Signposts
and Junctions
Manchester Redux
Manchester Redux
In going back to revisit the Manchester, Connecticut of my youth, I could
not help but recall the people and places that played an important role in
my personal development during those early years in the old hometown.
First, I thought about the places that formed the horizons of my life before
high school, the period covered by the years 1955 through 1964. That decade
was a good period to be a kid in America and in Manchester as well. I
traveled near and far on my bicycle and I never feared for my safety. The
turmoil and change of the late sixties was still on the horizon, summers
were for play and discovery, new and exciting opportunities were presenting
themselves, and the intense competition that would leave its mark on later
generations in a global economy was not yet evident.
The local schoolyards and the houses that surrounded them formed the primary
boundaries of my world. To the west, stood the Bowers Elementary School
along with its large playground and adjoining woods. I attended Bowers and I
still can remember the old school song. I remember hunting for snakes in the
destroyed remains of ‘Vet Haven’, a post-World War II housing community.
After the city dismantled Vet Haven, they built the new Illing Junior High
School on its grounds. Two elementary schools were located off to the east,
Buckley and Manchester Green. Up north was Salter’s Pond, along with the
fields and woods that extended towards the east away from the pond. To the
south lay Case Mountain, its great swath of wilderness and trails waiting
for the young explorer to come and learn the mysteries of the mountain.
The next thing that struck me when I thought about those early days was how
many names belonged to that period, including some I had not recalled in
over fifty years. There were Marzialo, Spector, Hart, Vanderhof, Herman,
Brett, Lundberg, Zaremba, Brainard, Hindle, Meisner, Cherrone, Grey, Aceto, Saretto,
Cushman, Lucas, Jeske, Howroyd, Stevens, Klein, Gryzb, Tuttle, Whiteman,
Matheson, Baldwin, Jefferies, Boris, Noonan, McCruden, Puzzo, Lauder,
Barnes, Felber, Cree, Tyler, Koplin, Teats, Erickson, McDonald, Lisciotti,
Holman, Doughty, Lanagan, Brunoli, Woods, Bunce, Crandall, Evangelista,
Codding, Odell, Doll, Slossberg, Hicks, Andreoli, Mahoney, Sales, Rothman,
Schaler, Rivers, Nelson, Abraitis, Goodreau, Carter, Ackerman, Linders,
Lathrop, Palmberg, Dzen, Uppling, Wrobel, Nichols, Leggett, Peterman,
Lesonde, McAlpine, Flavell, Metivier, Paone, Gosselin, Wilke, Benson, Bieu,
Coughlin, Rushford, Chiaputti, Colangelo, McGehan, Avery, Dumas, Rea, Van
Camp, Norwood, Gregory, Johnson, Davis, Del Greco, Nevins, Urbanetti,
Thirion, Bruneau, O’Neill, Wydell, Zwick, McKay, Faulds, Petrone, Viera,
Carson, May, Cataldo, McAdams, Blakeslee, Serrell, Roberts, Monette, Robins,
Miller, Barton, Sliney, Platz, Baskerville, Mierman, Armstrong, Holmes,
Conn, Tinker, Fitzgerald, Bucino, Denley, Hefferin, Starkweather, Kearns,
Mitney, Manter, White, Tambling, Cowell, Shorrock, Liske, Wallenburg,
Malkenson, LeTourneau, Talaga, Adams, Hamilton, DuPont, McInerney,
Morehouse, Pavelack, Horton, Whitesell, Landers, Carlson, Kirk, Bradley,
Hickock, Waickowski, Joiner, Smith, Bushnell, and (I’m sure) so many more in
the recesses of my mind.
I was in the Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts for most of this period. Over the
years, I went on camping trips in every season of the year and in all kinds
of weather, and traveled with the Scouts to numerous destinations throughout
southern New England. I enjoyed the time I spent in the Boy Scouts and made
many friends, although I never rose very high in the ranks.
The change of the seasons determined the games we played, whether it was
baseball, football, or basketball. In my early years, I played those games
primarily at Bowers. Later, I made friends near Buckley and the Green, and
my world expanded to include the games played at those schools. Baseball
games expanded this world further and we traveled to Mt Nebo, Washington
School, and Buckland to play against teams from distant schoolyards, and
even other towns.
