Derby Street. The boy lived on Turner; as a result he came into the store repeatedly. On one occasion, just after Valentine’s Day, he began to clown around with her and the other girl that worked there. He asked her to go to the movies with him next week, then turned to the other girl and said, "I’ll take you out the week after. The chances for this to happen were slim, because in teenage years in the 1950s, two years apart was like a lifetime.

The likelihood of them meeting and falling in love was next to impossible, yet it happened. On February 25, 1951, on Sunday afternoon, they got acquainted. That week he walked her home from work almost every night. First date was March 3, Saturday night. They went to the movies and saw Pagan Love Song. Next night, he walked her home from work; it was then the first time he kissed her, and he never asked the other girl out.

She was a sixteen-year-old Polish girl graduating from high school, soon to be seventeen; and this fifteen-year-old boy, struggling to find an identity, developed a true love affair that would last sixty-seven and a half years, until her death in 2018.

He said, She transformed my life. When he met her, everything he enjoyed in life up to that moment was cast aside. He fell in love with this Polish princess almost immediately; it was as if he knew her from another life.

You will get to read some of the love letters that went back and forth between them and feel how strong their love was for each other and how it sustained them through all the hardships that we all encounter through our lifetime!

This book is about an old man in his eighties looking at his journey through life from the 1940s to the present time and how a young Polish girl taught him the importance of true love that will triumph over all the odds against them, including the last several years dealing with his Polish princess struggle with Alzheimer’s disease and how he stood by her side and took care of her until she died in 2018. They were married sixty-five years!

As a result, a great deal is revealed in this book, in hopes that it will provide individuals with faith, inspiration, hope, and understanding of true love.

Introduction

Miss Zib

Miss Zib—there are thousands of Miss Zib’s out there who have the heart and soul of the Miss Zib of our book, practicing true love quietly in the background of everyday life. Problem is, we do not take the time nor do not recognized them. We seem to gravitate to self-promoting celebrities, using them as role models. In fact, you, the reader, probably have one right in your own family but take her for granted. The reason—they are always there for you and never pat themselves on the back; they just go about their business.

The Miss Zib’s of the world do not look for recognition or stand in any particular pose to get attention. They are to dedicated to doing the best job possible whether in the workplace or home—as a daughter, wife, mother, caregiver, teacher, and role model for their family. They genuinely love humanity and in times of tragedies are there for you with true love regardless of who you are. They are the most trustworthy, genuine people on the planet—what you see is what you get! The Miss Zib’s of the world come in all sizes, shapes, and forms but have one thing in common that cannot be forge: it is a heart filled with love—true love.

Start looking for the Miss Zib’s among us. They could be your mom, daughter, or friend. The supermarket is a good place to start. They stand out; they are the ones reading the labels, taking the time to pick out the best food possible for this evening dinner. They take their responsibility of their family’s health by providing the healthy meal and making sure when you come home from work or school, you look forward to the end your day healthy and happy. They also have your clean clothes ready for the next day; by the way the house is clean—what a wonderful home to come to at day’s end. Many other tasks throughout the day are done without fanfare that supports the family—all done with true love!

In contrast, the ones at the supermarket not paying attention at all to what they are buying, that are preoccupied with posing or on the cell phone talking loudly, trying to look important and impress everyone around them, and on the contrary annoying everyone—definitely not a Miss Zib. The reason I understand the Miss Zib’s of the world so much is, I had the privilege of being married to one for sixty-five years, a gift from God!

We can rise above all the evil on the planet without acting pious and judgmental; all we have to do is learn and practice true love. Our Miss Zib of this book is one example of a splendid role model, even though she would never think of herself as one. They are always thinking of others and bringing sunshine to their life.

The Miss Zib’s of the world are like the women figures carved on the bow of the merchant ships of the 1800, up front have taken the salt spray of the rough seas and all that is thrown at them without falter! They stand strong and proud and do not weaken at the storm! They are the backbone of humanity! They are the salt of the earth! They are God’s gift to man! Accept them and be thankful to God for them; reject them at your peril. To all the Miss Zib’s of the world, thanks. You give the rest of us inspiration, hope, faith, and understanding of true love—something that is all too often missing from our society today.

1

Richard Beginning Life

I want to start at the very beginning. My mother had a very difficult birth with my brother. Her medical records stated that she can never have any additional children because of the damage to her reproductive system; in spite of this, if she got pregnant, she would not survive the process of childbirth!

