tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53976424388463836362024-03-13T03:18:47.591-07:00MEMOIRS OF SCHOOL STREET VILLAGEMEMOIRS OF SCHOOL STREET VILLAGEKathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13615244592025287919noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-82310081871327564392020-07-14T10:20:00.000-07:002020-07-14T11:06:08.333-07:00A TRIP TO THE PAST - REMEMBERING THE CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My memories of the School Street Village are wrapped in my childhood days.</div>
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Previously, on many posts I shared some of the photos of those times and earlier. Laced together they form a timeline of Village histories highlighted in its children. I recently read a Facebook post which said that "<i><b>children are a wonderful way to start people.</b></i>" Children grew our Village. If one could hear echoes from as far back as the early 1900's the song on the wind would be children's laughter. Bright and eager, let's put them in the context of their times.</div>
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This is my oldest photograph of my paternal Souza family. My Uncle Joe is the oldest on the right and I can date this to about 1914 as he was born in 1909. The little girl is my Aunt Mary Souza later Bernadino. I love that she is grasping her precious pocketbook like someone is trying to take it from her. The little boy on the left is my Uncle John Souza. </div>
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These children played the Village sidewalks just as I did and the back yards and fields, too. We just dressed differently. They grew up at 184 School St. where I spent many years of my childhood in the 50's Strange to think we played in the same room , these children who would be parents of my cousins and friends years onward.</div>
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The year this vintage photograph, 1914, there was the first ever Mother's Day. Wrigley Field opened in Chicago and Babe Ruth was signed by the Red Sox. Charlie Chaplin appeared in his first film and Tarzan of the Apes was published. </div>
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Most significantly, World War I began. </div>
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This next photo is a treasure from the annals of Fuller School photos. Fuller School, you may have read when I started this blog, is where I and decades of Village Children went to school. It was a two story wooden building smack in the middle of the Village, where it's heart would be. Though I have showed this photo before, it never hurts to show it again. Fuller School was demolished in the 1960's and a sigh could be heart throughout the Village and probably beyond.<br />
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Every group photo throughout the years would take place on those wooden front steps. It would be grand to have more photos of the classes. However, we are fortunate to have what we have.<br />
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At Fuller School over the years dear teachers, all women, lovingly taught us and cared for each of us. Within the next photo is our beloved family physician, mothers of my playmates and more. A well known piano teacher is here, too. Fuller School received its name in 1909. It was in those first years of the 1900's that Portuguese immigrants would be moving to the Village. among them my paternal grandparents.<br />
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See the clothes in this photo below? It is clearly winter as one can tell from the obviously handmade hats. Hats- mothers way of sealing their love and warmth in those children. Grandmother's and Aunt's way of reminding little ones of a family love that sought to protect. They all had reasons for keeping these children warm. A horrific Spanish Influenze made its way through the world seeking the most vulnerable during that time.Thankfully, it seems the Village was not terribly touched. Perhaps Avos.or Portuguese grandmothers had their own medicinal treasures to protect beloved children as well as young adults. Imagine, cold and flu seasons without Kleenex- that would not be invented until 1950!<br />
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The rest of their clothing: long leggings or long johns, high laced boots</div>
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similar to the ones worn by the children in our first photo complete their ensemble.</div>
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There was a little one room building in the back of the main school where children who only spoke Portuguese could learn English so that they could catch up with their classmates. My mother went there. here is her photo at age 9 so this is around 1925. She perhaps saw her future husband, by father, playing in the schoolyard.... A little girl who would face a lot more in her young life than the inability to speak English. Like many children brought up in another language her lack of English hid a sharp and talented mind. Our Mom lived in the Village for awhile. My parents and my paternal siblings all went to Fuller School.When she married my Dad she returned once more to the Village.<br />
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In the 1920's Amelia Earhart made her first flight just as these children were making their way through their childhoods.<br />
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In 1929 Herbert Hoover was elected President and in 1929 the lives of the children above and their families would change dramatically as the Stock Market crashed.<br />
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A new app called Desktop Pixr has allowed me to restore this third grade 1929 photograph much more than when I initially showed it. This Class photo was taken on the occasion of the Fuller School class winning a music award that year: First Place in a city-wide competition. The students are: (first row from left) Arthur Alves, Louis Carvalho, Evelyn Dias, Hilda Costa, Mary Camara, Zelmira D'Arruda, Alce Braga; second row (L to R) Edward Coute, Anthony Costa, Lillian Duarte, Joseph Mendes, Elsie Furtardo, Mary Costa, Augusta Agrella, Catherine Foster, third row (L to R) Adeline DeMello, Francis Thadeio, Alexander Taylor, Aurelio Santos, Arthur Amaral, George Abreau, Anthony Pinto and back row (L to R) George Texeira, Arthur Furtardo, Gabriel Texeira, Anthony Rebello, Mary ventura, Delores Agrella, Alveda Braga and Hilda Dias.<br />
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I recognize so many names, for they were the adults of the Village during my childhood. Their parents would struggle to make ends meet during dark economic times. They would have given thanks for the closeness and support of their Village neighbors...it does take a Village when times for all are so difficult.<br />
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<b> Photo taken Monday, December 8, 1941 the day after Pearl Harbor.</b><br />
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Speaking of harder times still ahead. Here we are in 1941. Above is the class of Arlene Rose Gouvia second in the first row from the left. On a winter December 7th these children and their parents would be stunned by the news that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. Arlene remembers that she and her classmates were deeply troubled and afraid. Their third grade teacher,Miss Marguerite Hoye (who would in the 50's be MY third grade teacher) would help to calm them while they learned their lessons. More children and adult frightening scenarios would make their way to the public when news of the Manhattan Project came out toward the end of the war. The class photo above was taken on Monday, Dec.7, 1941.<br />
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Children in the photo: front row L to R-Lorraine Ferreira, Arlene Rose, Lorraine King, Robert Gouveia, James Pine, Second row: Alice Rugg. Norma Gouveia, Loretta King, Natalie Torres, Charles Leanard, David Rosse, Third row: Catherine Duarte, Mariano Amaral, Elizabeth Jacinto, Jeremiah Raposa, Leo Perry, Joan Fontes, Raymond De Thomas and back row: Evelyn Torres, Virginia Sanson, Carol Rose, Jeanette Lopes, John Andrews, Margaret Soares and Gilbert DeMello.<br />
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The next class photo we have is this one, First Grade in 1946. I am not here as I went to a kindergarten/first grade school that year and then joined this group in the second grade. The color of the film here reminds one of the Little Rascals and other movies we watching Saturday afternoon. But, the future would be changing far ahead into the future for children and everyone....the first computer was built in 1941. There was a lot of easier breathing for everyone in 1946, for the second World War had ended the year before.<br />
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Who knows where the next two years of class photos went the </div>
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next is my fourth grade class at Fuller.</div>
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There is one little girl here, to my left, whose family left for </div>
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California either this year or the next. </div>
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We were very good friends...imagine that through this blog </div>
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we met again and reignited that old friendship!</div>
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Coming almost full circle in the following photograph. Some of the children seen above can be recognized all grown up in this one of my THS class reunion photo. Some of us still lived in the Village, some in Taunton, others far away.<br />
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Most of us went from Fuller to Cohannet School just past downtown Taunton for grades 6-8 and then on to Taunton High School about a mile away. Our journeys in life took us along different roads, some roads converged back again to Taunton. Always our group of children then adults kept track of other's paths the best we could. Many of us cannot make the general reunions so there are regional reunions, as we have in Florida and the west coast.<br />
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This photo of the 2014 regional THS "57 reunion in Ponta Gorda, Florida</div>
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includes two Village gals...</div>
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It has been a virtual trip down Memory Lane with these photos. Many of the children we grew up with are no longer with us....but live in our hearts. <br />
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Life is a journey. Ours started in a very special place, so special that those we met there, who loved us then and love us now still inspire and comfort us. There is still laughter when sone of us meet even though our senior years can be full of pain and loss. I have ever been and will always be deeply thankful for the School Street Village, for its friendships, its life lessons and the energy to keep on the journey of life with courage.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-86340654200119332932017-12-05T08:00:00.000-08:002016-12-06T05:07:03.891-08:00ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF LIGHTING UP CHRISTMAS!!<div style="text-align: center;">
I originally published this in 2013 and am reposting in today.<br />
One cannot get enough of Christmases past.<br />
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Taunton Green was placed on The National Register in 1985.<br />
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Taunton's Green, or Common as it was called, factored centrally in Taunton's life since Taunton's founding in 1637. First it was a place to graze cattle and roster the troops. In 1914 it began its story of a spectacle of light and hope at Christmastide. </div>
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Below is one of the first Christmas Green photographs taken in 1925 from the wonderful book <i>"80 years of Christmas in Taunton: Candles on the Green.</i>" released in 1994. A new one is available celebrating 100 years this year of 2013. Once again, Charlie Crowley and Dr. William Hanna renew our memories and knowledge of this Taunton treasure. I have added the framework to give it a nostalgic touch for this post. </div>
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In the next photo taken in 1936, the theme was The Spirit of Taunton recalling the famous Lindberg flight with a plane at center on a multi-colored globe painted by Frank Taylor. "The airplane's registration number, shown on its tail, was 593, which happened to be the telephone number of the TMLP." The Christmas displays each year would mirror the times in which they occurred, in peace and in war. You can see the plane glowing above the globe.<br />
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My husband was nine years old that year and recalls this display. His family made the trek from Swansea each year to see the Green. He remembers, as do so many Tauntonians, the wonderful arches that so often graced the Christmas Green.</div>
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Last Christmas in this blog we followed the Green over the World War II years when blackout rules did not allow for lights and Taunton with the country worried over the safety of its sons and daughters. The romance of my Aunt Alveda and Uncle Ziggy provided a personal pictorial framework for us. <br />
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In 1949, then Mayor ]ohn Parker wrote an article about the meaning of the Green. A good friend, Louise Foster who grew up in Taunton, shared this photo of the Green that same year. As so often happened, a blanket of snow covered all. War was over and the nation was starting to dig itself out. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqctG7wH2DdGrZOfy0PcVVqdyetjyCFP-eyIVbSh4I2M8zV-hBJ0rcKojpuOtjJbX4D8fVLoAQBxznHDCxMXtnmrJ5qpzVsHD1zNr3KJPaRJ2E5rbWkVTsmHX9JjSviAZS_ZfJrLUxGw/s1600/1949+green+xmas+from+louise+f++-+Version+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqctG7wH2DdGrZOfy0PcVVqdyetjyCFP-eyIVbSh4I2M8zV-hBJ0rcKojpuOtjJbX4D8fVLoAQBxznHDCxMXtnmrJ5qpzVsHD1zNr3KJPaRJ2E5rbWkVTsmHX9JjSviAZS_ZfJrLUxGw/s640/1949+green+xmas+from+louise+f++-+Version+2.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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This past weekend, on Dec. 7th, Taunton, The Christmas City celebrated 100 years of lighting Christmas up for its people and those from miles around. With its celebratory hat on the City bloomed with venues of wonderful entertainment . There was even a human Christmas tree in which 982 people participated and broke the Guiness Book of Records!! Taunton went for it!!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfsGPt4tnQezRxf6fO-usJGl1dwBYCHYKNat1ZSiDq9h65Yh6og4qReZhdwJH5bfiFDl8KeDCkSdp6q_BT6WVMN9546IDEgAeOdub_B8qM-qJoAqRikzBZ4AWTF29nWaFI-wKuihL-g/s1600/this+christmas+green+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfsGPt4tnQezRxf6fO-usJGl1dwBYCHYKNat1ZSiDq9h65Yh6og4qReZhdwJH5bfiFDl8KeDCkSdp6q_BT6WVMN9546IDEgAeOdub_B8qM-qJoAqRikzBZ4AWTF29nWaFI-wKuihL-g/s640/this+christmas+green+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Thanks to Micaila Britto-Patten and the TMLP bucket truck for this awesome photo of this year's</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Christmas lighting from I'm From Taunton Facebook page.</span></div>
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One hundred years of living through the ups and downs of so many struggling New England cities, and still our little city shows its spirit! That spirit it demonstrated in the American Revolution, through the Civil War and the terrible wars that followed. Lights on the Green led us on, even when it would have needed candlelight. May those lights get even brighter and our birth city pull itself up and onward!</div>
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What is wonderful about all of our Christmas Greens is the fact that there has always been a Nativity scene somewhere on them. Take the one below from 1947 (picture found on the Net) which prominently displays the Nativity right in the center of the Green. Even this year one was included. Taunton has never forgotten the true meaning of Christmas.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrSD1jIIfDu6rtzcumBkfD-1xiJJXVrMyupQYYrKI0-KCyFOKXCaa2T6a8uEH9dwz9kAlwC316PD3A7ydH2Ak45NfnZUfRPG9_9Fy_fkgLqKCgGf9s7xlBrhfI4iyVYUZUbMCadkk4g/s1600/1947+photo+of+taunton+green+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrSD1jIIfDu6rtzcumBkfD-1xiJJXVrMyupQYYrKI0-KCyFOKXCaa2T6a8uEH9dwz9kAlwC316PD3A7ydH2Ak45NfnZUfRPG9_9Fy_fkgLqKCgGf9s7xlBrhfI4iyVYUZUbMCadkk4g/s640/1947+photo+of+taunton+green+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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You can easily find a lot of interesting photos and information on this year's Taunton Green Christmas celebration online: Taunton Daily Gazette as well as with photos and information shared so well on I'm From Taunton Facebook page.</div>
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To read my posts from last Christmas about the Green please go to 2012 posts on the right of the blog, then find December 19th and 21st. Thanks.</div>
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Thank you to Kathleen Campanirio for her assistance with this post.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-40825325774548823112017-11-21T10:00:00.000-08:002017-11-21T05:50:27.329-08:00HAPPY THANKSGIVING !<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
This is a reposting of what I wrote for Thanksgiving some years back. It is always</div>
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relevant. I pray that this year 2017 may bring us peace and harmony, such as so</div>
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many of us knew in our childhood in the 50's. Without cell phones, a constant media barrage of the horrific and the scandalous our hearts and minds could focus on family and being grateful for what we had.</div>
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I wish you that kind of Thanksgiving this year.</div>
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Thanksgiving 2013 I posted this and it seems</div>
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right to use it again. My memories simmer like gravy on the stove, </div>
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loved laughter drifts through my mind, the taste of that special squash pie only my Aunt Eleanor could make, the smell of the apple pies that were my mother's specialty, the sound of the bubbling crispness of the turkey roasting in a brown paper bag in the oven, The smell and taste of Aunt Alveda's stuffing. The sound of children's feet as they sneaked into the kitchen for a taste of this and that, little fingers traveling the tabletop. </div>
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The heat and heart of the kitchen from all the cooking and from all the love.</div>
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Happy Thanksgiving memories and dreams to all !</div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">This is a great photo of two of my wonderful aunts: Aunt Alveda and Aunt Eleanor. </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">The light of their smiles lit up a room. This was some kind of </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">a family get-together;</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">maybe Thanksgiving, maybe not. But the message is there: of family, </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">of place, of all the gifts</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">in our lives that started with being born into the place we were.</span></b></i><br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;"> I am thankful for everything, for </span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">my family and for the family of the School Street Village.</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">May Thanksgiving blessings be on each of</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #7f6000;">you and your families wherever you may have roamed. </span></b></i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-49174256885336745502017-05-22T09:04:00.000-07:002017-05-21T04:56:04.593-07:00RIBBONS , RUFFLES AND ROSARIES - REMEMBERING FIRST COMMUNION DAYS IN THE VILLAGE <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As has often been said in this blog, St. Anthony's Catholic Church on School Street was the Faith center of the Village. Liturgical events marked the passages of each person there. Baptism as an infant was the first event.</div>
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When I was a child and before a baby did not go out of the house until he/she was baptized. This is a photo of one of my grand nieces on her Baptismal day.</div>
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Back in those days it was felt that there were too many dangers- such as infectious diseases - that might harm the child. Many families could still recall such times.</div>
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Baptism, then as now, marked a child as a Catholic and insured theirt heavenly destination should disaster befall. </div>
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The next rite of passage was the sacramental rite of First Communion. Not only did it mean a major milestone in the spiritual life of the child allowing that child to regularly receive Communion,it was a powerful Church and Family ritual. It also initiated the child into an age group. For us in the Village, that group was the one you took religion classes with, and probably the group you were with at Fuller School and onward. Many of us, those still among the living, still keep connected, Even if we see each other infrequently the bond of the Village is always strong and supportive.</div>
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This is the oldest family First Communion photo in my collection. Here is my Uncle Eddy: Edward Souza in 1927. As it was at 7 years of age that a child received First Communion, I can date this accurately.</div>
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As was the case in the Souza Family of old, it is a formal photograph taken at the Boutin studios in Taunton. This was true for most families, the occasion almost rose to that of a wedding in terms of formality. There are two important things about this photo and the date. My grandfather, Joseph Souza, died suddenly in a tragic fishing accident that year in July. First Communion usually took place in early Spring. It is hard to know what date, but one has to wonder if the fact that he is dressed in black means that he had already lost his father. At least for girls and for boys white was worn for this occasion.</div>
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Surfing through the incredible Pinterest posts I hit pay dirt. One of those times when </div>
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an amateur historian and blogger lets out a "hoorah".</div>
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I found this photo on Pinterest of Frank Sinatra on the occasion of his First Communion.</div>
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Here he is in black suit and stockings. This photo was taken in 1924.</div>
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Both Uncle Eddy and Frank have the white ties and the </div>
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white ribbon on the left arm. They also have the</div>
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certificate of this event in their hands.</div>
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<a href="http://hollywood-legacy.tumblr.com/post/69797722822/before-they-were-stars-young-9-year-old-frank">http://hollywood-legacy.tumblr.com/post/69797722822/</a></div>
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<a href="http://hollywood-legacy.tumblr.com/post/69797722822/before-they-were-stars-young-9-year-old-frank">before-they-were-stars-young-9-year-old-frank</a></div>
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Portuguese families as well as many Catholic families love to celebrate religious occasions and a child's First Communion called for just that. In the case of the Village, the old St. Anthony's would have been filled with proud parents and family members proudly watching a gaggle of 7 year old boys and girls. Present would have been godmothers and godfathers, of special importance in the life of a child of Portuguese descent. Godmother is Portuguese is Madrinha, Godfather is Padrinha. A child shortened it early to Midinga or Minga and Padinha. They were beloved members of the family.</div>