The year when I was in the sixth grade at the Bowers Elementary School, in
1962, we had a large influx of kids from the Highland Park area of town
attend class with us at Bowers. I cannot remember the reason, but the result
was I met many new faces from an area of town that was foreign to me.
However, new friends quickly introduced me to the wilderness and trails of
Case Mountain. I would push my 26-inch one-speed Schwinn to the summit and
ride down the long back road, stopping at the stonewall by the pond to
explore the water’s edge and wonder about who owned the mysterious cabin
located there in the woods. Coming home to Parker Street from Case Mountain
on my bicycle had interesting possibilities. The direct route was
practically downhill the entire way. Occasionally, I would change course and
follow Ferguson Rd to arrive atop the high ridge behind Cherrone’s Package
Store on Middle Turnpike. From there I could fly down the steep hill on
Mountain Road as fast as the blue Schwinn could carry me, cruise through the
Green School, and shoot down Woodbridge Street to home.
In the summer, we swam at Salter’s, first at the pond, and then in later
years at the new swimming pool that the town built in the parking area near
the pond. A dam formed the pond, and this dam had a long walkway built
across it. The walkway stood about three feet above the water and swimmers
would jump or dive from it into the pond. On the side closest to the beach,
a concrete projection called the ‘Keep Off’ jutted into the pond. To the
east, in the woods upstream on the watercourse that fed the pond, hung a
rope swing tied to a high branch of the same tree every summer. The tree,
which stood at the water’s edge, was at the base of a steep slope from which
people launched themselves by the swing far out into the stream. We called
this area the ‘B’, short for BAB (bare ass beach), and it was always a
crowded and exciting place to swim.
Neighbors would take us to Hebron to swim in the pond at Gay City. I also
enjoyed the swampy area of the pond for it was alive with snakes and frogs.
Sometimes a friend’s parents would take us to Crystal Lake in Ellington. The
town had anchored a raft off the beach that offered a raised platform for
diving and a large waterwheel you could stand on and slowly roll yourself
off and into the water. My parents would occasionally take us to the ocean
beaches at Rocky Neck and Hammonasset.
On the Fourth of July, we went to Mt Nebo to watch the fireworks. The whole
town listened eagerly for the one aerial that was set off at noon on the
Fourth that signified the show was indeed on for that evening. As the
shadows grew long, the whole family would pile into the station wagon and
drive to Charter Oak Park where we would leave the car and join the others
who were carrying blankets and walking along the dirt road that led up the
hill to the large flat field of Mt Nebo. Once on the grass we would find a
spot for our blankets and wait for the excitement to start, first with some
small land-mounted displays, and then the great aerial show. After the grand
finale, we would walk back to the car along the dirt road now illuminated by
a string of old-style clear light bulbs suspended over the walkway.
In winter, if the conditions were right, we skated at Salter’s Pond and for
several years built small wooden shacks by the ‘B’ in winter so skaters
could enjoy a fire and get out of the wind and cold. Skating at night on the
wide frozen stream from the 'B' down to the Salters Dam and back was always
a thrilling experience. In cold winter years, the town would open the large
Center Springs Pond for skating. No matter how many people were on the ice,
you could always find a dark place along the tree-lined edge of the pond to
steal a kiss from the young girl skating along with you, or the one who lost
her grip when she found herself sent flying from the skating line at the end
of ‘the whip’. Center Springs also had a grand hill for sledding or
tobogganing, and I spent many a winter weekend on the slope.
I learned to play poker at the picnic table at the Green School; someone had
carved a bowl-like depression into the center of the hardwood table and this
bowl served as a place to deposit the antes, and to hold the nickels, dimes,
and quarters that made up the pot. Adults make such a big deal about
youngsters gambling, but kids learn important life lessons in these games
and they should learn them early.
We used to have elaborate baseball-card flipping contests. After a number of
cards was determined (10, 50, 100); one person would try to flip as many
heads or tails as possible in the chosen number of cards. The second person
would then go. If they bettered the number of heads or tails flipped by the
first contestant, all the baseball cards were theirs. If not, the first
person claimed all. I believe it better to walk home crying because you lost
a hundred baseball cards than it is to lose something important later in
life, when you have no experience with risk and loss. Everything in its own
time.