What I am about to tell you seems impossible, nevertheless accurate. Years after my brother’s birth, my mother had a swelling in her stomach. It kept getting larger as the months went on. Finally, the doctors said to my father, She has a tumor, we want to get her to the hospital for observation before it gets larger. While in the hospital, they decided to treat this obstruction by attaching a very large balloon with a strap over it; each day they pulled the belt tighter, eager to force the tumor out.

The year 1936, fourteen years after my brother’s birth, one day the doctors asked an intern to examine her. They wanted to show him how unusual it was for a woman to have such a large tumor.

The intern said, This woman is pregnant.

They said, Impossible, according to her medical records.

After a closer examination, all concluded she was pregnant. The tumor was yours truly; before I was out of the womb, I was fighting for life.

By the way, the young intern doctor’s name was Richard; that’s how I got named Richard!

That’s not the end of the story in my fight for life; it’s just the beginning. Now they wanted to abort me, stating the mother would not live through it or the baby might not be normal. My father went to the parish priest; they talked it over. The priest said, Jim, she should have the baby.

Because of true love and faith in God, I am here to tell this story!

It is my understanding that my father, to some extent, became a neighborhood folk hero because of his age and my mother being pregnant. This was the Great Depression—a time in our country when getting a job was difficult, any type of a job. If my parents were selfish, or had no belief system, it would have been easy for them to say, Get an abortion, and move on with their life! They decided that true love of life outshines everything on the planet.

My father was forty years old, and my mother was thirty-six years old when I was born. They were great parents. I always had true love for them. My mother and father had true love for each other, true love of God. They put their trust in their faith with true love for life! In recent years I told a doctor the story of how I was born. He asked if he could use my story when talking to doctors. I said, Sure, but they might not believe you!

Beginning of my journey started on Wednesday, February 5, 1936, about 10:00 am, I struggled for life…the outcome—true love won!

2

Summers in Marblehead Neck

Living the Dream

Looking back to my unique childhood, I can say with certainty, I led two completely different lives growing up! I was about seven years old, the year 1943, and I went to work with my father. My father worked in Marblehead Neck on estates for wealthy families. In the early years, he did not have a car; occasionally we went by bus, train, or boat.

Allow me to clarify. Summertime, school was out; my mother was sickly for many of those years. As a result, he took me to work with him. The first few years I played with one of the boys that lived there and did small things for my father. About ten, I was able to do more to help out—activities such as opening up the enormous porch, taking the canvas covers off of the furniture, and putting all the cushions on the chairs, also cutting the grass. I enjoyed it, and my father was teaching me how to work. I learned a lot from him; it was a combination of work and play.

On occasion we went by bus to Marblehead and walked to the Neck over a causeway about three miles to the estate. It was difficult keeping up with my father. Other times we went by bus to the center of town then took the ferryboat to the neck. Rarely we walked to Salem Willows, took the ferryboat to their dock in Marblehead, then switched boats to a smaller one that was used to cross the harbor to the neck. The dock on the neck was next to a yacht club; from there we walked a short distance to the estate.

The return trip to the Willows from Marblehead was exciting. The captain of the ferryboat got to know me rather well and on occasions called me up to the pilot house of the ferryboat and asked if I might possibly steer the boat from Marblehead to Salem Willows. Boy, could I, yes, sir! What a great moment. I felt so important; of course, he stood next to me.

Another alternative to travel to Marblehead from Salem existed. It was the train, then on the boat from Marblehead to the neck. Whatever the route, it was fascinating learning all the creative ways to our destination. By the way, most of the occupants of the train were also going to work. The train went so slow they dubbed it the Marblehead Flyer.

Estate from Marblehead Harbor.

Estate

Once at the estate, work began. My father had a system for what job would be done each day, from Monday through Friday, plus one half day on Saturday. The only time we would deviate from the schedule was on rainy days. I believe, working with my father in those early years, I began to develop good work ethics without even realizing it.

As I got older, at the beginning of the summer season, before the families came down from Boston, I would ride my bike from Salem to the estate after school, help my father cut grass by means of hand push mower; that was before they change to a power mower. After cutting the grass, I would ride my bike back to Salem. On some occasions my father would put the bike into the 1941 station wagon and drive home. As I grew older, I began to understand the difference between myself and the children my age who lived on the estate: I realized we lived a world apart!

Remember, this moment in time, there was a war on; it was significant. Both sides of our country needed to be guarded; people were afraid. Many items remained rationed; money was hard to come by; and we just came out of a Depression.