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From 1906 to 1951 children at St. Anthony's would have made their First Communion in the dark old, subterranean basement Church, a prelude to the new bright one that would come in 1951. </div>
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No doubt, the dark tones would have had an impact on the solemnity involved. The insert is that of Father Louro, first Pastor. I received my First Communion from the very dear Monsignor Texeira whose simplicity and kindness was well known throughout the Diocese of Fall River.</div>
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To learn more about St. Anthony's please go to</div>
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/02/faith-of-village.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/02/faith-of-village.html</a></div>
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Children would have processed in the procession like the one below before or</div>
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after the Mass. I recognize each of these houses across from the Church, although this looks like the entrance to the newer Church, it was obviously taken in the early 50's from the dress and the cars.</div>
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The old Church had deep long stairs from the top ground entrance downward which were</div>
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often frightening for a small child. Often processions with little ones came in at the side</div>
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whose stairs were much shorter.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZiKh2F5GAPx6Y1JtNgzHkSlo0iSYgb_jNj8ch0RsnH1iavcsIuhMfphkYF127nARKM36utNJatSwQioHBiFql-brLKSCaepmcVhQytLn1ri3R9t5ZGxpoeNbCe0w46ADJA3jllDO9Eg/s1600/procession+st+anthony.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZiKh2F5GAPx6Y1JtNgzHkSlo0iSYgb_jNj8ch0RsnH1iavcsIuhMfphkYF127nARKM36utNJatSwQioHBiFql-brLKSCaepmcVhQytLn1ri3R9t5ZGxpoeNbCe0w46ADJA3jllDO9Eg/s640/procession+st+anthony.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Below is a 1925 Pinterest photo of two young girls at their</div>
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First Communion. Like Uncle Eddy's and Frank Sinatra's everything</div>
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is far more elaborate and in tune with fashions of the day. </div>
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Here we see that candles complete the ensemble. The dresses</div>
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are long and modest.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISxaSDpwqqPwmkmrehvS3d0fuLY1tO9Eu71L5csRasmaywSLVCyqA0-E7g2Snprcr8o7wXHbbL3NqH2uHRGhkTspDkP9l6YZuvW8yhxPPpZh3PqXe0hvFXrLSRnxJ-u76GN2eOR0XYA/s1600/first+holy+commnion+1925+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISxaSDpwqqPwmkmrehvS3d0fuLY1tO9Eu71L5csRasmaywSLVCyqA0-E7g2Snprcr8o7wXHbbL3NqH2uHRGhkTspDkP9l6YZuvW8yhxPPpZh3PqXe0hvFXrLSRnxJ-u76GN2eOR0XYA/s640/first+holy+commnion+1925+.png" width="474" /></a></div>
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These are St. Anthony First Communion studio portraits of a Village brother and sister: Arlene Rose Gouveia and her brother, Donny Rose. The white suit replaces the somber</div>
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black one but the white arm ribbon and neck tie remains. </div>
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The certificate is gone and only the rosary remains.</div>
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Donald Rose : 1939</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczem3AmBHx5NpW39IeQMfRwEjCzKQ-52exJiYTVsjRZnncQQzrDllpEBMgH9oBjRz3sh81MTATyxyopo88vxTs6XnSDy4B3CG0MG1_PaoNaSPBH25MhyphenhyphenQh59rX3fX62ex4PHKHd6tmw/s1600/bes+donny+fc+framed+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczem3AmBHx5NpW39IeQMfRwEjCzKQ-52exJiYTVsjRZnncQQzrDllpEBMgH9oBjRz3sh81MTATyxyopo88vxTs6XnSDy4B3CG0MG1_PaoNaSPBH25MhyphenhyphenQh59rX3fX62ex4PHKHd6tmw/s640/bes+donny+fc+framed+.png" width="372" /></a></div>
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Arlene Rose: 1941</div>
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For little girls, the elaborate headpiece still remains, although much simplified,</div>
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as do the long whitegloves. The veil is still quite long. One might say these were small debutantes for the Lord. Here Arlene kneels on a kneeler. her dress also is shorter than the two</div>
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1925 children.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfc7_IgFdhnMLZnP6dSrOA7jGtA0xgSuWhIuEthUmiZwaXyTTVF-p7HSRvAyp8LZFLHeL1Kg8QZnuk-uYjK7V1eyIiEhFY5jbfViQU1-P5KEziVmfUpC9czVmY8I6ny59zt9dgZyZ3pQ/s1600/best+arlene+f+c+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfc7_IgFdhnMLZnP6dSrOA7jGtA0xgSuWhIuEthUmiZwaXyTTVF-p7HSRvAyp8LZFLHeL1Kg8QZnuk-uYjK7V1eyIiEhFY5jbfViQU1-P5KEziVmfUpC9czVmY8I6ny59zt9dgZyZ3pQ/s640/best+arlene+f+c+.png" width="406" /></a></div>
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I received my First Communion at the old St. Anthony's</div>
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in 1947. I was 7 years old. I kept my mouth closed in the photograph</div>
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because I had lost my front teeth.</div>
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Memories of that day: the silky feel of the white gloves and the</div>
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way my fingers felt in them. The stiffness of my veil and how I was</div>
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careful my veil and cap did not fall off. My veil ends at the hem of my white dress,</div>
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Little shoes that had a tiny heel making me feel so grown up. The awe. Feeling my little friends</div>
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in front and behind me supporting my long procession up the aisle to the alter rail, the start of friendships that would be lifelong. There was the emotion we youngsters felt on approaching this Holy of Holies the right way, of reaching out for the host correctly with our tongue and of not chewing it but rather swallowing it whole. A lot for a child to remember along with keeping our minds open to prayer and thanksgiving. I remember a little gold edged prayerbook covered in white silk which I kept for a long time...but not long enough.</div>
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Each time I hear the hymn:" O, Lord I am not worthy..."</div>
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I am transported back to that day.</div>
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Here I am, long gloves and white stockings and all.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKk6sU-eeaOnVWNh1STMs7Y1KOp10hd3pGdRuKM_wTyML_6M_jNPPaPKn9NFE2wX22lyjm7w43SHv8yCIQK798anR0M6b-QU5Ekv1tvITaSHqqXEaNva0HZNEz45kjGAm3CDi6SeOWTg/s1600/sandy+first+communion+1947+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKk6sU-eeaOnVWNh1STMs7Y1KOp10hd3pGdRuKM_wTyML_6M_jNPPaPKn9NFE2wX22lyjm7w43SHv8yCIQK798anR0M6b-QU5Ekv1tvITaSHqqXEaNva0HZNEz45kjGAm3CDi6SeOWTg/s640/sandy+first+communion+1947+.png" width="402" /></a></div>
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Another contemporary of mine in her First Communion attire.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzg7gtNwbdq2M8v6DdeYd33DKKtWU39GrAw71RmeVbLrKJYzYGJA15_XODmi2aF5KLLzypTVPn6OYbSvGPdffLttVg_p21a4bPb-uhI9nUHtTMlE_NiuI24ELLR9CskLmo7tcxcIes5A/s1600/cynthia%253F+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzg7gtNwbdq2M8v6DdeYd33DKKtWU39GrAw71RmeVbLrKJYzYGJA15_XODmi2aF5KLLzypTVPn6OYbSvGPdffLttVg_p21a4bPb-uhI9nUHtTMlE_NiuI24ELLR9CskLmo7tcxcIes5A/s400/cynthia%253F+.png" width="286" /></a></div>
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Finally, here is my sister, Mariellen, in her photograph (not studio for the first time)</div>
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and her First Communion attire. She received her First Communion in the newer present Church</div>
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pictured here.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjW8G6Fm9Vxhew-K37q5-VBuhNfoJTBGF-xZFxOyyrwgMN-4RGxaVxI4zAeCkmmxTzlvEzAZyai1FFQdE1dvNjBNIJ9Jy9g1bmKOswSm4-PYSFesk6uV0lb6cPZ-T2qwGiyMJ64zPUOw/s1600/best+new+st+a%2527s+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjW8G6Fm9Vxhew-K37q5-VBuhNfoJTBGF-xZFxOyyrwgMN-4RGxaVxI4zAeCkmmxTzlvEzAZyai1FFQdE1dvNjBNIJ9Jy9g1bmKOswSm4-PYSFesk6uV0lb6cPZ-T2qwGiyMJ64zPUOw/s1600/best+new+st+a%2527s+.png" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwWVui4n5Xzbb0dC-rJtCWia2Hd6AX7mYiXm52RLeSjC9pe7NdF574EGFwkpeNtphf1q4CfiTaymMborE7X5Io-0XwOowWO_RhQLA0jKeKUYs9fzBQ2ZLoh6wfcWyg1adLZjwOloA6w/s1600/1959+1st+comm+mariellen+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwWVui4n5Xzbb0dC-rJtCWia2Hd6AX7mYiXm52RLeSjC9pe7NdF574EGFwkpeNtphf1q4CfiTaymMborE7X5Io-0XwOowWO_RhQLA0jKeKUYs9fzBQ2ZLoh6wfcWyg1adLZjwOloA6w/s640/1959+1st+comm+mariellen+.png" width="396" /></a></div>
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No gloves, shorter white stockings. The veil, too, is shorter although the headdress is still quite fancy. Maryellen's dress is shorter. She has the sweetest smile of all my photos on this post. Still sweet ruffles and lace, white shoes and socks</div>
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and a white rosary.</div>
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First Communion memories can be found in our hearts. Those that happened at a simpler time when liturgical events were an event for child, family and the Village. It is a gift to revisit them, to</div>
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re-ignite the simplicity our our childhood Faith and trust.</div>
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We were innocent in a more innocent time. Though it had its problems, they were not as multiplied as today and our Faith kept everything centralized and in its place. Those memories can still</div>
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light up our souls strengthening them when we need them the most.</div>
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Times like these, they really can comfort and inspire.</div>
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Question: do we share such memory with our children and grandchildren?</div>
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My next blog will be about how we do that, pass on</div>
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the stories that inspire and share family history and keep such history </div>
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safe for the future.</div>
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<b><u>SOURCES;</u></b></div>
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Photography from Arlene Rose Gouveia and</div>
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Sandra Souza Pineault</div>
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.......</div>
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About memories of First Communions:</div>
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<a href="http://americamagazine.org/issue/484/faith-focus/remembering-first-communion">http://americamagazine.org/issue/484/faith-focus/remembering</a></div>
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<a href="http://americamagazine.org/issue/484/faith-focus/remembering-first-communion">-first-communion</a></div>
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Pinterest:</div>
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see links below each photo.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-27141326206078228092016-12-20T03:00:00.000-08:002016-12-20T12:12:37.645-08:00MUSINGS ON CHRISTMASES PAST<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
For myself and others graced with a childhood in the "olden days", Christmas memories twine around our hearts like a wreath. Kind of like the photograph below taken by my</div>
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mother. She had carved and painted the little hearts that are so full of message.</div>
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Why, we ask, is the term "Christmas" so frightening for some? It's been a tough couple of years for "Christmas". Hijacked, reviled, given other meanings, subsumed into someone else's holiday...poor Christmas. Christmas has never done anything but be itself. The term means Christ-Mass, a specifically Christian derivation.</div>
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Still with all of that Christmas shines on. Precisely because</div>
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the term is less seen it shines even brighter!</div>
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The remnants of a real Christmas are all around us. Twinkling lights set off apps in my head tuning into the real meaning of Christmas. Those of us born in the 40's and 50's</div>
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can access that meaning knowing that it is more about the Creche than commerce, </div>
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more about love than gifts.</div>
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There was a spirituality about it all, the Christmases I knew. We can still find it today if we seek it in the right places, sort of like following the star. But, back then it surrounded and comforted us.</div>
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My memories jostle for space - they live at the foot of years upon years of Christmas pasts.</div>
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Joy was found in DIY (do-it-yourself) long before the term became vogue. Out in the woods on a sharp snowy winter day looking for the perfect greens, the best moss, holly and red berries. Small feet crunching on packed snow looking for the wherewithal to create a creche for the Holy Family. </div>
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It tickles the top of my nose to remember the cold. </div>
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Our baskets filled with gifts from the forest.</div>
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As I went through old photographs not yet on my computer albums, I came across this one. Amazed, I realized it was taken in 1947 and included our Christmas tree and creche or it was my Aunt Eleanor's? Just above my head (I am the oldest at 7 years old,) is the creche filled with greens from the woods nearby. Greens we had picked. You can see the wise men figures approaching the crib. Note the levels, they were comprised of moss and rocks and perhaps boxes holding it all up. Next to that on the right is the Christmas tree strewn with old fashioned tinsel. That is my little brother on my lap, my sister Kathy next to me. It was tradition that we girls wore velvet for Christmas day, and this was taken Dec, 25, 1947. To the right is my cousin Helena, my Aunt Eleanor's daughter. To this day I love wearing velvet around this holy day.</div>
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One of my sisters has my mother's handcrafted creche with all its ceramic figures she lovingly painted in a ceramics class. I recognize each little statue like an old friend feeling the curves and lines of the angel watching over it all. Year after year more tiny figures were added as my mother was given or came upon little squirrels, tiny fish, a mirror to act like it was a pond. Then she started carving her own little animals, too. Each year the Creche became higher, wider. Soon there were levels that pretended to be hills and sparkling dark blue cloth like the night sky. First, we as children were drawn into the Christmas story within that beloved scene, then grandchildren knew it each year as they grew. There were two stories. The great, grand story of a Savior's love for us, and the wonderful warm story of a mother and grandmother's love for us children. Added to that was another Creche created out of love and that was of our dear Aunt Eleanor. Her Christmas seasons were over too soon but not before her love had marked us and kindled in us the understanding of this season.</div>
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Mom's Christmas figures in a new home still telling its story. Below<br />
more tiny creatures to grow the Nativity Scene.<br />
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Did you know that St. Francis of Assisi created the very first Nativity Scene in 1223? He had been inspired by a trip to the Holy Land. His Scene was a live one. It started the whole world wide custom and continues to this day. Each culture made it their own with the landscape and people. For example, the Portuguese put a little pot of sprouting wheat seeds alongside the manger symbolizing the Bread of Life. In every Christian Church today, some form of Nativity scene is displayed, and in many homes as well. The Message continues.<br />
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As a child, our Christmas times were filled with wonder and what seemed like a never-ending celebration. The stars in the Village winter nights promised bulging stockings (even if only with tangerines and hard candy) and presents below our tree (not many but each precious). By the by the Christmas stockings were our own and not works of art. <br />
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The great Creche in our Village Church, St. Anthony's, could fit a small child as it did so long ago. The bright warm lights and soaring voices of our choir set our souls aglow. The Nativity set was so large whole pine trees guarded its boundaries, red poinsettias warming it along with the single light shining down on the manger where the child would lay. <br />
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Part of all the magic was going down to see the Christmas display on the Green in the center of Taunton. As a 7 year old the lights and snow must have seemed incredible. Would that we keep our childhood sense of wonder.<br />
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Below is a photo of the Taunton Green Christmas display in 1947, the same year as the photograph above with us children. years of the Christmas City displays. An interesting note from the book <i>"Candles on the Green</i>" is that the lights-on ceremony that year boasted light snow. On Christmas Eve the temperature was below zero. The day after Christmas, Rosalind Ballroom burned down! A few historical tidbits from my little city that keeps its Christmas displays going even to this day...and always containing a religious motif!<br />
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The gift of Family was learned, too. Back then, the arms of many Aunts, their coats scented with the cold, were always seeking to hug and clasp close a small one. The laughter and energy of a gaggle of cousins high on Christmas candy and excitement sounded through our house. <br />
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We feed on our memories, the good ones from my childhood Christmases color over in bright hues any sad ones. There was such a place as the Village in the 40's and 50's and we lived there. It takes longer to reach back now, I may forget a thing or two. But, they continue to be brought back to life.<br />
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Our memories can still be a source of smiling and sharing. They still occasion a prayer for those no longer here. Today the digital world provides us with a way to share such memories. The great thing about this blog is that it will still be here long after I am gone. Still a remembrance of such a place - of faith, family and friends.<br />
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But, not yet. Still going...this little engine of memories. Still being crafted and dusted off. <br />
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May your memories sparkle this year, soothe what might ail you</div>
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and keep you and yours close.</div>
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Sandra Souza Pineault</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> 123f.com</span><br />
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Sources:</div>
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Story of St. Francis of Assisi and the Nativity Scene<br />
<a href="http://www.uscatholic.org/church/2012/10/who-invented-nativity-scene">http://www.uscatholic.org/church/2012/10/who-invented-nativity-scene</a><br />
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1947 Photograph of Christmas on the Green: Bristol County Historical Society<br />
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<i><b>Candles on the Green:</b></i> Charles Crowley and Dr. William Hanna. Available at the Bristol Country Historical Society as well as Amazon.com.<br />
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Photographs from my Collection and that of my sister, Kathleen Campanirio.<br />
Photography collection of my mother, Angelina Souza.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-32833648807392056042016-09-03T07:52:00.001-07:002016-09-03T07:52:39.839-07:00LOOK WHO HAS WRITTEN A LEGACY DOCUMENT? Ah, of course I could not retire altogether, could I?<br />
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Not when something special comes along- like this: THE ROSE FAMILY MUSICAL LEGACY.</div>
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This new post is about Arlene Rose Gouveia and her creation of a<i><b> legacy document </b></i>or family history. She has packed this work with family history going back decades.</div>
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The term<i> legacy document i</i>s a legal term but I prefer it to have another connotation. I prefer it<br />
to be a unique kind of written bequest that gifts a family with their own history. Genealogical charts are incredibly important to any family. But, it is when these facts are brought to life with story<br />
and pictures that it comes alive historically.<br />
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What a legacy to leave to a family now and way into the future!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisxjbrj6AiqUf6taXpxxiFND7j8wwobZBndQEtmKR0A6LsqhbaMwt1YhaUybGFEH87nSPyPS1DtKJCPUsvIHz4aLuH9RRMWX7KfUftNOlwXntVPO_UZGiEDo-YiArxOYxCsuQ11AAYQ/s1600/the+rose+legacy+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisxjbrj6AiqUf6taXpxxiFND7j8wwobZBndQEtmKR0A6LsqhbaMwt1YhaUybGFEH87nSPyPS1DtKJCPUsvIHz4aLuH9RRMWX7KfUftNOlwXntVPO_UZGiEDo-YiArxOYxCsuQ11AAYQ/s640/the+rose+legacy+.png" width="488" /></a></div>
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Not only did Arlene write a book, with the help of her son it is also an e-book so that untold<br />
numbers of people can and will read it. You can read it at:<br />
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<a href="https://issuu.com/johngouveia5/docs/rose-family_document/1">https://issuu.com/johngouveia5/docs/rose-family_document/1</a></div>
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In the case of this book, she has taken only one aspect of her</div>
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family history, albeit a very major one, and created a </div>
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delightful historical textual and pictorial work. You do not</div>
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have to be a member of the Rose family or even have</div>
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grown up in the School Street Village to enjoy it.</div>
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I am pleased to publish this post announcing where you can find this. Both Arlene and I have been dedicated to keeping our families and the magic Village where we grew up from</div>
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being forgotten. For me, it was this blog. For her, it was assisting with this blog and now with this lovely and important book.</div>
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God bless, Arlene, and we hope this is only the beginning</div>