Thursday evenings in the late spring and summer was the time to gather on
Main Street and cruise up and down the sidewalks. We met other kids and
expanded our horizons, and I have fond memories of those trips on warm
summer nights. We would stop at Friendly’s Ice Cream on Main Street and
mingle about in the parking lot, taking our first tentative steps into
discovering the ways of the opposite sex.
As I grew older and met people with cars, we travelled to everyone’s
favorite ocean destination, Misquamicut Beach in Rhode Island where the
waves always crested higher and rougher than the small swells that broke
against the Connecticut beaches on Long Island Sound. On the way back to
town, we would stop at the Dew Drop Inn for a 5-cent cup of coffee, or at
Harry’s in Colchester for a burger. Back in Manchester, we gathered at the
venerable Deci’s Drive-in on Center Street for a chilidog on a grilled bun
or a hamburger with everything (“drag it through the garden”). Occasionally,
we enjoyed a quart of whole-belly fried clams with tartar sauce, the
absolute best taste ever to come out of New England.
In those years, a pool hall existed in the center of town, the Red Sox
Dugout. A set of concrete stairs led down from an alley off Main St to a
cellar below the Center Restaurant where eight pool tables sat between the
cement pillars of the basement. The Dugout was a classic pool hall, dark
except for the lights that hung low over every table. The place had a
terrible reputation with parents, but I played pool in the Dugout and
remember the place fondly. The Dugout was not a dangerous environment;
gambling was common and cigarette smoking as well, but there were no drugs
or weapons, and I enjoyed some wonderful times at the Dugout during my
teenage years.
I can remember the place packed with kids, especially on those days when a
snowstorm canceled school, everyone flush with cash from shoveling
driveways, playing 9-ball or pill-pool. The great Larry Lisciotti would play
there, and I learned early what the beauty of raw talent looked like.
Several interesting old characters made the place their home, such as Frank
‘The Bank’ DeVoto, who always wore a suit and a hat. There was another man
who also wore a hat, who had a bad neck he could not turn or bend; they
called him ‘The Broom’. Police officers would often stop down for a soda, or
to get out of the cold or rain, and they would await their next call as they
talked to the owner.
The owner’s name was Don Fitzgerald (called Honey Fitz by some), and he
sponsored a slow-pitch softball team made up of the many athletes who
frequented the place. Don would take the team around the State of
Connecticut to take on all comers. As far as the explosion in the popularity
of slow-pitch softball was concerned, the Dugout team was in the vanguard of
the movement, and the team played many benefit softball games at prisons and
against other teams around the state. The city of Manchester named the main
softball field at Charter Oak Park the Don Fitzgerald Field in his honor. I
wonder if the field still carries Don's name, or if the city has sold the
name to someone else, someone more important in the corporate hierarchy.
For a few weeks one summer I worked on the Connecticut broad-leaf tobacco
farms, outfits with names like Culbro and Coleman Brothers, the only place
for a teenager under 16 years-old to work. However, working tobacco was hard
labor, and you toiled for a long 50-hour week to put about 45 dollars in
your pocket (a princely sum in those days). You could pick, drag, or hang.
Pickers ripped the bottom leaves off the tobacco plants and placed them in
rectangular baskets with the broken-stalk end in the corner. Draggers would
use a dragging-hook to pull the baskets down to the end of a row where they
were loaded onto flatbed trucks. Hangers would sew the leaves to long wooden
slats to hang and cure in the many large tobacco barns that dotted the
landscape of the Connecticut River Valley. Kids who picked tobacco toiled
alongside a tough migrant-labor workforce and whether you worked in a shaded
field or spent your hours in a barn, it was a rough setting for young teens.
I do not think the authorities or parents of today would consider the
tobacco picking business as a good work environment for their kids.
The high school years finally came, and they were turbulent and challenging,
as befitted the times. The names of people I knew and associated with grew.
The country and society were changing, and new storm clouds were forming on
the horizon. A distant war was coming closer and I saw more kids in uniform
around town, and read about them in the papers. Some soldiers from
Manchester died and some of them were my friends.
After graduating from high school in 1968, I also entered the Army and soon
found myself in Vietnam. I served in Asia for a year, from June 1969 to June
1970, and then rotated back to the states and finished my Army career at
Fort Bragg in North Carolina. Eventually, I found myself back in the
Manchester area where I attended Manchester Community College and graduated
with an AS in 1975.