Roughly at eight to ten years old, I played with one of the boys who lived on the estate. We rode bikes around the neck, climbed rocks, and he also taught me how to sail. All three boys owned sailboats, and the father had three of his own; as a result, I learned how to sail by twelve. This was a wonderful opportunity for me to learn new, exciting events!

At times Mrs. D’s son and I arrived home to the Ocean Avenue house after a very adventurous day of exploring the Neck’s beaches, picking up rocks, pieces of colored glass worn down by the salt water, seashells, and looking for lost treasure. With all this accomplished, we developed an appetite. I didn’t realize he perfected the art of eating dog biscuits, thinking they tasted as good as Oreo cookies. Interestingly enough, he also was able to convince me—here we were leaving the house munching on dog biscuits. I thought to myself what his grandfather would say about this.

On one occasion, his grandfather asked us to have lunch with him in the formal dining room. This was a big deal to me. At first I felt a bit uneasy; however, I began to be more comfortable as we began lunch. This was the first time I was waited on by the maid, the very same person who slipped me goodies from time to time.

Just before we began, his grandfather made it very clear to us, we were not to eat our food fast, as it was not good for our digested system. It was made equally clear, we were not going to gain time by eating fast, because we were going to sit at the table for one hour, so we had better slow down. You can appreciate why I thought to myself what his grandfather would have to say about us eating dog biscuits.

The families my father worked for were great; they never treated me as if I was the caretaker’s son, never once looked down on me. In fact, on occasion, it was as if I was a member of the family; every so often I was included in some of the activities such as sailing, not only in the small boats they owned, but in a large yacht owned by a relative of the families. I remember one time in particular. It was an all-day trip with a picnic aboard—what a fantastic day, my first encounter in the yachting world.

Maturing, I increasingly realized, the boy on the estate had changed direction as far as having time to play with me. Besides, I had started to work with my father accepting some responsibility of cutting grass, planting flowers, painting, and additional tasks. On the other hand, the boy had a busy schedule with tennis lessons, sailing, swimming, and prepping for a private school. Reality began to set in. I started to analyze the situation as well anyone could at my young age and concluded, this is the way it is. Not once did I ever resent anyone for having more than myself.

I learned from my experience that the key to understanding the situation was sharing. For that one moment in time, they took the time and were willing to share, not only a lifestyle, but knowledge, with a young boy who was from outside of their world, never looking down on him while doing so—no, they shared as equal human beings with true love. They were grateful for what they had and instinctively knew they had an opportunity to teach a fellow human being true love; they did a first-class job in my case!

The two worlds were about to deliberately but gently part; hopefully for one small moment in time, we learned from each other what life was all about. I will always be grateful for their love and support shown to that young boy all the way into young adulthood. I will never forget them for the part they played in my life! There is no question it was a very important building block that proved to be invaluable in my education and helped shape my character in future years.

Irish Maid and Irish Cook

Another delightful perspective growing up on the estate. I not only got attention from the people who lived there but was looked after by the two most important people when it came time to receiving homemade dessert. The Irish maid, Penn, and the Irish cook, Mattie, saw to it that I received the same desserts the occupants of the manor received. Realizing I lived in the best of both worlds, enjoying part of the lifestyle but also getting attention of the wonderful Irish cook, I was extremely grateful!

One occasion, I was on the side lawn cutting the grass; it was a very hot afternoon. Looking down the hill toward the back door stood Mattie, the Irish cook, giving me hand signals from under the back-basement-level door entrance to the kitchen. I knew she would have something good for me. I was right—a large plate of her famous cookies, plus a glass of milk. What a remarkable, thoughtful woman. Little did she know, at that moment in time, she was creating a wonderful memory for me. I thought to myself, Life is good!

The milkman delivered two days a week to the estate, I always kept an eye out; he carried two of my favorite flavors of milk, strawberry and chocolate. I would purchase a quart of what flavor I fancied that day for my lunch. I enjoyed working there. Little did I know, this was some of the happiest days of my youth! I gave it my best effort and wanted my father to be happy with my work. I loved being on the estate; it would be unreasonable for me to think I could find a friendlier environment for a young boy to spend his summers.

Different Worlds

Additionally, these were people who on occasion included me in their daily routine, such as sailing, going shopping, having lunch in the dining room, playing games with them on a rainy day, and much more. They were not at all like some adults back in the old neighborhood—commented on, you know, the rich could care less about people, they are out for themselves, endlessly talking about the haves and have-nots, labeled them as rich bugs. From that early phase in my life, I learned that people are both good and bad equally, well-to-do or poor. One has to develop a way to distinguish the difference and not judge people by their wealth or lack thereof; judge them, if you must, by their merit.