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of more of your sharing to keep our history alive.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-7854296975133477802016-07-06T10:29:00.004-07:002016-07-06T10:29:58.630-07:00I BID YOU GOODBYE AND FOND MEMORIES<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9sMp9uz_vF-tgIjgiKxlOIvRa1CwXKetVHZLIe5sgYRyEN_GtSxN0P_EaqApYSeuvXw8a9Zwb169qZN-hYHsUMibZcPbxlOhzzU7UJufA_LzTjmPD50AiwQ2POKE7pjxMtoulaPEZg/s1600/fuller+school+very+early+on+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF9sMp9uz_vF-tgIjgiKxlOIvRa1CwXKetVHZLIe5sgYRyEN_GtSxN0P_EaqApYSeuvXw8a9Zwb169qZN-hYHsUMibZcPbxlOhzzU7UJufA_LzTjmPD50AiwQ2POKE7pjxMtoulaPEZg/s640/fuller+school+very+early+on+.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FULLER SCHOOL circa 1950's</td></tr>
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Bidding goodbye to my Memoir of the School Street Village. It is hard to summarize the story of this Blog, the places it went, the people it met, remembered and met once again. <br />
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It began five years ago, the need to assure that the School Street Village story was not lost. It<br />
began with an old photograph of our beloved Fuller School above. It started as a memorial for all those classmates and dear ones lost over the years. It was dedicated to a dear friend since my early childhood who can no longer remember. It's purpose was to remember for her. It ended up being much more than that. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrP0dXgL048eM3FmTXA6to4fzKFb_c_IEQPr_7oOkrGg84mb6rSKbzmsMdqX-iliTZHdlTlVWRy0JR8zY5oqSCvWG9IPgpO7tWVfYJtYMGNyrlmEOszOk21d0FeqdYm6vjqVpm2lJtA/s1600/Butterfly+Hugz+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrP0dXgL048eM3FmTXA6to4fzKFb_c_IEQPr_7oOkrGg84mb6rSKbzmsMdqX-iliTZHdlTlVWRy0JR8zY5oqSCvWG9IPgpO7tWVfYJtYMGNyrlmEOszOk21d0FeqdYm6vjqVpm2lJtA/s640/Butterfly+Hugz+.png" width="510" /></a></div>
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(Pinterest)</div>
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It went on to gather, to present the stories of our people bit by bit and some of the history they lived through. It went back and back. It searched out stories of the Village that I knew and that others taught me like the incredible Arlene Gouveia. I cherished and presented like jewels each story for others to recall and savor all over again. I wrote each word with all the love that grew in me for that place that was my childhood home.<br />
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Dredging up my memories, you see me at the age of five below, the the tapestry began to take place. Soon others joined in and the story grew with photographs so precious they took my breath away.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me at age 5 years</td></tr>
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I have loved each moment of writing and researching this blog over the years. I hope that it encourages others to try to gather their own basket of memories and reach out to others to put it all together. So many readers have visited this blog and I imagine that it rings many bells of their own growing up. Those of us that lived through those times are richer because of it. I know others will continue to read it, to goggle some word or title that brings them here. They are most welcome.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;"> <i><b> I walk the bygone streets of my School Street Village </b></i></span><br />
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<i><b>and greet those who walked with me, who</b></i></div>
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<i><b>laughed and cried with me. I greet them with</b></i></div>
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<i><b>a song of thanksgiving for all we had together.</b></i></div>
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<i><b>I have tried to be the friend who remembered</b></i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-57270008410833485272016-06-18T06:53:00.001-07:002016-06-18T06:53:20.686-07:00FOLLOWING UP ON PREVIOUS POSTS....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the last post <a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com</a> I posted incredible photographs from Camp Myles Standish including group photographs of the switchboard operators at the Camp in1943. I had no idea that anyone could possibly be recognized! Our incredible Arlene Gouveia did just that and identified Mary Pina from School Street in the Village: third row up 7th from the left. A wonderful way to link the Village with the Camp and the woman we were writing about in that last post, Jacqueline Tremblay. The photograph was sent to us by Jacqueline's daughter, Melanie Capriotti. </div>
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A shared heritage from mother to daughter.</div>
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If I am not mistaken the Pina family were neighbors of my Souza grandparents at 184 School St.</div>
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When my grandfather died tragically in a boating accident in 1927, my grandmother was</div>
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caring for a neighbor, Mrs. Pina , who had just given birth. Connections, connections.....</div>
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Below is another fascinating follow-up. Kudos to the Internet, it can bring great good not just great harm. But, it is the researcher's best friend. Remember the posts about the baby spoon marked Mount Hope Hospital found in Brazil? <br />
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-little-spoon-that-could.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-little-spoon-that-could.html</a> </div>
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Well, this is not so involved but still amazing. In the past few weeks I received an e-mail from someone in Perth Australia who was trying to date this photo of the New York Lace Store circa 1800's. This was a new one on me, I had never seen it or realized that the store had been located somewhere other than on Main St. next to J.M. Wells or prior to that in the Whittenton. Below is the link to my original post.<br />
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2015/01/new-york-lace-store-history-of-downtown.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2015/01/new-york-lace-store-history-of-downtown.html</a></div>
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The researcher was actually looking for information about the photographer<br />
upstairs in this photo: C.L. Fearnside. </div>
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I sent out an info request on I'm From Taunton's Facebook page and found this </div>
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out for our Aussie fellow historian.</div>
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I also sent the link to the post on Vintage Photographers I had done as well. <a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2014/04/touching-past-power-of-vintage.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2014/04/touching-past-power-of-vintage.html</a></div>
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It is grand that people around the world can link into the history</div>
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of the Village where I grew up. It means the Village and its</div>
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people will live long in this blog, and not be forgotten.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-30783840706920947082016-04-09T10:13:00.000-07:002016-04-09T10:13:19.614-07:00TELLING A NEW TALE OF CAMP MILES STANDISH !In 2013 I wrote a series of posts about Camp Myles Standish, an embarkation depot and P.O.W Camp in Taunton during World War II. The coming of the Camp saw the "war came to Taunton." Using eminent domain 1600 acres of farmland were taken from their owners to serve the war effort.<br />
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A large part of the research and writing of my previous posts in 2013 was the romance and wedding of my Aunt Alveda and her husband Ziggy Napieralski, he a soldier in WW II and she a native of the Village in Taunton.They were married the year after the War ended in the Village in Taunton.<br />
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This post will tell you more about the Camp in those years and add yet nother romance to its history. To set the stage, you can find my earlier post at this link:<br />
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-village-and-love-story-camp-myles.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-village-and-love-story-camp-myles.html</a><br />
There are 5 posts following this one (newer posts) all related to this story.<br />
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The post I am writing today was occasioned by Melanie Capriotti whose mother, Jacqueline, (nee Tremblay) had been a telephone operator at Camp Miles Standish and who had met her future husband in Taunton. Meeting the daughter of that mother and collaborating with researching the subject was a fine experience and the way I love to write my posts. Knowing that her mother, in her 90's, would read and relive it is a joy. Jacqueline was born at home in Arlington, MA, 6th of 8 children. She graduated from Arlington High School in 1943.<br />
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In this case, we are not speaking of a Tauntonian or a Villager. We are actually speaking of a temporary Tauntonian, one who lived in Taunton in some of its most fascinating years. The young woman who came to Taunton during the war years was hired to be a telephone operator at the camp.<br />
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Many of us can remember the 40's when telephone operators worked like these women below in 1943, manually plugging in caller to caller. Imagine the size and importance of the switchboard at a large military camp and its importance.<br />
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Those young women would have been carefully vetted for that task, We are certain the gal whose story we tell here was as well.<br />
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I introduce you to Jacqueline Tremblay, this is her 1943 high school photograph.'Jacqueline was born at home in Arlington, Main March of 1925, 6th of 8 children. She graduated from Arlington High School in 1943. Below is her high school graduation photograph.<br />
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Jacqueline's story as told to her daughter breathes new life into what we know about Camp Miles Standish during the war years with a totally new aspect of those who served and worked there.<br />
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Like my Aunt Alveda and Uncle Ziggy, Jaqueline met her husband, George in Taunton. They</div>
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actually met on Taunton Green where each weekend there were band performances.</div>
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This is George's 1941 high school graduation photograph. George was born in nearby</div>
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Fall River, MA. in 1923, graduating from Durfee High School in 1941. </div>
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He passed away in 1946 in </div>
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Seeking, MA.</div>
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Below is their engagement photo. George Mycock did not work at the Camp.</div>
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He was from Freetown/Assonet often going to Taunton with his buddies. That is how he and Jaqueline met. If she had not been working at the Camp, destiny would not have had its way. .George was 4F due to flat feet and a perforated eardrum.When he went to Canada on a family trip, he</div>
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wrote to his lady each day. She still has them.</div>
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Imagine all the other young couples who met at that Camp or its environs in those years..</div>
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It was a huge military complex and occasioned many visitors also</div>
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to the city of Taunton. Young people love meeting other young people.</div>
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Many of the young women coming to work at the Camp stayed with relatives or with those who would accept a boarder. Jaqueline was housed with the Widow Babbitt who was very particular as to the girls she accepted to board with her. Mrs. Babbitt lived at 5 Summer St. in Taunton.</div>
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Jaqueline recalls that she got along very well with her landlady and tells us that she would wash Jaqueline's hair for her and they would talk for hours. </div>
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Jaqueline also remembers her incredulity that they were allowed go to any restaurants in town and order whatever they wanted, just sign the check and it was paid for. Coming from a poor Irish family that was a quite a treat. She said that they were allowed to go to the the Officer's Club for dances but not allowed to go to the Enlisted Club. They were careful and watchful of the girls providing bus service to and from the Club. They were expressly forbidden from accepting rides from the men stationed there at the Camp.</div>
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The photograph below is of all of the switchboard operators at</div>
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Camp Myles Standish in 1943. It is a precious momento of the young women who</div>
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worked the switchboards at the Camp and kept it functioning smoothly. Some were from Taunton, others came from other places to gain valuable experience in this field. Women were a vital part of the war effort, as we know from such stories as Rosie the Riveter. They freed up the men for</div>
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combat in Europe and elsewhere.</div>
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Hard for us, in this digital age, to think about telephone operators of the "old Days" and their role in peace and in war. <br />
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Communication at all times is paramount to keep a society running in an orderly manner. It is even more important in wartime. In researching this post, I came upon an obituary of another telephone operator in those war years: Margaret P. Stewart, age 90 years, a native of Haverhill, MA. During WWII Margaret served as a telephone operator at Camp Edwards, Otis Air Force Base and Camp Miles Standish. She was then employed for 36 years by New England Telephone Com. She was a member of the telephone pioneers of America. She may even be in the above photo.<br />
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Below is our gal with other switchboard operators at the camp. She is third from the right in the first row. Next to her was a good friend, Synnove Strom on her left. Synnove was from Norway and returned there not long after they all left the camp when the war was over.<br />
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Each time we receive another bit of the history of Camp Miles Standish, we build upon that fascinating period of history in Taunton. When the story is a personal one, it makes it even more interesting. I am hoping that some of our readers will be able to add to this, perhaps recognizing someone from the photos or adding another story. <br />
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When we dip into a bit of history, like following the the crumbs left by Hansel and Grettal we are led to so much more history. That is what happened to this post. It opened many doors. I invite you to peek into more history by perusing the links provided at the end of this post. They add to our knowledge of that time. I also include a link to the Telephone Pioneers of America and the Hello Ladies of World War I. I found it a wonderful read.<br />
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I thank Melanie Capriotti and her mother, Jaqueline Mycock for sharing memories with us.<br />
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*This is a very interesting video about more details of Camp Myles Standish Military Base.<br />
<a href="https://vimeo.com/128491788">https://vimeo.com/128491788</a><br />
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This site has the above video but with the text.<br />
<a href="http://news.wgbh.org/2016/03/25/local-news/ghosts-world-war-2-pows-haunt-taunton-industrial-park">http://news.wgbh.org/2016/03/25/local-news/ghosts-world-war-2-pows-haunt-taunton-industrial-park</a><br />
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History of Telephone Operators<br />
<a href="http://www.vintag.es/2015/12/vintage-photos-show-hictory-of.html">http://www.vintag.es/2015/12/vintage-photos-show-hictory-of.html</a><br />
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The Hello Girls of WW I-Telephone operators in the military - a terrific read!<br />
<a href="http://www.worldwar1.com/dbc/hello.htm">http://www.worldwar1.com/dbc/hello.htm</a><br />
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pioneers,_a_Volunteer_Network">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pioneers,_a_Volunteer_Network</a><br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-81675125778199565732016-03-11T07:43:00.003-08:002016-03-11T12:00:47.280-08:00LET'S READ MORE ABOUT THE CHILDREN OF THE VILLAGE <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A common problem with historians and collectors of documents and photographs is organization. It is a continual struggle to place items where they belong and can be found at a later date. Sometimes I win on this, and sometimes I lose. Such is the happenstance with this wonderful photograph of the fifth grade 1946 Class at Fuller School below. I had misplaced it and thus it did not get its rightful placement in the last post.</div>
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Fuller School Fifth Grade Class of 1946</div>
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The accompanying roster of names includes the teacher who was before my time. Her name: Mynette Briody Dewhurst. She was the morning teacher going between Fuller and School Street School. School Street School was way up the top of School St. near downtown (there is an oxymoron for you...up downtown.)She also, the article states, taught many years at Cohannet School in Taunton.</div>
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A found photograph and new thoughts to add to our story of the Children of the Village.</div>
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A Fuller School and Village classmate of mine, Cynthia, found this bit of paper among her things. A child's writing in shaky cursive learning that good deeds can come from that little wooden schoolhouse. A positive beautiful sentiment. There are so many thoughtful aspirations that we learned...so often forgotten by too many in this contentious day and age. Lined paper, handwritten painstakingly - the <b>good deeds</b> written over as if to emphasize.</div>
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This puts all our class photos in a time context</div>
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of a simpler, kinder, more honorable day. </div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">The year 1946 saw peace after WW II. Looking at the clothes of the children, you see a higher brand of clothing and a general sense of contentment on the faces of each child . Everything was starting over. The economy was booming: a gallon of gas cost 15 cents, the average house price was $1, 459. Tupperware was introduced and selling in hardware and department stores.</span></div>
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There are many familiar faces for me here. These children were about 5 years older than I.</div>
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A cousin, Beverly, and the young Donny Rose we saw earlier in his First Communion photograph are pictured. The youngster in the second row first on the left is the daughter of a dear friend of my Aunt Eleanor and I remember the Riendeau family very well. I remember Linda Rapoza well as she was the sister of one of my classmates. Ronald Almeida I knew as his parents owned the three decker we lived in when my parents were first married where I and my sister came home to after we were born at Morton Hospital. We all looked up to these children, they seemed so much more sophisticated. Elaine Baptiste up in the fourth row middle was the subject of another post and hopefully we will tell more of her story.</div>
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It was an exciting post war time, and optimism prevailed...the hope that there would never be such a war again.</div>
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The bikini went on sale in Paris. This was the year, Donald Trump was born...connecting the dots to today. There were International War Crimes tribunals in Nuremberg and in Tokyo. The U.S. started testing the atomic bomb on Bikini Atoli. </div>
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This was the time when these children started their schooling and went sailing into their lives. </div>
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As the War ended, it did so with the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. A story from Japan told of a little girl who developed leukemia from the radiation. She set out to make 1,000 paper cranes to try to counteract her disease. She made 650 before she died, her classmates made the rest and brought them to her funeral. The war was over but nightmares for children would not be....or for adults for that matter. War leaves unsettled questions in its wake. Slowly more stories would emerge, of the Ghettos, of heroism, of tragedy like that of Anne Frank.</div>
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Still, America was settling in with enthusiasm and vigor and that was contagious. All seemed well.</div>
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There was much on the horizon. Unbelievable advances in medicine, such as the polio vaccine. The children above and their parents would have been very aware of the danger of contracting that dreaded disease. (Read this post to find out how a Tauntonian was at the center of combating that disease on a national and international level: <a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/09/post-scriptthe-historic-fight-against.html#uds-search-results">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/09/post-scriptthe-historic-fight-against.html#uds-search-results</a>). This was an eye opener for me.</div>
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Today we are tech savvy and I can write a blog like this with the ease of research that a computer allows, restoring vintage photographs and so much more.</div>
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Yet, with it all, we are so in danger of forgetting the values of family, friendship.</div>
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It is good to look back, to ponder the things that we learned, that we held dear</div>
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for it teaches us about today.</div>
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In closing:</div>
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This morning I read an article in the newspaper <i>(Last Guy Chosen for Stickball</i>) by the great writer, Herman Wouk (Winds of War, Marjorie Morningstar and many other books) who has turned 100 years of age. He was born in Bronx in New York and in this little bit of an essay he wrote...</div>
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<i><b>"I was an Aldus Street boy, and that was the end of it. I had no idea there was </b></i></div>
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<i><b>something like Park Avenue or Manhattan that might be better. I was happy </b></i></div>
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<i><b>where I was and loved being alive. My mother and father - Esther and Abraham-were </b></i></div>
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<i><b>old fashioned loving parents, and I'd bring that feeling down to the streets and my friends."</b></i></div>