The last time I had a Manchester address was 1985 and that was a temporary
three-month stay before I moved to New Hampshire. My last regular visits to
Manchester were during the years 1985 through 1990, when I would come down
from my home in New Hampshire to visit family and friends. I would visit
every Thanksgiving weekend to celebrate both the holiday and to enjoy the
Manchester Road Race. The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving was the time
to connect with old friends, those that lived in Manchester, and those who
were in town for the holiday. The two bars most frequented by my friends,
the Hartford Road Café and the Hungry Tiger, were always festive and
crowded. The Manchester Road Race is contested every Thanksgiving Day
morning, and I joined my friends at the Highland Park Market to watch the
runners as they went by near the top of a long hill, and to drink a little
champagne as well. In 1990, I moved west to California and I currently live
in Los Angeles.
Manchester seems a distant place to me at this time of my life. Bob, a
friend from my school years, tells me that the Manchester of today “is not your father’s Silktown.” He
has returned to his Manchester roots at regular intervals for a variety of
reasons and confides that those visits typically engender a "hornet’s nest of
emotions." We had to come from somewhere, I think, and Manchester seems as
good a place to be from as anywhere else does.
The deaths of my old friends in Vietnam, friends made during the time of
childhood innocence, seem all the more tragic and forlorn. Therefore, in
writing this story, I looked up Ray Holman’s entry on the Vietnam Memorial
website, and followed that by visiting the entries for two other close
friends who died in that war. Searching the web, I discovered Ray was a
ground casualty and that he was killed by hostile artillery, rocket, or
mortar fire on June 16, 1969, in Quang Nam province in South Vietnam. He was
a Marine Lance Corporal, he was half way through his tour, and the day of
his death was nine days before I arrived in Vietnam for the start of my tour
of duty.
There was Keith Miller, who along with his brother Kipp was a friend from
those summers spent around Salter’s Pond. He was a Marine, and he was killed
on September 7, 1967 by small arms fire in Quang Nam province, South
Vietnam. The description of his final battle, that I read on the Vietnam
Memorial website, said he was an E1, the lowest possible rank a soldier can
hold, at the time of his death. It was clear Keith had a run-in with the
Marine judicial system and perhaps had a problem with accepting or
questioning authority. Knowing firsthand what military service is like, I
consider that a badge of honor, a badge that his sacrifice makes all the
more poignant. Rest in peace, my friend from the sunny days of our youth.
I also visited the entry for Victor Del Greco, my friend from the Green
School days. He was in the Army, and he was killed on March 2, 1970 in Binh
Dinh province by small arms fire. He was drafted into the service and he
served with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, or the “Herd” as it was known, as an
infantry squad leader. Vic received a posthumous promotion to Sergeant. I
was serving in Vietnam at the time of his death. I am struck by the fact
that today is March 2, 2008, and that the first time I visit my old friend
on the Vietnam Memorial website is on the anniversary of Victor’s death in
1970.
On one of those last trips to Manchester before I moved west, I stopped at
Shady Glen for a cheeseburger and a coffee before driving back home to New
Hampshire. Shady Glen was a noisy place, full of teens and families enjoying
the signature burger or ice cream. At a small table on the other side of the
restaurant, I saw Ray Holman’s parents. They looked old and frail as they
sat and ate quietly, looking down at their food. I thought about walking
over to say hello, but the restaurant was busy and loud. All of the tables
around their area were crowded and I somehow felt ill at ease, and guilty
for being alive. They paid their bill and left the restaurant, and I
silently let them go.
Today, these many years later, I wish I had talked with them.
I will raise one for you tonight, Victor, and for Keith and Raymond. In
fact, I will raise one for us all, both the living and the dead. Here
tonight in Los Angeles, I’ll raise my glass to Manchester, to the friends
who made the experience what it was, and to the golden days of my youth.
(photo courtesy Sylvian Ofiara)
Original Sign from the Red Sox Dugout Pool Hall
Ray Holman's name - Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Wall - Washington DC
(photo courtesy Ken Hicks)
Keith Miller and Vic Del Greco
Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Wall - Manchester, Connecticut
(photos courtesy Stan Slossberg)
March 2, 2008
Los Angeles, CA