There existed two estates owned by the families. One was owned by the patriarch of the family who at the time was in his early eighties, from an era of what I call the last of the fine Boston gentlemen—well-dressed, well educated, and very distinguished. I don’t believe in all my time growing up I ever saw him in what we might call today relaxing clothes. He reminded me, to some degree, of someone out of the Charles Dickens era. In some circles he was known as the last of the well-dressed, well-traveled Boston gentlemen.

The Patriarch

A wonderful man, always teaching me new jobs. I learned so much from him; he was good to me. I recall one time he called me up to his office and assigned me an additional task. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was his way of getting me to use my brain.

Richard, this is an important assignment, I want you to take meter readings of the electric, gas, and water every month, bring them up to me, also the readings on the speedometers of the cars.

I said, Yes, sir.

He then took me out to the meters and showed me just what he wanted. I went about my new assignment in high spirits, delighted he had so much confidence in me to do the job. I was always getting an education from everyone in this family—from the patriarch, his children, and his grandchildren that were my age.

One of my father’s additional responsibility was to drive the patriarch and at times pick him up at the train station in Marblehead, when he spent his day at the office. He remained quite active after his retirement and maintained an office with a secretary in the Park Square building in Boston taking care of family business.

The driveway coming into Ferry Lane, was about thirty feet long, with a formal hedge running all the way to the garage; next to it was a patch of grass, about twelve inches wide alongside the hedge. This separated the hedge from the wide bluestone driveway. I noticed how crooked the grass was and decided to fix it. I was tearing up the grass, one section at a time, with a line running next to the hedge. I took it upon myself to repair this irregular patch of grass that over the years lost its line up with the hedge.

My father told me that coming back from the train station that day as they entered the driveway, the patriarch turned to my father and asked, Did you tell Richard to do that job?

My father said, No, he must have made a decision to straighten the line of grass because it was so crooked it bothered him.

The patriarch said, Jim, he is going to be an engineer!

Ironically, that is exactly what I became years later.

The estate owned by the patriarch was known as Ferry Lane, for the reason that the ferryboat used to land at the end of the street next to the estate. In front there was a very large flagpole near the water’s edge, directly in front of the long, wide veranda overlooking the entire harbor. The estate sat midway between two of the most prestigious yacht clubs on the Neck. I mention the flagpole, because at eight o’clock in the morning, all yacht clubs on each side of the estate plus the yacht club across the harbor fired their cannons, giving the signal to raise the flags. On many occasions, the patriarch would ask me to help him hoist the flag. What a stirring moment of respect and pride for the country came over me.

The care of this property was the primary responsibility of my father. The care of the grounds kept my father occupied all the time; it had twelve large flower beds and a large, circular rose garden by the front entrance consisting of over 230 top-quality tea roses, with an assortment of bright colors. Coming up the driveway to the front entrance, you went around this magnificent rose garden. So you get the picture—this estate was stunning in many ways and always kept up to the high standers of the owner. On the other hand, the son’s estate was quite the contrast; it was not intended to be like Ferry Lane.

The second summer home was called Ocean Avenue owned by his son, more like a fun place to just relax and enjoy the summer boating with his three sons. The sons each had a brutal beast—a preferred class of that time for learning how to sail and race at the yacht club. It didn’t have a jib; it was wide and flat, very hard to tip over, easy to handle, perfect for young sailors.

Ocean Avenue was not part of my father’s responsibility, only when something of a special nature needed attention. Moreover, the grass consisted of witch grass. It had a wild look about it; therefore, it did not have that distinguished look as if it was the east wing of the White House lawn and kept clean and presentable at all times like Ferry Lane. When I finished cutting grass at Ferry Lane, my father would inspect if he found edges not trimmed properly, and he would remark, The edge is the necktie of the lawn, make sure it has equal attention as the lawn.

Visualizing the two very different summer properties owned by two distinctive generations of the same family, one can understand that both generations’ lifestyle were unique, as you can imagine, yet both had a quality about them. As I matured, I began to respect them; they were extraordinary, genuine people who were not artificial in any way.