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Thank you, Mr. Wouk for putting it so well.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-33935381196902389942015-12-28T11:08:00.002-08:002015-12-28T11:08:35.443-08:00PAYING HOMAGE TO EMMAJust before Christmas a Village light went dark. There is little doubt, however, that it shines in a far better place. At age 101 years of age, School Street Village's own Emma Andrade went to her rest. As she rarely rested prior to that it must have been quite a surprise.<br />
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As a friend and blogger, Mary Jane Fernino wrote:<br />
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" ...Emma. A force of nature<br />
we all thought invincible<br />
is at rest after 101 eventful years.<br />
Emma was the stuff of legends."<br />
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Emma died just before Christmas, quietly but in the midst of caroling, glitter and the color red. In her own fashion she went out of the world as she inhabited it - legendary. It is my honor to dedicate this post to her in hopes I can share the wonderful story of her life as it affected all who knew her.<br />
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The Village was known for its strong women. Yet Emma stood out. Women today continually attempt to rise above, to be respected, to attain the heights. Emma did all of that while never leaving the Village.</div>
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This is a photo of Emma, taken in her very later years. I believe that it captures her essence -her sharp witty gaze, direct and true but always, always kind. The smile that was ever prepared to share or tell a funny story or just to cheer you up. When Emma spoke her words tingled with cheer and a kind of ringing that let you know you were in for a safe and happy good time. Her attitude in the photo is of a woman getting ready to hit the dance floor!<br />
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If you grew up in the Village born in the 30's, 40's or 50's and someone said the name , Emma Rico \Andrade, her image would just pop right into your head. That image is wrapped in a smile that lit up a room, a Village, and even a child's spirit.<br />
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That smile lit up my own spirit. I was a skinny, gawky teenager feeling my way to growing up with a great lack of self-confidence. One day I met Emma on the street in the Village and her words to me gave me such a dose of belief in myself that they became etched into my heart . Emma never had a daughter but it seemed she adopted the young daughters of the Village and cheered us on. Her niece shared that her joy was seeing the children of the Village do well with their lives.<br />
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Emma was a native born Villager, born Sept, 12, 1914, the fourth child of Portuguese immigrants: Frank and Pauline. Like all the rest of us, she went to Fuller School as a child and eventually graduated from high school in 1930, voted the best athletic. Until moving to Marian Manor, a Nursing Home in Taunton, she never lived anywhere but in the Village. She did, however, travel to many countries and to every state in the country.<br />
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She proved the description of being the most athletic at her high school graduation. As a teen she was a member of the Village girl's softball team. Rumor has it that they were very good, playing down on the fields near Ventura Grain on Longmeadow Rd. off School Street. We can imagine she and her teammates looked like this. I found this photo on Pinterest, the car in the background pretty much dates it.<br />
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Emma proved her pep and athletic abilities far into her later years. I attended a family wedding where she, in her early 90's, was present. When a toe tapping dance number started she jumped up, hoisted her skirts above her knees and begged other to join her on the dance floor. Vintage Emma!<br />
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Back even in the 30's and 40's and onward Emma was a vibrant and vital part of the Village. In her teens she volunteered to canvas the Village and nearby neighborhoods going door to door seeking donations to the American Heart Association, the Red Cross and United Way. She must have paved the way for us, I remember doing that as a teen myself.</div>
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Emma founded the Question Mark Club in the 50's in the Village where young women could get together. She stayed a member for over 65 years. In those days there were more male associations than those for women.<br />
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At the age of 19 Emma was the first President of the Portuguese American Civic Club Auxiliary on School St. She remained active there for 25 years.<br />
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In 1942, Emma married Aristides (Aris) Andrade. I remember him, He had a smile as big as Emma's. They had one son, Peter. Below is Aris when he served as President of the P.T.A. at Fuller School. He is with our beloved Principal, Sophia Dupont. He was as quiet as Emma was energetic and like yin and yang they made a perfect couple. Emma would lose her dear husband in 1964 when he died suddenly of a cardiac condition. Tragically, for Emma and their son, Peter, a high school senior then, and for their extended family, his death occurred one day apart from one of their young nieces, a mother of two small children. They had a double funeral at St. Anthony's and there were so many cars, School Street was closed off.<br />
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Emma's faith and her ability to look outside herself and go on helped her to heal.</div>
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She got up from her sorrow and went out and got involved.</div>
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St. Anthony's Catholic Church was the faith center of the Village and Emma was always at its heart. She served on the Pastoral Council, the Holy Rosary Sodality, the St. Anthony's Feast Committee. She would be a member of the Parish Centennial Committee, the Centennial Parish History Committee. She was active in the Diocesan Council of Catholic women, elected President twice. By special appointment of the Bishop at that time, she was appointed on the Bishop's Pastoral Council and was recipient of the prestigious Marian Medal for exemplary service to her Parish.<br />
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She went on to serve as Chairperson for the Bishop's Charity Ball. She was once heard talking to the Bishop who chided her that she might be the first woman priest, Emma responded, she would rather be the first Bishop and take his job!<br />
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Emma was an active member of the Business and Women's Foundation society. She was a member of the Quota Club, on the Board of Trustees of the Morton Hospital Corporation as well as the Old Colony Historical Society.<br />
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Emma had a heart as big as her spirit. Her niece recalls that her Aunt once took an early lunch from her work as an Assistant Clerk to Clerk Magistrate, William Grant to go to Fuller School. There she cheered her young niece on for her part in a Christmas play.<br />
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Perhaps my favorite story of Emma is that when a resident of Marian Manor she continued to "hold court" as it were. She held her own "salon" serving a group of friends refreshments each Friday afternoon. She would insist that the ginger ale be chilled to properly accompany the cookies and crackers and cheese that she set out.<br />
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One of this writer's joys was that early on when I was researching the history of the Village, I wrote to Emma asking if she would share her memories, particularly as to the small businesses in the Village. She gathered together her Friday group (also from the Village). They put their heads together. Soon after I received a very impressive large envelope with their findings. Typewritten pages gave me all I had to know...and more. </div>
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Tucked in at the end - "there was a house ill repute " at the edge of the Village. I imagined the laughter they must have enjoyed when they attempted to describe it.</div>
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I knew of the house but never of its nefarious purpose....the fact was proved out when I did further research. Attached to the presentation was a card telling me that her son had written the note as she had broken her wrist when she fell from her walker. I dare not ask what she may have been up to...<br />
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That following Christmas I received a greeting card with my address in shaky handwriting. It was from Emma and I felt so pleased that she remembered me. Emma, still making people feel good about themselves.<br />
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She was very well read and a member of a book club at the time of her death. She was writing a paper on The Kennedys from a book she was reading and preparing to share it. I think of my own mother. When she died there were unfinished crocheted handbags, gifts for friends. Village women keep on going right to the end, When they move on to a better place they are probably still busy watching over all of us.<br />
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In September of 2014, Emma turned 100. Many friends and relatives joined in the party at the Marian Manor. She quipped silly jokes and stories and sang songs for her guests.</div>
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She told hem;</div>
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" <b><i>Now I want to thank all of you. I can't stand and I can't walk </i></b></div>
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<b><i>but I can do everything else that's bad!" </i></b></div>
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She added, </div>
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"<b><i>I am so glad you are here, and that you are making a lot of racket</i></b><b><i>, </i></b></div>
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<b><i>she </i>said, <i>"I like the noise." </i></b></div>
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After the singing of Happy Birthday, she issued </div>
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another one liner,</div>
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<b><i> " It's time to stop kissing and start eating."</i></b></div>
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<b> </b> I end this post with an excerpt from a Poem by Maya Angelou: <i>Phenomenal Woman</i><br />
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<b>"</b>It's the fire in my eyes</div>
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and the flash of my teeth</div>
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the swing in my waist</div>
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and the joy in my feet.</div>
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I am a woman- phenomenally."</div>
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<i><b><br /></b></i><i><b> </b> </i>Heaven is happy you are there, dear Emma!<br />
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But, we sure will miss you!</div>
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<b><u>Sources:</u></b></div>
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Narratives of the Village as shared with my by Arlene Gouveia</div>
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Taunton Daily Gazette: Obituary of Emma Andrade</div>
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<a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tauntongazette/obituary.aspx?pid=176962802">http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tauntongazette/obituary.aspx?pid=176962802</a></div>
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Taunton Daily Gazette: : "Two Remarkable Taunton Women..."</div>
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<a href="http://www.tauntongazette.com/article/20140920/News/140929696/?Start=2">http://www.tauntongazette.com/article/20140920/News/140929696/?Start=2</a></div>
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Reminiscents of Her Aunt by Cynthia Mendes as shared with this writer. </div>
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Saltwater Influences: a blog by Mary Jane Fernando</div>
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<a href="https://saltwaterinfluenced.wordpress.com/2015/12/21/emma/#respond">https://saltwaterinfluenced.wordpress.com/2015/12/21/emma/#respond</a></div>
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Pinterest</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-11600549214358316252015-12-09T09:52:00.003-08:002015-12-09T09:52:28.414-08:00A BUCK A DAY: MORE ABOUT TAUNTON AND VILLAGE C.C.C. BOYS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I began the last post with the fact that we had celebrated Veteran's Day just the month before. A few days ago we remembered Pearl Harbor which ushered </div>
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in U.S. involvement in W.W. II.</div>
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Today, the country faces a different threat and we look back at our heritage and our history for the answers to facing our future. Just something to keep in mind as we read here of the history that helped shape who we are today.</div>
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Driving through the Blue Ridge Parkway one has to think about all the hard work that those young men in the C.C.C.'s did to fashion and shape the roads that give us such joy today. That is true about so many locales throughout the country, that never would have been restored and we may take for granted.</div>
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A view of the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina</div>
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Photo: Sandra Pineault</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsTtJjgXdPix2KlcNaK0qdQzwPql4f1M1JaSImuOfyY3Kpx6zqasV4tuXTzwCPhxtN0EQW-pHufur-0cSKnFhvfMEgmoIxNGlFAzmQKQt3wVDV5zLE0KJW0djxj8rpQxc0-tTfR40PA/s1600/mountain+view+1+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsTtJjgXdPix2KlcNaK0qdQzwPql4f1M1JaSImuOfyY3Kpx6zqasV4tuXTzwCPhxtN0EQW-pHufur-0cSKnFhvfMEgmoIxNGlFAzmQKQt3wVDV5zLE0KJW0djxj8rpQxc0-tTfR40PA/s640/mountain+view+1+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Young men from the ages of 18 to 25 years were eligible to apply to the Civilian Conservation Corps (C.C.C.'s). Each work camp held around 200 men. Later any Army veteran could apply. The men worked 8 hours a day. By the time the U.S. entered W.W. II more than 2.5 million men had served in more than 4,500 camps throughout the country. </div>
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On May 19th, 1933, Taunton had an initial quota of 75 men, most from E. Taunton, MA who went to Fort Devens. MA. They would be paid $1 a day to fight forest fires, beach erosion, develop state and national parks and help in national emergencies such as hurricanes and the like. From 1933 to 1938 Taunton had 1,190 enrollees. Over the years these young men sent back $16,000 back annually to their families.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L8gxw9_SWaE9Z4cLUKym9C6uiJVQAD1FQahMShraIPXIe8vH3TbiXQD9IL_XT3z8smegjp5hOfE4w112t2KLa3_fS_-KsEwh5FQF7LB55_2MTudZEgzxB20M5nwSvRUikFByRuwMmg/s1600/work+of+ccc+corps+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L8gxw9_SWaE9Z4cLUKym9C6uiJVQAD1FQahMShraIPXIe8vH3TbiXQD9IL_XT3z8smegjp5hOfE4w112t2KLa3_fS_-KsEwh5FQF7LB55_2MTudZEgzxB20M5nwSvRUikFByRuwMmg/s640/work+of+ccc+corps+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Around 9,000 men a day were recruited in the country as a whole. There soon were floating libraries for them: chaplains, radios, games, baseball, football and basketball. It was a great opportunity for further educational endeavors, too. My Dad, Frank Souza, learned to barber in the Camp he was in and though that was not his avocation, he always cut my kid brother Frank's hair. The photo below was taken in the side yard of 20 Blinn's Ct. in the Village, 1948. My Uncle John "Bunny" watches and chats.Whatever Camp my father was in, he said it was very cold, and often </div>
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when he started to shave someone he had to shave off the ice first...</div>
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My father was in a camp in Massachusetts. He tried to enlist in the Army but was 4F due to stomach ulcers. It is interesting to note that many of the young men enlisting in the C.C.C.'s were malnourished and suffering from nutritional conditions. One writer indicated that not only were they under nourished and under developed boys, but many of them did not know what it was to work. The C.C.C. offered them a healthful way of life among other positive things. As far as we can recall our Dad may have been in a Camp in Pittsfield, MA. </div>
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There is a possibility that my father is in this photograph, second row fourth from left. My Dad did say he was at a camp in Massachusetts and his posture really looks like him.</div>
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We do know that John Richard is in the first row and Matthew Wasylow as well (numbers 6 and 7 respectively - from the Nowak booklet). Maryan L. Nowak , a resident of Taunton researched and compiled many names of Taunton men who served in the C.C.C. His was not an exhaustive list but it is a good one. His booklets were published in 2002 . <br />
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C.C.C. records have proved a boon for genealogists as there are many photographs such as the ones included in this post. However, there are less photos of Massachusetts men than in other states. Here, though, is a great one from a Camp in Chicopee, MA, clearly in the winter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BBe-NC20d1_W9kxZbxZGBc0LLrYIS_3uIPmT-bfRox6Sv9G5vzzlrHuBGDFTLpdqz1sMSeerBQsOIMlv7dOzGRD05p_Gk2tVXkFUyBnJcZB2DuuWhWHfCIyTA-dLZJWzTPvpMudzYQ/s1600/ccc+chickopee%252C+ma+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BBe-NC20d1_W9kxZbxZGBc0LLrYIS_3uIPmT-bfRox6Sv9G5vzzlrHuBGDFTLpdqz1sMSeerBQsOIMlv7dOzGRD05p_Gk2tVXkFUyBnJcZB2DuuWhWHfCIyTA-dLZJWzTPvpMudzYQ/s640/ccc+chickopee%252C+ma+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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A photograph of one of the barracks of the Camp in Chickapee, MA.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeJcBFgbkWlTARis3d43wJpRR8GmxQ9g4ozDVYOgTLh8jFvICcYL0d183Fv-iHT4yrFU2mPqCmFENS32ArQlaF3jIiH4Tkp9jOjz4hrgIvL_gZn-QY8KjaTfz4_VJgNn7Zk5iZLQ8Rg/s1600/ccc+barracksm+chickopee%252C+ma+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeJcBFgbkWlTARis3d43wJpRR8GmxQ9g4ozDVYOgTLh8jFvICcYL0d183Fv-iHT4yrFU2mPqCmFENS32ArQlaF3jIiH4Tkp9jOjz4hrgIvL_gZn-QY8KjaTfz4_VJgNn7Zk5iZLQ8Rg/s640/ccc+barracksm+chickopee%252C+ma+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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White Pine Camp, Idaho, probably what all the camps looked like.<br />
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From the Village, these names and where they were stationed can be found in Nowak's booklet: James Aleixo, Great Barrington, MA, Theodore Aleixo, Warren, NH, Joaquim Bernadino, Freetown, MA, Antone Cordeiro , Suncook, NH, and then in two camps on Colorado, Jos. Costa, East Wallingford, Vermont, Joseph Dias, Antone Mello, Jr, Danbury, NH, ,Joseph Nascinemtno, Freetown, MA., Manuel Silva, East Wallingford, Vermont, Albine Vierra, Wilmington, Vermont. <br />
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I have only skimmed the surface of this vast subject. If you have had someone in your family involved in the C.C.C. you can find a plethora of information. Here are just some of the sources. State sites contain photographs in most cases.<br />
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RESOURCES:</div>
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<u>A Buck A Day-</u> <u>Taunton men in the Civilian Conservation Corps 1933-1942. </u>Find this booklet and another supplement booklet at the Bristol Country Historical Society. There are many names of Taunton men here and a few photos.</div>
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<u>Into the Woods: The First Year of the Civilian Conservation Corps</u>: Joseph M. Speakman </div>
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Find this online.</div>
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<u>National Association of the Civilian Conservation Corps.</u>..Online.</div>
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<u>MA Dept of Conservation and Recreation </u>CCC. Online.<br />
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C.C.C. Legacy- Online. An incredible amount of information including photographs state by state.<br />
<a href="http://www.ccclegacy.org/CCC_History_Center.html">http://www.ccclegacy.org/CCC_History_Center.html</a><br />
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"Hard Times Legacy": - Boston.com, May 17, 2009<br />
<a href="http://www.boston.com/travel/explorene/articles/2009/05/17/hard_times_legacy/">http://www.boston.com/travel/explorene/articles/2009/05/17/hard_times_legacy/</a><br />
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Elderweb- "1930: The Great Depression."<br />
<a href="http://www.elderweb.com/book/appendix/1930-great-depression">http://www.elderweb.com/book/appendix/1930-great-depression</a><br />
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Taunton Daily Gazette: "Fall River: 1938: Rebounding from the Depression." May 21, 2014<a href="http://www.tauntongazette.com/article/20140521/BLOGS/140529125">http://www.tauntongazette.com/article/20140521/BLOGS/140529125</a><br />
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Heritage Zen: C.C.C. in New Hampshire<br />
<a href="http://heritagezen.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-civilian-conservation-corps-in-new_19.html">http://heritagezen.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-civilian-conservation-corps-in-new_19.html</a><br />
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<u>A History of Taunton:</u> William F. Hanna.</div>
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Photographs from my own archives as well as from many of the sites listed above.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-10205040294325626552015-12-01T10:04:00.000-08:002015-12-02T03:24:43.452-08:00DIPPING INTO THE PAST: OUR DADS AND THE CIVILIAN CONSERVATION CORPS : PART ILast month here in the U.S.A. we celebrated Veteran's Day. The following incredible photograph taken after the U.S and Allies retook Paris shows the faces of these men whose road to get there was far from easy. There is a whole series about my Uncle Ziggy (right front row, second in from right) and my Aunt Alveda in site listed below the photo as well as those before and after it. <br />
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<img border="0" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l-aEADEIkAOxyOAN7Ps0tvCM6kPAhX7dbnmLrCR1FU4kohzkh2HlJVqxdOGLR7MUSrS3vfzMlAmT323LB3zEkTs6Ewj8Z443dXUpLq6Y5LSpRzORQgq_33ffEKxizgwCbTnrHSRyFQ/s640/arche+de+triumph+and+our+men+.png" width="640" /><a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-village-and-love-story-camp-myles.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-village-and-love-story-camp-myles.html</a> </div>
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World War II has its own tale to tell. But, prior to that event there is another</div>
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story. It speaks of the resilience of this country and the leadership of a President faced with enormous problems. It is about the young men of America and the history of the country itself, the story of the Civilian Conservation Corps. It would become known as the C.C.C's. In many ways the story helped to create the courageous spirit of the men we see in the above photograph. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QiuSY8Uy3tF3UfVk-T7NlQm_TGG35vYuL80IsOWm6qg71CnSbsOpztD37CWRtvuofuF1orWhbdNdKbchlY2KC-6otbZQbc0ofSd95fB2ECvHPw_6zEkXI8AoBfwMsrNTE6u7JKSFbw/s1600/CCC+logo+found+on+history.com+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QiuSY8Uy3tF3UfVk-T7NlQm_TGG35vYuL80IsOWm6qg71CnSbsOpztD37CWRtvuofuF1orWhbdNdKbchlY2KC-6otbZQbc0ofSd95fB2ECvHPw_6zEkXI8AoBfwMsrNTE6u7JKSFbw/s400/CCC+logo+found+on+history.com+.png" width="397" /></a></div>
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While in New England this past summer I made time to visit the</div>
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Bristol County Historical Society. Browsing through the shelves I found two small booklets about the Civilian Conservation Corps. Remembering my Dad had been part of the C.C.C's I added the booklets to my treasures. I figured I would do a little post one day on the subject. Like anything else, the little booklets were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. The subject was not only </div>
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relevant to my family and the Village but to the country as a whole.</div>
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I was in up to my ears and learning every minute of my research.</div>
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Because the subject is so vast, this is the first of a series, the first being an introduction.</div>
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Often TV interviews demonstrate, our young do not know their history. I generalize but it still seems to woefully be the case. Perhaps a member of your family was part of the C.C.C.'s or perhaps you will just learn something fascinating about the resilience this country. It was not always the divided and worrisome place it appears to be today.</div>
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This dedication of this statue of a CCC worker took</div>
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place in the Freetown State Forest in Massachusetts in 2002.</div>
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Freetown Forest is between Taunton and Fall River. It is noteworthy for</div>
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the fact that is considered by many to be haunted....</div>
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Alongside the statue in the photograph below is my nephew Peter Nascimento.</div>
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Peter has two grandfathers who served in the CCC: Frank Souza, my father</div>
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and Joe Nascimento, Peter's other grandfather. both of them</div>
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Village boys. Peter has his own story of courage to tell, but right</div>
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now he is listening to this one and finding one more reason why he </div>
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loved those two grandfathers so very much.</div>
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The tale of the C.C.C is a fascinating one.</div>
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The Village played a part in this National endeavor. Faced with the same</div>
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extremes of a debilitating Depression beginning in 1929 people in the Village ,as always, helped each other. We read earlier that the Portuguese American Civic Club on School Street was founded to help families in the Village that could not make ends meet.</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5397642438846383636#editor/target=post;postID=237180177190654339;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=62;src=postname">https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5397642438846383636#editor/target=post;postID=237180177190654339;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=62;src=postname</a></div>
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The P.A.C.C. , as it is still called, helped its members find employment on many levels, including the federal. They likely helped them, including my Dad and others, to get into the Civilian Conservation Corps. Keep in mind the national income was cut in half and a quarter of the work force in America was unemployed. I am proud that my Village stood up and helped its people. </div>
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Soup lines and queues for employment snaked throughout the country. In Washington D.C. you can find the impressive memorial to FDR remembering those lines. My husband got into the spirit of the moving monument by standing at the end of the line of men whose posture speaks volumes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn9LLNQG-s-vRa8XS3RyJlV2TdZ0lBlCkyQNQZK6bS5CB4tbgn3ftwmX5Hn9sa5T-x-TZFKjQ62FM56Bn8XzvazAss-EjbkC5scVBHTsiQLv9t7AkIFJEdTpD2AhGALaYHJPAgS5uFQQ/s1600/norm+at+FDR+memorial+food+line+statue+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn9LLNQG-s-vRa8XS3RyJlV2TdZ0lBlCkyQNQZK6bS5CB4tbgn3ftwmX5Hn9sa5T-x-TZFKjQ62FM56Bn8XzvazAss-EjbkC5scVBHTsiQLv9t7AkIFJEdTpD2AhGALaYHJPAgS5uFQQ/s640/norm+at+FDR+memorial+food+line+statue+.png" width="614" /></a></div>
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In 1927 my Grandfather Souza, age 42 years, drowned leaving behind my Grandmother and seven children in the little house on School Street. When 1929 rolled around and the Depression started it must have hit them like a bolt of lightening. My grandfather had been a successful businessman and suddenly the life of that family was turned upside down. </div>
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In the late 20's mill owners in Taunton with the means to moved south. The textile industry was not as strong as before. One reason is that women's fashions had changed. As shorter skirts became vogue material for their clothing changed from 19 1/2 yards in 1913 to 7 yards in 1928. Six Taunton mills closed and the job situation went from employing 235,000 in 1923 to 96,000 in 1932 .</div>
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From 178 mills in Massachusetts, the number dropped to 57.</div>
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In 1932 20 tenement houses built on Middleboro Ave to house mill workers were auctioned off for $5, 850. a per house total of $142. 50.</div>
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It was estimated that in those years there were people near starvation in Taunton.</div>
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The P.A.C.C. gave priority to those families most in need in the Village.</div>
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Here is an interesting aside....did you know?</div>
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Here is a bit of history I bet you did not know- I surely did not. When FDR ran </div>
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for President in 1932, William Foster was the Presidential nominee for the</div>
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Communist party in that election. His vote was minuscule. </div>
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However, he was born in Taunton ,MA in February of 1881!</div>
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The plaque at the base of the statue is Freetown, MA</div>
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The story of the C.C.C. is amazing on many levels. The first is its speed of inception. In our time, there is deepening stagnation of ideas and solutions to so many problems. </div>
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Not back then. "Shovel Ready" meant something in FDR's time.</div>
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March 9, 1933- mere weeks after taking office, FDR ordered his senior staff to draw up a plan to put 500,000 men to work.</div>
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March 21 - a modest proposal for 250,000 jobs was sent to Congress.</div>
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March 31- Congress approved and signed into law the plan giving broad discretionary authority to the President for setting up the "Emergency Conservation </div>
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Work Program." It got its new name in 1937.</div>
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Incredibly, the C.C.C. was successfully supervised by four Cabinet Departments: the War Dept for housing administration and housing and discipline. The Departments of Agriculture and the Interior planned and organized work and the Department of Labor selected and enrolled applicants via state and local relief departments.</div>
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Here is an interesting document. FDR tried to get the amount of money </div>
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it would cost per day perworker down from $1.92 per day. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDiIY3dUH4TJgCZxKJmd8EWRVWVSd8kFtuSUuK7CP9X4rQ4Va9LCPAJcYomdWtacHtDgGb2KROP6OOsPDHIIHx2vjA9A_e5x7oSwY1ELYFNpUA46W25_AJdfqu0UYobWK9TuP40O3DQ/s1600/dpt+staff+1.95+per+man...ccc+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="622" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDiIY3dUH4TJgCZxKJmd8EWRVWVSd8kFtuSUuK7CP9X4rQ4Va9LCPAJcYomdWtacHtDgGb2KROP6OOsPDHIIHx2vjA9A_e5x7oSwY1ELYFNpUA46W25_AJdfqu0UYobWK9TuP40O3DQ/s640/dpt+staff+1.95+per+man...ccc+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Boom! "Bringing an army of unemployed into healthful surroundings," Roosevelt argued, "would help eliminate the threats to social liberty that enforced idleness had created." Keep in mind that this was not a welfare program it was a WORK PROGRAM.</div>
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None too soon. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw029WbHOlNPaFdnny9QujvMQB3hRw8aZeQgnVJ1oZd2Y0YOM8OeawLaWj3mMuszlS-1vOS_UOsJRReaMAm0LLBCk49zj5xVUVMhrdfNVRowGvA9Dn2XEi-qO6pr8e5P6cnWWf0aUyQ/s1600/FDR+and+CCC+amp+in+skkyland%252C+va+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyw029WbHOlNPaFdnny9QujvMQB3hRw8aZeQgnVJ1oZd2Y0YOM8OeawLaWj3mMuszlS-1vOS_UOsJRReaMAm0LLBCk49zj5xVUVMhrdfNVRowGvA9Dn2XEi-qO6pr8e5P6cnWWf0aUyQ/s640/FDR+and+CCC+amp+in+skkyland%252C+va+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Above: FDR visiting a C.C.C Camp in 1933. Skyland, Virginia.</div>
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Below are some of the boys from Taunton who were in the C.C.C.'s</div>
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taken March 12, 1937. Location unknown.</div>
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Front Row center: Joseph Murphy, Back Row: Louis Robino.</div>
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Perhaps you recognize others. There are none of the</div>
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Village boys that I have found. I did find their names</div>
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and they will be in the next post.</div>
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Lots more to come!</div>
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Sources: I will list sources in the next post.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-25324343160352569802015-11-07T11:11:00.001-08:002015-11-07T11:11:39.628-08:00FALLING BACK INTO THE LEAVES OF MEMORY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><u><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photography by Ryan Smith</span></u></b></div>
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I am no longer in the region of glowing Autumns. Yet, just recently visiting</div>
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the mountains of North Carolina my memory taste buds received enough to</div>
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stir my memoirs. Some of the photographs from there appear in this post. The </div>
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above was taken by my nephew who has inherited his grandmother's photography genes.</div>
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I have taken to bringing a little red notebook with me on trips. I write when</div>
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the spirit moves me. I absorbed the ghosts of the autumns from my childhood while in the mountains this year. The ghosts were benign and kind and spoke to me of misty autumns. </div>
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Now, in these November days even in the</div>
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South the crickets have an autumn sound waking my long gone </div>
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childhood experiences.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I remember....</span></div>
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the feel of gardens entering their winter slumber. Are we meant during the days of autumn to go into some quiet protected place as well? Those of us who were fortunate enough to live back in another time may well feel that we are called to do just that. </div>
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<i>"The magic of Autumn has seized the countryside; now that the sun</i></div>
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<i>is not ripening anything it shines for the sake of the golden age, for</i></div>
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<i>the sake of Eden, to please the moon for all I know."</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Elizabeth Cutsworth</span></div>
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Autumn in the Village where I spent my childhood was a magic season. It entered the turning paths of our imagination where we found myth and possibility. There was enough silence in the Falls of my childhood that the drying leaves played by the wind created a scintillating sound that was a music unlike any other. The pines plucked their needles to</div>
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produce their own lullaby, especially right outside a child's window.</div>
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The child's imagination could be slowly nurtured by the night wind rattling old</div>
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wooden sashed windows and gently nurtured by shadows of big trees in the backyard.</div>
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As children we collected the bright leaves, ecstatic in their dying.</div>
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They were used for collage, for tracing and then coloring, for</div>
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dry bouquets for our mothers.</div>
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Sweaters and jackets kept us swathed in the scent of mothballs where</div>
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they had been hidden all summer.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"> We began to nestle into our dreams of paths yet to come.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"> Nothing like shushing one's feet through dry leaves on the way</span><br />
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home from school to nudge such dreams. They gathered in great piles</div>
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against old tall wooden fences waiting for a child</div>
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to plunge into them with laughing glee.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMXZ6hpVomYrRi4DWtGLXISMH3Vor-VgQm2VM6BOyExIeZUKWtWreT9-ZdJiNYeblLFW8dRHb6ojQAZA5o0Lm0HhSjTAMKwsHr6mkHjvGLEsRO8jfcQjXBY5oVuiKANtnh-M8dBJ3yw/s1600/fall+path+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMXZ6hpVomYrRi4DWtGLXISMH3Vor-VgQm2VM6BOyExIeZUKWtWreT9-ZdJiNYeblLFW8dRHb6ojQAZA5o0Lm0HhSjTAMKwsHr6mkHjvGLEsRO8jfcQjXBY5oVuiKANtnh-M8dBJ3yw/s640/fall+path+.png" width="568" /></a></div>
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The elegance of autumn in New England. Color upon color reaching high, like a dowager in her finest garb. A last hoorah! The leaves must touch each other to play their Fall song. Many softly let themselves join Mother Earth. Mellowed and wizened they gracefully slip silently to sleep.<br />
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Even back in my childhood Autumn held its own traditions. It held the promise of Halloween. It made you hold your breath passing by a cemetery, expecting to see the Headless Horseman come galloping through. The violence of today's video games and movies were not around to stifle our imaginings. Even before us, poets like Robert Frost had created poems that nurtured our childhood creativity. There was silence abounding to let all of that pass through. Cell phone were way in the future and everything let us be.<br />
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The creativity of the Autumn palate. The creativity of Halloween and how we were part of it. Simply a part of it. The safety of the Village on the eve of Halloween. A gaggle of children slowly processing from house to house. Hooted Trick or Treats (never a trick...) and giggles upon giggles as we spied who some masked child really was. The fained surprise of the adults greeting us at each house. All the porch lights were lit to welcome each and all.<br />
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boysandghoulspodbean.com<br />
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Innocence wrapped in the colors of Autumn. Costumes were patched together with our own old clothes or that of our parents. Black mascara worked wonders. We were who our imaginations wished us to be and we acted accordingly. A bedsheets with eyes cut out was perfect. An old mop made a wig for a witch, Cardboard was always helpful. Pillow cases made the bags for the candy we collected. An old soft hat of our dad's pulled down over a cheap paper mask, one of his jackets so big on a little boy that the sleeves dragged along the ground.<br />
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Autumn is a time to wrap oneself up in the memories of a childhood in the 50's hiding oneself from the noise and anger of the world around us. Values were clear back then, like the shine of red leaves and the gift of an apple from a neighbor on Halloween Eve. How blessed those who can go back and pull out friendships and trust their remembering.<br />
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Milkweed in Autumn</span></u></b></i></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: x-small;">photography by my mother</span></u></b></i></div>
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<i><b><u><span style="font-size: x-small;">Angelina Motta Souza</span></u></b></i></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-63645677784750374892015-10-13T07:19:00.000-07:002015-10-13T07:21:49.121-07:00WE HAVE LEARNED MORE ABOUT THE TAUNTON OLD LADIES' HOME ! It is clear that a lot of folks enjoyed the last post's story of the Taunton Old Ladies' Home. It is gratifying to hear that it definitely rang a memory bell. Also, it was a surprise to hear from Peter Roache partner at Donellon, Orcutt, Patch and Stallard, Certified Public Accountants who now own and occupy 96 Broadway, the former Old Ladies' Home. The building has been lovingly restored with photos and stories of the Home on display in their Office. Mr. Roache sent in a short history written by one of the Founders of the Home. This allows me, along with another article from the Taunton Gazette from 1969, to add another post on the subject.<br />
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A great big thank you to everyone who has helped to add more history to this Taunton historical tale.<br />
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<i><b>A History of the Taunton Female Charitable Association</b></i></div>
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<i><b>by S.R.B.</b></i><br />
<i><b>1959</b></i></div>
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In this post I am paraphrasing the above history of the Association and its work adding some touches of my own.The Ladies' of the Association will kindly forgive me for doing some enlightening and connecting. The initials on the history are S.R.B. so it is assumed that Susanna Brewer wrote the paper although it is a dated very late for that.<br />
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Mrs. Brewer tells us there were 35 members and a printed Constitution for the Association. The officers were: Mrs. Susanna Brewer, First Directress, Mrs. Abby West, Second Directress, Mrs. Sally Shepard, Treasurer, and Mrs. Harriet Leanard, Secretary. The managers were Mrs. Sally Carver, Mrs. Eleanor Hodges, Mrs. Anna Ingell and Mrs. Mary Bush.<br />
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(One site elsewhere says that Mrs. Morton was First Directress, but we will not quibble. They were both early involved.)<br />
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The Taunton Female Charitable Association had its beginning with tea table chats after the war of 1812. The women organized in 1816 and dreamed of sponsoring a comfortable home for the elderly needy women of Taunton. (a 1969 Taunton Daily Gazette article wrote that they were planning on caring for elderly<i> Protestant</i> women in the Home, but that did not come up in Ms. Brewer's writeup. Still, as there was rampant anti-Catholisism about for many years in the country, this would be no surprise.)<br />
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Early records of the Women's Association were lost but not the treasurer's information. Susanna Brewer tells us that the gentleman from Savannah who donated $2,000 was Edward Padelford. (It is interesting to note that many streets in Taunton bear these names.)<br />
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In November of 1870 a house at 1871 Franklin St. in the City was bought for the sum of $4,000 from Philander Williams for the purpose of opening the Ladies' Home and in January 1871, it was opened with "appropriate exercises". It served as the Home for 15 years.<br />
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Water came from a well in the front yard and a cistern was there as well. In 1871, the Association "voted to sell the outhouse as it was no longer used." The Matron received $5 a week and the servant, $3. There was no dearth of applicants for admission. "One was denied entrance until she promised to give up smoking."<br />
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There was a Board of seven gentlemen elected as advisors with one acting as auditor. There were annual fairs held at Wilbur's, The Armory or Music Halls. Sometimes these were run for 2 days and brought in a "goodly sum."<br />
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The Taunton Armory </div>
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1907 postcard<br />
<a href="https://www.cardcow.com/">https://www.cardcow.com</a><br />
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The Admission fee to be admitted to the Home was $150 in 1887, $200 in 1903, in 1907 $250, in 1910, $300, in 1924, $400, in 1958 $500 and in 1959, $800.<br />
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The gift of a lot by Mrs. Sarah King spurred on the desire for a new building and eventually enough was raised to construct the Home on 96 Broadway. Meanwhile, a man "paid $6 for the privilege of pasturing his cow upon the lot."<br />
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The original contract for building the Home was $8.800, the contract is now at the Office at 96 Broadway. The $65 for the fence was extra. The contract is dated 1885 which is not in line with other historical accounts but no matter. Storytelling certainly does not always purport historical accuracy.<br />
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Broadway as to probably looked in 1878</div>
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One can imagine a cow grazing here.</div>
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Not the Broadway as it looks today.<br />
<i>Source: Cardcow</i></div>
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<br />
In 1885, writes our historian, a contract was signed with Franklin D. Williams to build a fifteen room house with heating and grading by Walter Park, Architect, for $10,000 on 96 Broadway.<br />
<br />
When the building was done the "family" moved in. Six of the city's well known physicians inspected the Home to insure its safety from a sanitary standpoint. They were Drs. Presbrey, Hubbard, Murphy, Paige, Jones and Hayward, ( Two names stand out for me: Presbrey was the last name of the Director of Nurses at Taunton State Hospital in the 1960's and Murphy was the physician related to the first women surgeon, Dr. evelyn Murphy, in Taunton written about in the post cited below, you will find it a delightful read and includes information on the Murphy physician line, we assume it was the father-in-law of Dr. Evelyn Murphy alluded to in the history here):<br />
<br />