Daughter of the Patriarch

I don’t want to overlook another family member, a woman who lived in California. She was the daughter of the patriarch and sister of the son who lived at Ocean Avenue. Her name was Pricilla. She, her husband, and two children came occasionally to the neck for the summer; all were equally as good individuals as the patriarch and brother.

She never overlooked me. One season, she arrived at Ferry Lane from California, called me up to the house, and gave me an Indian headdress from out West. I was amazed she thought of me, in view of the fact that I hadn’t seen her since last summer. I was impressed with her kindness. She had a son and a daughter. I recall another occasion she took me with her and her children to the ocean side of the neck to a beach that I didn’t know existed, where the sand was so ideal compared to the rocky beaches on the harborside of the neck. Why did these people treat me so good? They had no motive other than showing their true love.

Her husband was not from what we called in those days old money. He came up the hard way and also was an outstanding guy with a wonderful personality. He, too, was really nice to me, which I will clarify later. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I remember him asking me to take a ride with him to a boating store in Newbery; he needed to pick up a part for his sailboat, a Herreshoff. It was unlike the other boats in the family. It was extra seaworthy with a keel, rather than a center board, as the Brutal Beast, with only the main sheet and no jib; the Herreshoff, on the other hand, had a main sheet and jib.

One day her husband, Russell, asked me to go sailing with him. I was working with my father in a flower garden. I said, Well, I need to finish my work.

He in a loud voice called out to my father, Jim, I am taking Richard sailing, okay?

What could my father say but yes!

I knew this would be an adventure. Sailing with Russell meant in the ocean, not the harbor! I was right. As we exited the harbor rounding the point of the neck, we found ourselves on the ocean side of Marblehead Neck. It began to get rough; the boat began to lean on its side, smashing through the white caps, getting salt spray in your face. This was definitely an exciting endeavor. You could it in his eyes; he loved it! He glanced over and asked me if I was scared. I answered no. He knew better; this was clearly another day living the dream!

At this time, you ought to be getting a reasonable impression of my life on the estate in Marblehead Neck. By the way, it is known as the Yachting Capital of the Eastern Seaboard. Proof of that is in August, race week—when the harbor is filled with hundreds of yachtsmen, of all ages, boats from the tiniest dinghy, to the largest yacht. This is the most colorful, breathtaking week in August. One who lives in this part of the country should once in their lifetime go to Marblehead during race week. it’s amazing. I guarantee you will never forget it.

Maintaining a large rose garden and several flower beds made it possible for many flowers displays throughout the home, including the wraparound veranda facing the harbor, especially when Pricilla from California was here for the summer. She was very creative and made excellent use of all resources on the estate. Occasionally, she would ask me to help her with flower displays. I learned a great deal from her concerning flower design. I was getting educated from all members of the family using their expertise. What a gift, passing on to me whatever they could, priceless!

As time went on, I learned more about tea roses. I began to understand about the care of such fine roses. If they are not cut in a precise way, they will not bloom again that season. I was taught by my father, You must cut above the five leaves and two eyes, then that branch will produce more roses. With this added knowledge, I was able to help the maid and other members of the staff cut flowers for display in the house.

One day she asked me if I would help in designing a floating arrangement on the front porch entrance. She organized everything by using a large flat brass pan with a flat glass basin inside to hold the water, fill it with water, then cut the stems close to the flower, and very gently set the flower afloat. The arrangement consisted of a select variety of flowers along with large leaves collected from the estate. When complete, it was stunning!

Open Estate for the Summer

A typical year at the estate consisted of the following routine. Early in April started the process of opening the house. This required my mother to take all the curtains over to our house; she would wash them and put them on the stretcher to dry and each week bring some back to hang along with the drapes in all fifteen rooms. Next, clean the rooms, roll out all the carpets, vacuum up the camphor that was put into the rugs before rolling them up for the winter. Lastly, place the furniture in its proper position, each piece in the exact same spot as the year before.

When coming in the front door, on the first floor was the large entrance hall, with lavatory and telephone room to the right. Ahead was a very large reception room with fireplace. On the left a spacious living room with fireplace, bay windows that opened on long, wide furnished wraparound veranda overlooking the entire harbor. Next to the living room was the den with attractive corner fireplace. Through the entrance hall to the right was an unusually large dining room with corner fireplace and breakfast table bay. From there was a swinging door into the maids’ pantry next to a large kitchen.

One of my responsibilities in opening the house was to shine the brass of approximately seven fireplaces. The summer residence consisted of fifteen rooms, six master bedrooms, three and a half baths, and two maids’ bedrooms and bath. End of August we would reverse the process and close the house for the season. It was only used about twelve weeks of the year, but what a delightful twelve weeks.