<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/11/another-taunton-medical-luminary-dr_10.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/11/another-taunton-medical-luminary-dr_10.html</a>).<br />
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During the war years an astonishing amount of canning was done from the vegetable garden at the Home. When Susanna Brewer wrote her history in 1959 she said that a bequest had meant there was an elevator, a television and that the Home was comfortable for all of its residents and staff. (paraphrased). To comply with state laws a fire alarm system was installed then as well. A reader tells us that growing up nearby she remembers that the Ladies often made fudge for the neighborhood children.<br />
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The photographs below are from a Taunton Daily Gazette article in April of 1969 when the Taunton Women's Association celebrated its 140th anniversary and the Home was still thriving.<br />
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A Golden Tea was occasioned for this anniversary, the festivities<br />
patterned set in 1829 by the first fundraises of the Association.<br />
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Recognize anyone?<br />
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<br />
Below is Rachel Morse<br />
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who was feted on this occasion for her years as a</div>
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member of The Taunton Female Charitable Association</div>
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following in her mother's footsteps.</div>
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It was women like Rachel and her mother who made it all possible.</div>
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She was given an orchid for the occasion. Rachel Morse joined<br />
the Association in 1909.</div>
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The article tells us that an exquisite red and white quilt done by the Home's very first residents was</div>
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exhibited. Each square was embroidered with a verse and the initials of the woman who composed them. It was given to the Bristol County Historical Society. I would guess that it is still exhibited there and kept with great care. If you go there, take a photo for me.. </div>
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That would round up our history beautifully!</div>
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I am so pleased to be able to add more to our Old Ladies' Home story and that of the Taunton Female Charitable Association that founded and managed it. There are many, many stories of the Village and the City of Taunton that just pop up here and there begging that to be remembered and told. I almost never know what is coming next!<br />
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<b><u>Sources:</u></b></div>
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<br />
From the Research Dept. at the Taunton Public Library<br />
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Taunton Daily Gazette Article in April, 1969</div>
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<i>Rachel Morse Feted at Anniversary Tea</i></div>
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......<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Peter Roache CPA<br />
Donellon, Orcutt, Patch and Stallard<br />
Certified Public Accountants</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
96 Broadway, Taunton, MA<br />
<br />
From their records, the last person<br />
to leave the Home passed away in 1984.</div>
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<br /></div>
.......<br />
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Visit the Old Colony Historical Society on Church Green in Taunton </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for more information about the Ladies' Home.</div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.oldcolonyhistorymuseum.org/"> http://www.oldcolonyhistorymuseum.org</a><br />
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<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-80457198090272148102015-10-06T06:03:00.003-07:002015-10-06T14:15:49.218-07:00ONCE UPON A TIME IN TAUNTON: A LESSON IN CARING FOR OUR ELDERSLet's face it, the times today are complicated for all of us, especially so for our seniors. Navigating the pitfalls of Medicare/Medicaid and the like can be hazardous for anyone's health. Grown children often live far from their parents and grandparents. The need for assisted living or nursing facilities can become a necessity, and a frustrating business for all concerned.<br />
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Not everyone today can live in a place like the School Street Village of yesteryear or on one of the Sardinian Islands in the Mediterranean remaining in the bosom of family and friends.<br />
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As I mentioned in the last post, it was nearly unheard of for an elderly parent or grandparent not to live with family in the Village when I was a child in the 40's and 50's. Like a cocoon or an oasis, the Village cared for its own. Somehow, that family value endured for years. The times were conducive to that, they were softer, more family oriented and families were strong and intact. Now, our American culture is sometimes almost unrecognizable. The elders of our time are no longer a priority for inclusion. This is a unavoidable fact of life for many reasons.<br />
<br />
That transition took years and years to change as family, individuals and society morphed into one that was more egocentric, less concerned with honoring its elders and treasuring their gifts. Recently, Pope Francis said, ...<i>"children are the future of a family, grandparents are its memory."</i><br />
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Looking back we see the factors early on. In the late 1880's the great migration West took place in the U.S.A. Families often left parents behind who could not cope with the arduous trip. The Civil War would mean that fathers and sons would disappear leaving a tremendous hole in family life. Also, there was a movement into more urban areas which accomplished the same leaving behind. To cope society did what it could. There was the rise of the poorhouse where mentally ill, and destitute were often thrown together in a terrible mix with those simply to poor to cope and with the elderly who were alone. But, also, in the American way back then there came the advent of benevolent societies who tried to help in a more humane and genteel way the plight of left behind parents and grandparents and the single and widowed elderly.<br />
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A benevolant society did come forth in in that tradition with a group of determined women in Taunton. A sign of those years of yesterday was the gracious way that needy elderly ladies were helped by this group in the City and in many cities and towns throughout the country. Back in those days, government intervention was not nearly as invasive as it is today. Then, charitable groups often assisted those in need of services making that charity more personal, and most likely, more cost efficient.<br />
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In 1815, that group of concerned Taunton women became aware of the fate of the population of single elderly ladies in the City. Many of those elderly were alone and in those days had no old age assistance programs. The group of charitable women held teas and fairs managing to pay for rent and food for needy single women in their later years. Finally, in1829 they obtained a state charter and were called <i>The Taunton Female Charitable Organization.</i> It is still listed as a non-profit in Raynham MA with a corresponding post office box number.<br />
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<i> Be it enacted by the Senate and the House of Representatives in General Court</i><br />
<i> assembled and the authority of the same as follows: The Taunton Female Charitable</i><br />
<i> Association, in addition to the powers now vested in said corporation, is hereby</i><br />
<i> authorized to establish and maintain in the City of Taunton a home for the relief of</i><br />
<i> aged and indigent women; and said Association is hereby authorized to receive</i><br />
<i> grants, devises and donations for the use and purposes herein specified, etc.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Donations were generous. Mr. Edward Padelford, of Savannah, Georgia, giving two thousand<br />
dollars, the Ladies went to work to find a house suitable for their purpose.(Who was this gentlemen?). In January, 1871, they opened their doors at 96 Broadway and during that month and the following ones, they received 8 members to the Home. Twelve Founding Ladies took turns supervising the Home. Matrons and domestic help were obtained.<br />
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This is a lovely postcard of the Old Ladies' Home, probably from the 20's or 30's by the look of the car. I love this postcard, the sepia tones just exude genteel elegance and softness.</div>
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Applicants had to be born in the United States, be residents of Taunton for ten years preceding the application and be at least sixty years of age. They paid an entrance fee (often $100) which secured their care for the rest of their days. A dozen ladies were able to live in the Home at any one time. Eventually, throughout its existence 171 women were cared for there. In the last two years that the Home existed there were only two ladies and the Home stayed open just for them fulfilling its mission to the end.<br />
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The yearly expenses of the Home amounted to $2,000 and were met by the Corporation. The first officers (elected yearly, a form of term limits, it seems) were: Mrs. Erastus Maltby, Mrs. Samuel Southgate, Miss Mary L. Hartshorn, Mrs.E.U. Jones. There was a Board of 21 ladies </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as managers and six gentlemen as advisors who met monthly.</div>
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The Home on 96 Broadway was simply known as <i>The Old Ladies' Home.</i> Early on the Home was called the Home for Aged and Indigent Women..that was how it was listed in the City Listings. I like Old Ladies Home much better, don't you? This photo below is from a 1969 article in the Gazette when the Home was closed. There was never a sign, there was no need, everyone knew what it was.<br />
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Elegant and lovely, one of those spearheading the Old Ladies' Home in Taunton<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
Charlotte Hodges Morton (wife of Marcus Morton, Judge and one time<br />
U.S. Vice Presidential Candidate). Mrs. Morton was the first Directress</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
on the Taunton Ladies Home. She was a busy woman, she had 12 children and had time for this as well as being involved with the Remonstrance Society in Boston<br />
which wasanti-suffrogate (against the vote for women). She lived from 1801 - 1850.<br />
Morton Hospital in Taunton is named for the Judge and the main<br />
building was once their home.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The portrait is from the Frick Collection.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
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We can close our eyes and see in our imaginations that the rooms in the Home looked like those below. This photo was taken in an Old Ladies' Home in New York state during the 1880's. The residents often had teas and enjoyed hosting visits with friends. <br />
What an antidote for senior loneliness. I am intrigued by the fact that the<br />
victorian manner of decor we see here has come back, as people look for warmth in their surroundings. I also know of a lovely widow Village lady in her 100th year<br />
who now lives in Marian Manor in Taunton who, until recently, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
hosted teas each Friday with her friends. Only now it was ginger ale and cookies. </div>
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But, the warmth and camaraderie still shines on.</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Flickr photo</span><br />
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The Home had all the hallmarks of "a home". I do not say all such homes were perfect but they were surely an improvement over "warehousing" (a term used today) of the elderly today. Here is another photo of the Home in N.Y. The Home in Taunton would have had warm touches such as the fresh flowers, thanks to the Women who organized and ran it.</div>
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Below is the bedroom of one of the residents in the Home quoted above.</div>
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The Home for Old Ladies' in Taunton closed its doors in 1969. A person who grew</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
up nearby in Taunton remembers long befor that the ladies peacefully</div>
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rocking in the rockers on the front porch.</div>
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<br />
This is a photograph of ladies giving a fund raising tea circa 1930's for the Graham Old Ladies' Home in Brooklyn, N. Y., the closest home to the one in Taunton I could find. The Home has been restored and refurbished and still could accept elderly ladies....for $800,000!<br />
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<br />
Over the years of its service, the Home never once had to place a resident into a Nursing Home, Even if they had to engage a private nurse they kept the resident in her own surroundings at the 97 Broadway . The residents considered themselves a family. Nearly every day there was a visitor, a clergyman or a member of the Home's Managers who made sure no one went without attention.<br />
<br />
Such a lesson to be found in this history, a lesson of local people caring for their own in the community. A lesson dedication and hope. Fortunate were those ladies of old, both those in the Home and those who served them.<br />
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It was delightful researching this post and once again reaching back to find a treasure that still teaches us today. The rise of bureaucratic rules for Homes for the Aged meant that the elderly were protected, but it also meant that such homes as we write about here could no longer exist. Hence the loss of an opportunity for smaller homes much like anyone's homes where dignity and friendship abided. In the meantime. what a gift for those women who were able to live there.<br />
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<i>" The (Women's) Charitable Organization has gone steadily forward with its good work- providing a comfortable and happy home for the homeless, providing themselves friends</i></div>
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<i>to the friendless and take the best care of the sick, ministering in every way to the good of all in the home, and being a great blessing to the Community."</i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> A HISTORY OF TAUNTON...SAMUEL HOPKINS EMERY</span></i></div>
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96 Broadway today, renovated for a business.<br />
Are there memories imbedded in those walls?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2j21jDOp4K3yJjHXO6i3HX6I-p4zNIEPMuMIgdPSaSaj1g7ljMDwbhSIARIv9EdHABL4ygYr794Wv_gIL7Lza-gY2RnTOZbATE3XxKm73x871vXquVmOkUYvx3uuwusF1DhQYCm1UDQ/s1600/96+broadway+today+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2j21jDOp4K3yJjHXO6i3HX6I-p4zNIEPMuMIgdPSaSaj1g7ljMDwbhSIARIv9EdHABL4ygYr794Wv_gIL7Lza-gY2RnTOZbATE3XxKm73x871vXquVmOkUYvx3uuwusF1DhQYCm1UDQ/s640/96+broadway+today+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b> SOURCES FOR THIS POST:</b><br />
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As always, thanks to Aaron Cushman, research librarian at the Taunton Public Library.<br />
Taunton, MA. I loved that library as a child and treasure it still.<br />
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Taunton Daily Gazette, Archives:<i> Old Ladies' Home: Just a Piece of History:1969</i><br />
<i> Old Ladies' wouldn't Recognize the Place Now; Nov. 24, 1989.</i><br />
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Vintage Postcard of Old Ladies Home, Taunton, MA<br />
<a href="http://www.uspostcards.com/Item/ma_taunton_0121">http://www.uspostcards.com/Item/ma_taunton_0121</a><br />
also see Facebook Page:Taunton,Ma-Postcard History<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/Taunton-MA-Postcard-History-138237093178247/timeline/">https://www.facebook.com/Taunton-MA-Postcard-History-138237093178247/timeline/</a><br />
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The Ladies Repository:Vol. 35, Issues 3-6 Documents that a Mrs. King gave $5,000 to the Ladies' Home at an early date. </div>
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<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=lkjQAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA460&lpg=PA460&dq=old+ladies+home,+taunton,+ma'&source=bl&ots=LkfS-Cu5xO&sig=am-64ivogaVVIUKYKQd5poDybYo&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CEoQ6AEwCGoVChMIuvCFiuCryAIVgZIeCh0OwAm8#v=onepage&q=old%20ladies%20home%2C%20taunton%2C%20ma'&f=false">https://books.google.com/books?id=lkjQAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA460&lpg=PA460&dq=old+ladies+home,+taunton,+ma'&source=bl&ots=LkfS-Cu5xO&sig=am-64ivogaVVIUKYKQd5poDybYo&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CEoQ6AEwCGoVChMIuvCFiuCryAIVgZIeCh0OwAm8#v=onepage&q=old%20ladies%20home%2C%20taunton%2C%20ma'&f=false</a></div>
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Lists of Old Ladies' Homes in the U.S.<br />
<a href="http://homepages.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~wdstock/old11.htm">http://homepages.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~wdstock/old11.htm</a><br />
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History of Taunton, Massachusetts from It's Settlement Until the Present Time (1880's) by Samuel Hopkins Emery. If you are doing any type of Taunton history, this is an excellent source. Samuel Emery was a minister and provides an excellent history. Now out of print, it is available free online.<br />
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<a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=iqsvAQAAMAAJ&rdid=book-iqsvAQAAMAAJ&rdot=1">https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=iqsvAQAAMAAJ&rdid=book- iqsvAQAAMAAJ&rdot=1</a></div>
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The Social Welfare History Project from 1877 to 1893.</div>
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<a href="http://www.socialwelfarehistory.com/eras/civil-war-reconstruction/charity-organization-societies-1877-1893/">http://www.socialwelfarehistory.com/eras/civil-war-reconstruction/charity-organization-societies-1877-1893/</a></div>
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Taunton City Directory: 1899 pg. 392</div>
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<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=dewCAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA392&lpg=PA392&dq=the+taunton+female+charitable+association&source=bl&ots=leZCME3jEU&sig=m9ILvurJ_ICBf6sbukEVthZ6b0s&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CDIQ6AEwCDgKahUKEwiwgb7iy5zIAhWCth4KHXZYCww#v=onepage&q=the%20taunton%20female%20charitable%20association&f=false">https://books.google.com/books?id=dewCAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA392&lpg=PA392&dq=the+taunton+female+charitable+association&source=bl&ots=leZCME3jEU&sig=m9ILvurJ_ICBf6sbukEVthZ6b0s&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CDIQ6AEwCDgKahUKEwiwgb7iy5zIAhWCth4KHXZYCww#v=onepage&q=the%20taunton%20female%20charitable%20association&f=false</a><br />
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Women Anti-Suffragegists in the 1915 Campaign.</div>
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<a href="http://www.jstor.org/stable/364357?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents">http://www.jstor.org/stable/364357?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents</a></div>
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The Graham Old Ladies' Home in Brooklyn, New York.</div>
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<a href="http://forgotten-ny.com/2012/11/a-home-for-old-ladies-and-other-people/">http://forgotten-ny.com/2012/11/a-home-for-old-ladies-and-other-people/</a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-1930575986385787412015-09-28T07:46:00.000-07:002015-09-28T07:46:02.154-07:00WANT GREAT LONGEVITY AND HEALTH? LIVE IN A VILLAGEThis past May, the Wall St. Journal published this article:WANT GREAT LONGEVITY AND HEALTH? IT TAKES A VILLAGE. For me, now a very grown-up Villager, it was fascinating reading. It was easy to make comparisons to The School Street Village of my youth. Also, I know of at least two School Street women who have reached 100 years of age. One is my Aunt by marriage who lived in the Village in her early married life, she had married my Uncle who was been born there. The other grew up in the Village and until recently spent all her life there.<br />
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The subtitle of the article in the WSJ is "To make it to 100: plenty of community, exercise, beans."<br />
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In our School Street Village, elders were honored and lived as fully integrated members of their extended families and the Village as a whole. Most every child I knew as I grew up had a grandmother or grandfather living with them. Those were not the days of Nursing Homes as we know them today.<br />
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The WSJ article focuses on a series of Villages in Sardinia which boasts 21 centenarians for every 10,000 people. Only about 4 in 10,000 Americans make it that far. These Villages are part of what scientists and physicians call "Blue Zones" around the world where there is far less chronic illness and a longer life span. Below is the cover photograph for the article.<br />
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One of the cornerstones, says the article, of dietary issues is the humble bean. Portuguese people love beans, especially the fava bean. Beans are inexpensive, easy to grow, and can be cooked with a variety of meats. Meats, though, do not account for large servings but accentuate the bean. When my grandmother Isobel was a child in St. Miguel she earned money for the family by working in the bean fields.<br />
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But, the dietary issues were not alone in explaining longevity and health status. A hallmark of the Villages was their closeness. Remember some time ago, I mentioned that in the School Street Village, women who grew up in the same Villages in the Azores or Madeira would gather to bake their bread together? So here in Sardinia where 5 generations of a family would get together to share their knowledge and experience in bread making and pass it on. But, the women in Sardinia did more, they chopped the wood and stoked the ovens. Perhaps, in the Azores and Madeira our grandmothers and great-grandmothers might have done the same. But, did you ever try kneading bread with your hands and arms...without the help of a food processor? Who needs Pilates if you are doing that for 45 minutes?<br />
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Here is one of our School Street Villagers from probably the 40's or 50's kneading bread. Her home was on Floral St. and she is sitting in the doorway of her summer kitchen working the dough. I love the intense expression on her face as her hands expertly turned and forced the dough into food to feed her family. Tradition carried from her original Village in the Azores or Madeira went into this simple act.<br />