April was the beginning of the year, when the summer estate began to awaken for the season. Leaves put into the round rose garden to protect them for the winter now had to be removed and placed into a compost pile in back of the garage. We started preparing the outside grounds: turning over the flower beds, placing fertilizer, preparing for planting. If we got a dusting of snow in late April, my father would call this a poor man’s fertilizer. He took full advantage of the snow, spreading fertilizer over the top of the snow, explaining to me, this way he would not miss any place on the lawn because it stood out, and when the snow melted, it would draw the fertilizer into the lawn.

If determined any of the rooms in the house needed painting, I would help, and outside if front entrance needed touch-up before the house was opened, I would do that too. My experience with all the different jobs while working on the estate proved very helpful later in life with my own property. I became quite efficient at many task in regards to home ownership. I credit my time on the estate as a young boy to getting a well-rounded education.

Garage with Living Quarters

This was our home base, housing all the tools, such as lawn mowers, wheelbarrows, and many types of hand tools, used to keep the grounds in topmost condition. We worked from this building, along with other employees my father hired at the peak season. This side had a dirt floor in the back three stalls I was led to believe in years gone by the daughter housed her horses.

The other side of this L-shaped garage had a concrete floor containing my first automobile love, a 1941 Packard Convertible. For me it was love at first sight! Originally purchased for the daughter, when she married, it remained on the estate. One of the most enjoyable tasks I was assigned to was to care for this magnificent machine, every visible part, from the leather seats to the white walls and magnificent hood ornament. I kept every part in good order and cleaned to perfection, as if it was my own car. Even today, I close my eyes and think of the Packard. I can smell the leather seats transporting me back to those early days. People say you never forget your first love; I suppose that’s true!

The estate car was a 1941 Plymouth station wagon, Woody, which in time was given to my father to go back and forth to work and perform other tasks for the family. Interesting note, when the car body needed work, he took it to a carpenter. All upkeep of the car was paid by the estate; my father appreciated this privilege given him by the family. On the second floor was a double bedroom, bath, and playroom, with large storage area. I was told in years gone by; it was the chauffeur’s studio apartment.

Obtaining this car was a very big deal for us; it made life going back and forth to work much easier. When my father needed to go to Boston for the family or pick up someone at the train station in Marblehead and bring them to the neck, it was so much more convenient! I imagine a deal was made between my father and the patriarch, You get the car and with that an added responsibility of chauffeur from time to time. They got along well together, kind of like Driving Miss Daisy.

Keep in mind, this was during World War II; everyone found it extremely difficult to obtain tires for their car. A shop in Salem would recap your tire if you came in with a certificate of approval. Rationing of tires started in January 1942 through December 1945. One could fill out an application to the tire rationing board; they issued certificates for tires or recapping. Certificates were restricted for public health safety medical fire, police, garbage, mail, and public transportation. Recapping was allowed at the discretion of the local board; civilians were allowed to keep only five tires per automobile.

The winter homes where located in Brookline. When driving to Brookline, because of the gas rationing, as we went through Lynn going downhill, I noticed my father would put his foot in on the clutch and glide downhill whenever possible to save on gas. Whether it did or not, I’m not sure; nevertheless he believed it did, and it made him feel good about his contribution to the war effort! That is exactly how everybody thought in those days.

Activities

An activity during the summer months for the family was typically sailing. By this time, I started to work with my father. However, from time to time I was asked to go with a member of the family and take part in sailing activity as a crew member. When one is in competition, he would need a crew member as part of the team. This presented me the opportunity to learn more about sailing as well as being part of an exciting day.

When an opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance; I loved crewing. One very calm day with hardly any wind at all I leaned back, put my hands in the water, and suddenly I heard in a loud voice, with what seemed like a police horn shouting, You’re disqualified for paddling. My sailing partner was not happy with me that day. I tried to explain, I didn’t know the rule, and furthermore, I was not paddling, but he didn’t want to hear it! When I was alone and finished most of my tasks, especially after a rainstorm, I loved being out on the water so much. I would go out in the harbor and bale out all their boats.

The patriarch’s son and his wife loved to work with their hands. in early spring they would sometimes come to Ferry Lane and help prepare the flower beds. They would sit on the side lawn and have a picnic. I thought to myself, What a nice way for a couple to spend a sunny afternoon. This was not unusual for them because as far back as I