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Life in these Sardinian Villages was/is very social, and that is where the big similarity comes in with my School Street Village. Our elders (I smile because our grandparents were probably younger than I am now) had their own social strata. These women would roam the Village, walking in sturdy shoes and in the summer perhaps their distinctive cover-all aprons. They would walk to a friend's house and sitting in the kitchen, or perhaps the porch would share stories of their childhoods or what was happening in their circle currently. My grandmother and her friends (sometimes a grandfather ) would spend hours like that, breaking out in laughter, maybe even tears and sighs. Then the visitor would gather her big black pocketbook and be off to the next house. They did not need stair masters (sometimes it was a second or third floor climb) or a treadmill. The would often gather at our Church. Church was a great place to meet and greet for our elders. Wakes always provided another occasion. <br />
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The next photograph is my Nana Delphina (left) and two of her friends back in the 50's visiting in our family home on School Street. The lovely lady in the middle often visited my Grandmother. They were both from Madeira. This lady lived with her son and his family down a very significant hill. She would have been into pretty good exercise going back and forth on her visits. My grandmother (as I mentioned elsewhere) was sort of a Village secretary to the elders. Often they could not read their letters and she would do it for them, or help them write back. She would perch her hat on her head, gather her bulky handbag with her supplies and set off. It would take her quite a while as she would meet and chat with other friends on other porches along the way.<br />
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I noticed on the WSJ newspaper photo: the hair pulled simply back in a neat bun. These elders, there and in my Village had no time for hair stylists, nor for shopping sprees. Neither the time, nor the money. Anyway, their days were too full of social events. A sweater thrown over a shoulder was enough to go chat over a neighborhood fence or during an evening walk. <br />
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Some statistics from the WSJ- <i>"In the U.S.you are likely to die eight years earlier if you are lonely compared with those with strong social networks."</i> The article goes on to say that in those villages in Sardinia, "...<i>parents and grandparents move serenely into old age, secure in the knowledge that their children will care for them."</i> Like our parents and grandparents in the Village, there were/are no treadmills, health gyms, dietary counseling organizations. A robust, active life took care of all that. My mother spent time cooking, hanging clothes on the line in all kinds of weather and then picking them afterward, gardening, canning and sewing...and on and on. When I say gardening I mean Gardening with a capital G. Putting up grape juice and grape and blueberry jam, cooking pies in big batches so that they were available all winter (and entertaining the friends of her four children). My grandmother had her walking/secretarial route, she washed and ironed and delivered (on foot) the altar linens for our Church for years and years. She made her way to wakes and funerals of friends gone before her. That meant a long afternoon at the wake socializing and remembering the dear deceased. The WSJ write-up stated that every 20 minutes the folks in Sardinian villages were nudged into physical activity.<br />
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It seemed then as in the Sardinian villages that there was no rancor that an elder grandparent lived with the family of a son or daughter. It just was expected and normal. As children were cherished, our elders were cherished.<br />
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No over the counter supplement can substitute for family. When my elderly mother-in-law knew that her health was deteriorating and she lived alone, she decided to go into a Nursing Home right in her town. She was one of 14 children. Though her failing mind was slipping, one or another of her siblings came every single day, most days taking her to lunch, or just for a ride around her beloved neighborhood. She was always part of the family she knew and loved. Her children were there as well, cherishing her and motivating her to share her many stories, and just to love her. Love makes the difference, and faces that are so often there it becomes hard to forget them.<br />
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My husband and I are far from family (thankful for Facebook cell phones, etc.) but we are blessed. We live on a small island off the coast of northeastern Florida. Small island - tight friendships and support groups. Our new parish has become a haven for many of us seniors, our talents are appreciated, our voices are heard. Happily, technology helps us all to stay connected and sometimes (wow) a written note gives us delight and connectedness.<br />
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We in the USA and perhaps elsewhere are part of a throw-away culture...too often elders find themselves in just that situation. Growing up in the School Street Village, I learned as a small child as I was passed from the arms of one Aunt to another with loving hugs, that it is <i>cherishing</i> that we all need- from one end of our lives to another.<br />
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Funny, back then, nobody thought of retiring and leaving for another place.<br />
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<u><b> SOURCES:</b></u><br />
The Wall Street Journal Article:<br />
<a href="http://www.wsj.com/articles/want-great-longevity-and-health-it-takes-a-village-1432304395">http://www.wsj.com/articles/want-great-longevity-and-health-it-takes-a-village-1432304395</a><br />
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<b><u> Related Past Posts on this subject you may find interesting:</u></b><br />
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/09/village-healthy-part-i.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/09/village-healthy-part-i.html</a></div>
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/09/village-health-part-iii.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/09/village-health-part-iii.html</a></div>
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/10/village-healthy-part-iv-beloved-family.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2013/10/village-healthy-part-iv-beloved-family.html</a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-9805761499091069432015-08-26T09:04:00.001-07:002015-08-26T14:30:40.104-07:00AN ODE TO THE GARDENS OF PORTUGUESE GRANDFATHERSIn the past I have written of School Street Village gardens and how they held memory roots of forgotten days. It must have been some sort of prescience because along came the experience for this post.<br />
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When we researched a place to stay this past June, the web photos of the garden at 49 Oliver St. in Bristol attracted us. When we arrived there it was even more than we had imagined! Soft immersion into the Portuguese culture of Bristol. In the way of a Portuguese garden it held a lovely story that soon was uncovered. This post is about that story.<br />
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Someone wrote me that it confused him that I was not writing about the School Street Village in Taunton. Ah, but this is a sister Village still vibrant in its Portuguese culture and heritage - it charmed and delighted this old Portuguese soul. It will do that for you, too. It enlarges our heritage as every new story does.<br />
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When I was growing up in my own Village, there were elderly grandfather gentleman tending the back gardens of School Street. I never knew my grandfathers, so these gentle people struck my imagination and carved out a niche there.<br />
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The Portuguese immigrants who came to America carried the planting gene in their DNA. They added new information and plantings and succeeded in accomplishing lush and fertile gardens where they grew most of their own food. The title of Master Gardener was not invented then, but I believe those gardeners, and their progeny were and are way ahead of that title.<br />
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In their bib overalls and soft crunched hats they tended their crops of corn, cabbage, kale and more . There was such a Grandfather Gardener right next door to us at my childhood home in the Village in Taunton in the early 1950's : Mr Costa. Quietly with gnarled hands the earth is tilled into the soil and the soil returns the favor worked by touch and remembrance. Portuguese gardens have pride of place, they always did. They anchor the home, softens its trials and sorrows. The garden has seen it all. He tended the green acreage that was for him a reminder of the Portuguese home he had left behind, the Mother Garden as it were. He also had a flock of chickens. Their little shed nestled up to our grapevine and the chain link fence between our house and his.<br />
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The photo above is of the back of 184 School Street before we moved there in 1952. My cousin Beverly and my Aunt Alveda refresh themselves on a sunny day probably in the late 40's . Directly in back of the fence is their field of corn and other vegetables, the higher corn next door is the Costa planting area. These parallel gardens of crops lined the back yards of many School Street Village homes. It felt good to see those same kind of back gardens<br />
along the Portuguese Village area of Bristol.</div>
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The soft clucking of Mr. Costa's hens in their little house next door formed a musical theme to the backdrop of my childhood. Remember the fences on either side of our house had gates in them and were the right height for neighbors to lean on and chat. We were linked: by heritage, by green gardens, and friendship.<br />
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This Bristol story now takes my heritage memory to a whole new level. For at 49 Oliver St., I came upon something so close to those memories that it awakened all the others. <br />
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Introducing Luis Oliveira. I almost need not say more, this painting of Mr. Oliveira speaks volumes. In the painting, he is holding the corn stalks he grew to make brooms, still grown in his garden today. He is the picture of a Portuguese Grandfather gardener. The painting hangs in the kitchen of the apartment where he and his family once lived. That is now a rental apartment but it is unchanged since the days he raised his family there.<br />
It is utterly charming. </div>
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We came home with stalks like this, a perfect souvenir.</div>
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Mr. Oliveira was more than just a gardener, he was a beloved mentor. A native of the Azores, he brought with him the traditions and knowledge he had grown up learning. Mr. Oliveira became the father-in-law of Mr. Ed Castro and the garden became their classroom. Eventually, it passed to the Castro couple and it has been lovingly tended over the past 50 years with love for this mentor and for the heritage that the garden still is today.<br />
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Mr. Oliveira and Mr. Castro in the Garden<br />
taken some years ago.<br />
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In time, with his knowledge and experience, Ed and his father-in-law opened the heritage garden, now a place of magic greenery, to groups of school children. Hosting 60 first and second graders from where his wife was a teacher's aide he added to their own memories. Each child was given a small kale plant to plant in the garden before they left, their own tiny heritage plant. Adult visitors would often take home one of Mr. Oliveira's small brooms. Those brooms, by the way, apparently lasted years and years.<br />
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At that time, at the age of 87, Luis Oliveira still went out back to his garden at 5:30 each morning until the day became too warm. He returned in the cool of the evening. He had done all the work in the vineyards in his home in the Azores. His favorite shady spot in Bristol was his grapevine arbor. Today, long after he passed away, his son-in-law keeps up the garden with the help of another grandfatherly gentleman who tends the kale, fava beans and more while dreaming his own bygone dreams of home. I found him there one morning and he softly bid me good morning, his accent music to my ears.<br />
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The garden at 49 Oliver St.<br />
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It was to this apartment and garden that my husband and I came while on a trip to New England, We stayed for 10 days. Each day was a gift, a blessing. The garden was a place where we could sit in the shade, serenaded by the many birds who found shelter and food there, be entertained by the small cat whose garden was his home away from home and listen to the music of the koi fountain. What is a Portuguese garden without a cat? We could listen to pots and pans being readied for the evening meal and the song of children playing in a nearby playground.<br />
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I often sketched there, photographed the flowers, the Azores vegetables and of course, the cat. There, too, I photographed our family and friends when they visited. The garden gifted us each day with new memories layered on to the new...memories of another Village, not too far away but for the years.<br />
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Now for a treat: Rhode Island Public Radio did a web slideshow of the garden which includes a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Castro and photos of the garden, It was posted Oct. 12, 2013 by Emma Roddick who probably took the wonderful photos. Some of the photos are in this post. You can see more photographs and play the audio to get a full appreciation for this very special place.<br />
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<a href="http://ripr.org/post/one-square-mile-portuguese-gardens-bristol">http://ripr.org/post/one-square-mile-portuguese-gardens-bristol</a><br />
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The best trips are those that keep dancing in your memory. Such memories come with feelings of rest, of beauty, of family and friends and in this case, memories of faith. Who would think.. one rents a space and finds a treasure. Many, many thanks to the Castro family, for their friendship and their sharing. We will return!<br />
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<b> <u> Sources for this Post </u> </b> </div>
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- Memories shared by Mr. and Mrs. Castro</div>
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-Above cited Slideshow from Rhode Island Public Radio archives.</div>
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-Providence Journal, June 22, 1997 "One Square Mile: The Portuguese Gardens of Bristol"</div>
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-Bristol Phoenix, Aug. 18, 2005 Home Section: "Mentoring Grows New Gardeners"</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-65991188237991898942015-08-05T09:02:00.000-07:002015-08-05T10:32:53.788-07:00IT TAKES A VILLAGE...OR TWO Earlier this summer we spent ten days in lovely, historic Bristol, Rhode Island. Bristol is located about a 30 minute drive from the School Street Village in Taunton.<br />
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We are partial to historic towns, as you can imagine, as well as to those close to the sea. This small town fit the bill and has long been a favorite of ours. By a stroke of great good luck we found a perfect apartment in a three story home a block up from the bucolic downtown and two from the water. That was a blessing, but our stay there contained even more blessings. We found ourselves in another Portuguese American Village and with new good friends. This post and perhaps the next two will share that experience so brimming with history and family nostalgia.<br />
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It is a grand feeling to come upon another Portuguese Village, and even better to find it flourishing. To be part of it for just awhile and immersed in the welcoming Parish at its heart is a gift. That grand feeling is still better when the landlord family that rented the apartment to us is a premiere Portuguese family which shares friendship with us. <br />
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Bristol is very historic. It was settled in 1680 by early colonists. Bristol has the oldest continuing Fourth of July parade in the country. When I went to the Bristol Historical Society I was not able to find a lot about the significant Portuguese presence in Bristol.<br />
For many years it had been a closed society probably run by the Daughters of the American Revolution.<br />
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Why was I interested? Well, apart from the beauty of Bristol, it means a lot to me since it welcomed my Grandmother Isobel Bento Correia to America in 1915. It introduced her to her husband and they were married in Bristol in 1916 at St. Elizabeth's Church on Wood St.<br />
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In 2013, The Providence Journal published an article describing the historic Portuguese section of Bristol that is Wood St. The area is still carrying on its culture and traditions even today. Portuguese bakeries, a Portuguese Grocery and a Portuguese Butcher Shop dot the area. There is an independent Portuguese Band Club. The neighborhood is characterized by small and multifamily homes, similar to my own School Street Village.<br />
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An excellent article from The New England Historical Society: "How Portuguese Immigrants Came to New England", tells us that ".. in Rhode Island Portuguese Immigrants make up 9.7 % of the total population making it the densest concentration of Portuguese in the Country..." Although Massachusetts has the largest number of persons of Portuguese ancestry, that is still quite a statistic.<br />
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No wonder we so impressed by the Portuguese culture and its continuing vitality. The presence of Portuguese Americans and new Immigrants is felt strongly in the Wood St. area of Bristol, RI in particular.<br />
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The Wood Street neighborhood grew in earnest around the mill complex on the east side of Wood St. built in 1864 to house the National Rubber Company. This is a photo of that complex that hangs today in the Bristol Historical Society. Many of the buildings are gone, some house smaller businesses while others have been converted to senior housing, condominiums and townhouses.<br />
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In 1913, just two years before my grandmother arrived in Bristol, R.I. St. Elizabeth's Church was built at 577 Wood St. It was built to serve the growing Portuguese community and culture around it. My Grandmother Isobel met my Grandfather Manuel Motta, probably at that Factory of the National Rubber Co. Her papers say that it was a shoe factory where they met and they did make shoes there. My Grandfather's Uncle introduced them. My grandmother is on the right in the photograph below sitting next to her sister, Annie and one of Annie's children. This would have been in 1916 on the front stoop of a tenement where they were all living in Bristol. Isobel and Annie were part of the tide of immigrants coming from the Azores (for my Grandmother and and Great Aunt) and Madeira (for my Grandfather).<br />
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The Parish of St. Elizabeth (named after the great Queen St. Elizabeth of Portugal) would grow and nurture all of these Portuguese newcomers to America. The Parish today is still just as vibrant and as the music of the Portuguese language flew around me making my soul sing as we made our way into the Church for Mass.<br />
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This is a video of the parishioners at St. Elizabeth's singing in Portuguese to Our Lady of Fatima . If you grew up in a Village like School Street or that of Bristol's Wood St. area, this will warm your memories . Note that the video was recorded after the renovation.<br />
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/10493159">https://vimeo.com/10493159</a><br />
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Another Village in my heart. Another deep link to my past.<br />
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St. Elizabeth's was recently renovated to what you see in the above photo. The Parish did a beautiful job of blending old and new. Below note that the old original altar has been kept, the altar before which my Grandparents were married in 1916. just three years after the Church had been built. The renovation blends seamlessly into the clean lines of the Church that reminds one of the inside of a ship. Portuguese were, after all, people of the sea. That is why they settled on either coast, although often ending up working in the skeletal innards of a factory as my people did.<br />
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In their way, where they settled Portuguese families eventually purchased homes and a good amount of land. Their homes are impeccable, back gardens flowering in color in early Spring and Summer. One evening as we walked this second Village, we came upon an elderly couple sitting on the ground finishing up caring for their the lawn. That finishing meant using a small scissors to be sure the edges of the grass were neat and even. The streets are lined with homes. not just historic, that are obviously as cared for as those of the great Ship Captains of yesteryear<br />
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Walking the historic downtown and peeking out at the harbor</div>
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The Parish of St. Elizabeth's has its Festas as did our Village St. Anthony's in Taunton (and still does), though we were not there at the time when one was happening. In the second photo you can see the Folkloric Portuguese dancers at the St. Elizabeth's Festa at a "time" as they would call it. Cultural cousins from Taunton visiting and entertaining with the native dances we of Portuguese descent all share. These photos were taken during the Festa of Santa Domingo.<br />
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<u><b>Sources for this Post</b></u><br />
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<a href="http://www.newenglandhistoricalsociety.com/how-portuguese-immigrants-came-to-new-england/">http://www.newenglandhistoricalsociety.com/how-portuguese-immigrants-came-to-new-england/</a></div>
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Providence Journal: "<i>Wood Street in Bristol: A Mix of Community and Commerce"</i><br />
Providence Journal, June 21, 2013 by Alex Kuffner</div>
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<a href="http://www.saintelizabethchurch.net/">http://www.saintelizabethchurch.net</a><br />
St. Elizabeth web site.</div>
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Ave Maria by the Portuguese in Bristol, Rhode Island<br />
see site posted in blog post: Vimeo.<br />
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2015 Photographs by Sandra J. Pineault and from Family archives<br />
and Unpublished Book: "<i>Searching for Isobel"</i><br />
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NEXT POST IN THE BRISTOL SERIES: A PORTUGUESE GARDEN IN BRISTOL<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-76344329740489512192015-07-18T08:36:00.000-07:002017-05-21T04:54:34.788-07:00"IN THE END YOU ALWAYS GO BACK TO THE PEOPLE WHO WERE THERE IN THE BEGINNING"Recently, a mini-reunion took place between three friends whose friendship began in the first grade in the Village and continues over 70 years later. No matter how long an interval when we do not see or talk to each other, we snap back smoothly into the long relationship that just picks right up again. Up comes the laughter, the sad sharing of lost friends and classmates, the updates of families, and on and on. We have so much to share that the calypso recital of the ills of aging does not have room to flourish. We are too busy being young again.<br />
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One of us had been cleaning out her "stuff" and found papers from when we were young students at Fuller School in the Village. The "stuff" engendered the opening of a whole lot of memory doors. We just tiptoed right into them.<br />
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Guessing time...can you find us in this 1949 second grade photo? Bright eyed youngsters with all the world before us.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUXkK9uAZDFNnLjeVxK1DilOvxGKN7BAZntubiAxWJPS-xyXYHCWMXyCFHaTaeEAnrr7ewggUOsQx_cVfHWNVUM8VH8cNEQ2OOxL1sfMXi_THrj6f2AZGpxjaBpL2I-5mBYO6IPbGMw/s1600/Fuller+School+sweatshirt+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUXkK9uAZDFNnLjeVxK1DilOvxGKN7BAZntubiAxWJPS-xyXYHCWMXyCFHaTaeEAnrr7ewggUOsQx_cVfHWNVUM8VH8cNEQ2OOxL1sfMXi_THrj6f2AZGpxjaBpL2I-5mBYO6IPbGMw/s320/Fuller+School+sweatshirt+.png" width="243" /></a></div>
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Imagine, we even had Fuller School sweatshirts back then!</div>
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As we wrote in the last post, those times were very far away from the calculators and e- tablets for children in the classroom. We were there to learn how to write, how to understand our history as a nation. Every day started with the reading of the 23rd Psalm and the Pledge of Allegiance to our Flag. We were, and are, after all the children of the greatest generation.<br />
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Geography led to dreams of far off places. It is amazing that many people today have no idea where countries are located -never mind the histories that were the root of many problems today.<br />
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Remember those pull -down maps....the ratcheting sound they made coming down- and going up ?The cursive sampling like a border of wallpaper around the walls? One of our teachers would ask us to go and point to a country...you did not forget that country. Now, reading newspapers or listening to news reports you know exactly where it is located. How strange that with all the modern technology too many have turned in to their own little worlds. More is the pity.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIdhHSF038Av7VfVjkeuwVqRHEzKXqalxdBr0JZR3Hf5ebXwoAtA7xr8XLLueYQ85V-jd2BjlvIQZ7y1ugB63FS1X7qZpE5uYUc2c0QBXJBnllBtLlJizGng1Ere56i-ld-ysnRPVTA/s1600/old+maps+school+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIdhHSF038Av7VfVjkeuwVqRHEzKXqalxdBr0JZR3Hf5ebXwoAtA7xr8XLLueYQ85V-jd2BjlvIQZ7y1ugB63FS1X7qZpE5uYUc2c0QBXJBnllBtLlJizGng1Ere56i-ld-ysnRPVTA/s640/old+maps+school+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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We also learned how to be thoughtful in the manner of writing. Psychologists are telling us that cursive writing can make us smarter and more thoughtful. I wrote a blog post about this very thing, if you want to read it, here it is.<br />
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<a href="http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-write-stuff.html">http://schoolstvillage.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-write-stuff.html</a><br />
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Witness the resurgence of scrapbooking and the calligraphy that is part and parcel of a whole renewal of hand-writing. Yes, there is an argument that it is right and proper to bounce out that cursive curriculum once and for all. Be sure, it will never go, it will simply pop up in adult optional classes. <br />
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<a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/states-fight-cursive-classroom-article-1.1518352">http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/states-fight-</a></div>
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One of our trio found this in a saved paper notebook from 1950 hiding amongst the papers her mother had kept. I print it here because of the telltale splats of the ink from the metal pen nib dipped into the ink well set into our desks. We never knew that it was our dear Miss Margaret Coleman who wrote the Fuller School song but here it is. The writer of this page still knows the song by heart.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYybqrmhd_SlOIPCcuxVekeU_ZiZgto5FyOV5YA0LgPMtzamUf-TB0vxooioUVDkUrxJ5eXTwf14rRU6uXV3aJzQpKnRpyJI9nqR8ZC17B-sHhzuczAHMPweKtEwmt9UE-zrzDXoafw/s1600/fuller+school+song+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWYybqrmhd_SlOIPCcuxVekeU_ZiZgto5FyOV5YA0LgPMtzamUf-TB0vxooioUVDkUrxJ5eXTwf14rRU6uXV3aJzQpKnRpyJI9nqR8ZC17B-sHhzuczAHMPweKtEwmt9UE-zrzDXoafw/s640/fuller+school+song+.png" width="542" /></a></div>
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Below is an excerpt from a lovely blog:<a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=aHdLyoXpHA4C&pg=PA15&lpg=PA15&dq=wooden+nib+pens+of+the+50's&source=bl&ots=czBlTQWDAx&sig=HDq_DiCeB4X48UI9wmXj2LDWEAE&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CFUQ6AEwDGoVChMIlb27v_zdxgIVhr-ACh2f4gT0#v=onepage&q=wooden%20nib%20pens%20of%20the%2050's&f=false">https://books.google.com/books?i</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIHxhCfyznPqgsrBBuz15a6RZDry-j5Tm0q3wwxFeeLqIXJippcQ6DQ-sD5U1-3UzzVSg8IQmZ3PuCDhG8SbG7k31pJ9HZuwy2W6xSi0mRBcpDv8Xdxk7Y_tTbtKuL0U1axI6Hjl6Dw/s1600/penmanship%252C+nib+pens+etc.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="628" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIHxhCfyznPqgsrBBuz15a6RZDry-j5Tm0q3wwxFeeLqIXJippcQ6DQ-sD5U1-3UzzVSg8IQmZ3PuCDhG8SbG7k31pJ9HZuwy2W6xSi0mRBcpDv8Xdxk7Y_tTbtKuL0U1axI6Hjl6Dw/s640/penmanship%252C+nib+pens+etc.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBK_MXWdBwuUnspJ5SEfgLy7JWyFyKrwsNrme_fn0ZlNN4rlsiamWN3pmg_keFpu9SRO4NNG_aBqigY-r1KT4AK9pVAf_xaRn_tfq0zAUlqlJIT17AHOHm1Ky2M59RuDgbFWo2DddFag/s1600/old+desk+w+inkwell+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBK_MXWdBwuUnspJ5SEfgLy7JWyFyKrwsNrme_fn0ZlNN4rlsiamWN3pmg_keFpu9SRO4NNG_aBqigY-r1KT4AK9pVAf_xaRn_tfq0zAUlqlJIT17AHOHm1Ky2M59RuDgbFWo2DddFag/s320/old+desk+w+inkwell+.png" width="320" /></a></div>
The desk above is not quite the same but close enough...<br />
note inkwell up in right hand corner.<br />
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We painstakingly wrote answers to a spelling test in cursive. She was not only awarded a red 100 but also a flower sticker, a mum, so it must have been Fall.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQRSnKRc9deWj2gKGWGZheV4YzuL4h50t8O0TQ3VjMD9B6KXtH2vhsMd6-xLNq2ccjxrpQ3s2cxKGtIzVVVFYXE3VQJJlAYvjGOCU-mGRDBIzbMO7Y3unVpuZ0_8-SvAheX2_wS4AXA/s1600/scoe+100+with+a+pumpkim.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQRSnKRc9deWj2gKGWGZheV4YzuL4h50t8O0TQ3VjMD9B6KXtH2vhsMd6-xLNq2ccjxrpQ3s2cxKGtIzVVVFYXE3VQJJlAYvjGOCU-mGRDBIzbMO7Y3unVpuZ0_8-SvAheX2_wS4AXA/s640/scoe+100+with+a+pumpkim.png" width="281" /></a></div>
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A whimsical painting by Les Brophy visually describes the three of us....always minus one more who is always kept close. What can describe a friendship like that?<br />
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How can you do so when it winds and whispers around your heart through years and years and years? It is a friendship that makes you joyfully fall into it when you get to speak to one of these friends.<br />
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We are far from each other much of the time. But distance, like the small fingers that followed a path and places on that old pull-down geography map is never a consideration. Come the rains and storms of life, we hope and pray that this blessing stays calm and endures. May your friendships be such as ours.<br />
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Meanwhile, bring on the rain1 We shall dance as best we can!<br />
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AFTER ALL...<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-42326144459999671982015-07-03T12:46:00.002-07:002015-07-03T15:42:11.144-07:00THE MEMORY SEEKER <div style="text-align: center;">
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The greatest inspiration for this writer is the opportunity to <i><b>visit the well,</b></i> so to speak. That is what I call the great grace of being mentored. A deep well for me has been the writings and sharing of the Village's own historian: Arlene Rose Gouveia. </div>
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I have acknowledged her many times before in this blog.</div>
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Arlene and I grew up but a few houses from each other on School Street in the Village. She about 5 years older than I. As adults, my journey took me far from the Village in many ways, her journey kept her closer to where she had been born and raised.<br />
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My mother did not grow up in the Village. Her mother did. Her parents were memory keepers and imbued that in their daughter. I would come to it very late, going back in time as it were. She was fed on it, each story and memory being passed on and kept alive. <br />
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Up until last month I had probably not seen Arlene in about 50 years, give or take. Perhaps we passed each other on the street as we walked to Church. I remember her, I remember her whole family. My brother was always best buddies with her younger brother.<br />
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For once, a trip to New England had more days to it and a time was fixed for me to visit her in her home. Like the excellent teacher she once was, she was prepared for me.<br />
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I was in the storyteller's lair! I was gifted with more stories and information than my mind and my pen sought to register. Laughter and sadness was laced throughout. I settled into the lair and let it wash over me. My heart would tell me what my pen might forget.<br />
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How do you pass on the history of a place? A loved, wonderful place. You first must live it and then let it come alive once more in your heart. Then you speak it, record it, write it. For Arlene and I, the goal is to keep the stories alive and invite as many as possible to enjoy them, to be nourished by them. In the context of history, there are lessons, there is pride in a people, there is a deep sweetness.<br />
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This meeting of like minds will result in new posts, many of them. After seeing her collection of research books bending their shelves, her long and laden table next to her kitchen where the times and days of the Village lay in quiet accumulation, I took a long deep breath.<br />
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When you relive a story by telling it again, you find the nuances and even more humor that was first suspected and embroider it with memory. From this chair Arlene can reach her bookshelves, her table. At her side her notebooks and pens, perhaps some historical point she is researching cuddled up to her glasses. When I pulled up this photo from my iPhone I noticed the book or pamphlet with the big HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY. Did I tell you that being a historian can take you far from everyday concerns? There is no such thing as coincidence...this message is for us.<br />
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Arlene's table with the accumulation of Village stories and lore</div>
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takes up the length of one wall.</div>
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There is often loss, sadness, confusion and disappointment in each of our lives. Today there is a frightening lack of family, community, common everyday kindness. The many advantages of today often blot out what truly nourishes us. "<i>No man is an island " </i>the scribe once wrote. We are all a part of something. There is a deep need to know what that is - what defines us. Before the speed of transportation destroyed our anchors, before the constant barrage of texting there was simple conversation, shared recollection and tight community.<br />
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People yearn for stories. Do you know that there is even a web site where you can listen to people tell stories? How sad that those people have no story tellers of their own, storytellers based on the fact of village life. Stories woven with fact and history dancing all about them. Storytellers are weavers of words, words that are magic. Words that are of people and events long past. There are also storytellers who weave photographs of old that sparkle among the words and let us wander way, way back and wonder.<br />
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Amanda Paterson</div>
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The Village life on School Street grounded us in the need for each other. It grounded us in small classrooms where our teachers cared so much that we felt like princes and princesses. I am unaware of one single disciplining action in those childhood school years. Bullying was unknown. You looked each classmate and teacher in the eye and read their regard for you. Each of us was treasured: by parents, grandparents, a slew of aunts and uncles, cousins, by our friends and classmates and by their parents.<br />
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The laughter in the playground framed the laughter in our adult lives. We belonged- we still do - if not in place, then in our memory stories.<br />
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In other years, I had driven through the Village was sad by loss and change. This time I was rewarded by a sight and sound a friend from the Village had predicted. Above the School Street Bakery is an apartment. It is on the side of the house facing up School Street, facing north. An elderly man sits by the window in a chair with the window wide open. His arms rest on the windowsill and he peers out. Beside him is a radio, just a little one, and a Portuguese station is on. He watches and waits. He waits for walkers with whom he can share a greeting, or even someone he can invite up for a story or share the platitudes of life. He might also hear echoes. He might think he hears the Taunton Band Club rehearsing of a Sunday morning. Perhaps he is waiting for children to come skipping home for the long-gone Fuller School. He thinks: when did walking become an olympic event and not a time to appreciate a neighbor's roses? When did earphones replace the sounds of the birds, or the luaghter of children? When did grandmothers and grandfathers. like himself, disappear from the scene? When did it require visiting hours to visit them?<br />
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We need our stories...each and every one of us....</div>
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stories give us the hope that chaotic times may once more be ordered and safe.</div>
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Our values rest in that order, when they are threatened on all sides</div>
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we find truth and help in the stories of our peoples..</div>
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When did it seem so important ro read your messages on your iPhone than to just have time to be immersed in quiet - where just maybe God might whisper to ou or you might have a creative thought or inspiration. We did not need tools to immerse ourselves into connectedness back then.<br />
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Arlene's's hands are painful with arthritis and mine are getting there - but, we have a mission and our hands are strong enough for that! A true mentor does not regard distance as an obstacle, a true mentor collects every story that comes her way. A true mentor keeps up with technology. Arlene and I talk via phone, e-mail, message, and through the wonderful<i><b> I'm from Taunton Facebook page.</b></i> Arlene has a e-tablet and keeps up with this blog faithfully. Arlene is not my only mentor, but she is mentor par excellence to so many. A true mentor knows her task is to pass it on!<br />
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May the stories you hold dear keep you warm in the storm. All you need<br />
is memory and imagination. God bless our storytellers!<br />
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Sources:</div>
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-Pinterest Storytelling Boards</div>
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-<a href="http://amandaonwriting.tumblr.com/post/59695483205">http://amandaonwriting.tumblr.com/post/59695483205</a></div>
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-<a href="http://www.teachthought.com/literacy-2/30-storytelling-tips-for-teachers/">http://www.teachthought.com/literacy-2/30-storytelling-tips-for-teachers/</a></div>
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- Photography by Sandra Pineault<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-40649425710808237022015-06-23T04:49:00.000-07:002015-06-23T04:50:28.642-07:00INTRODUCING THE BELOVED MATRIARCHS<br />
Many readers commented on the Facebook page,<i><b> I'm from Taunton </b></i>regarding our last post. How these memories find a fond place in the hearts of those who grew up in the Village. I feel honored to be a Memory Keeper and do not take it lightly. Often, when I am remembering and writing it feels as if I am transported to that other place in another time. It gives me courage and joy to relive those halcyon times, if only in my memory. There are lessons there, reassurance and knowledge we did not possess before.<br />
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Following up on the Heirloom Plant trilogy - here are the Matriarch plants we spoke of, still growing strong. green and hearty! These photographs were taken by my sister, Kathleen Souza Campanirio. She is the keeper today of these original living treasures. The plants must know that they are family. It is no little thing to maintain and nourish these plants and we thank our sister with the very green thumb. She then is the Family Plant Keeper.<br />
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Stories abide in these plants, stories of generations of Christmas', Easters, Baptisms, weddings and the sorrow of passings. The chimes of children's laughter and the joy of shared remembering live in their roots. The sweet fragrance of Portuguese cooking nourished them and still does.<br />
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We come and go, we Souza's. We are born and grow and the family grows larger.<br />
No matter, the plants remember and cherish...maybe that is what keeps them flourishing. Maybe that is what keeps us flourishing. Love. of course, is the ingredient that maintains us, plant and person alike.<br />
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Delphina's original Christmas Cactus- the mama of them all sits proudly in place. When an heirloom such as this likes it somewhere, you do not move it! We believe this plant to be over 100 years old.<br />
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The Hoya plant below is probably around that age as well. The children of this plant are scattered around the country living and being treasured by siblings such as myself, grandchildren, a plethora of cousins and friends. All from this beautiful flourishing plant still living in my sister's sunny kitchen window.<br />
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These plants are cherished as are its offspring. Living keepsakes holding memories and the touch of loving hands. It never crossed my mind when I started writing about grapevines that this would turn into a trilogy of another aspect of family, another aspect of times gone.<br />
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Now into their third generations, these matriarch plants seem secure for generations into the future<br />
Like the leaves of the pages of a Family's history they await discovery and recognition. Their task of remembrance goes on as long as they are kept safe. We are blessed with these that still accompany their families on their journeys.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-56087800622290841982015-05-26T13:46:00.002-07:002015-08-26T08:11:35.960-07:00FOUND IN AN OLD GARDEN - THE ROOTS OF A FAMILY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
In the last post we wrote about the historical importance of grapevines in the Village. The topic found an enthusiastic audience. This </div>
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For a minute, though, let's harken back to Village grapevines. Here is a beautiful photo of our long ago neighbors facing Wilbur St. This is directly in back of our family home on School St. the family homestead from way back in the 1900's. A low little wood fence separated us, a token rather than a barrier. </div>
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I recognize them our reader and her brother! They are celebrating his graduation from High School. If I recall he was a few years ahead of me. This grapevine is vivid in my memory. After all, we played in back of it growing up.</div>
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The background is intriguing farther in the back is our home. There was a large lot behind it which once had been planted when other family lived there. Eventually my Dad got tired of mowing it -even getting sheep did not help. He also tired of making that drive to Cape beaches with a carful of kids while we always ending up in traffic jams on the old Cape road. Remember those days? He finally dug an inground pool in the back lot. With four kids that was a good investment. He next rounded up almost every kid in the neighborhood and taught them to swim, just in case . The pool was heavily fenced, but you never knew. Generations of kids swam in that pool, starting with us and then grandchildren. Ah, the weiner roasts and swim family get -togethers. There could be four layers in that pool at any one time!</div>
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Just off to the far left in the photo one can just see our sweet Fuller School. This is a photo snapped out of time.</div>
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Well, like all historians I digressed a bit. It is in our DNA. </div>
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Another photo found in my archives set me off</div>
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on a related subject: how all plants can be heirlooms linking us to our family roots.</div>
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The above is a very old photograph of my Grandmother Delphina Souza, my Dad's mother.</div>
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She is gazing fondly at her Christmas cactus. That plant is a legend in our family. I will bet that she acquired it years before this photo. She had been in that house since 1906. That plant must have witnessed a lot of family tears and celebrations. I like to think that it watched 7 children along their journey and it may have watched the loss of a father. You can see that it is already a large plant in the photo. It outlived Grandmother Delphina and continued living on at 184 School St. Its offspring found new homes in the homes of my sisters and myself. Each offspring flourished Mine ended up in a long planter, each year gifting my family with heirloom blooms. One day mine was not doing well. I called the Plant Doctor: my Mom. She advised splitting it. Oh, no, I dreaded the task not knowing the result. My brow would need mopping as I worked to keep the patient alive. It needed surgical saws but it was handled as tenderly as possible. Alas, it did not survive the procedure and had to enter the compost heap where it returned to the earth</div>
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But, I knew that my sister's was still living taking the legend into the future.</div>
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That was our first Souza heirloom plant. </div>
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My sister and I at the side of 20 Blinn's Ct. in front of</div>
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one of my Mother's rock gardens, 1950</div>
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Which brings me to more about heirloom gardens and plants. Remember the story I wrote recently of the woman who bought an old house with a empty dirt garden? Remember that in the first Spring that garden sprouted a carefully planned rainbow garden? A living legacy.</div>
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Above is one of my mother's early gardens. She gardened all her life, knew each plant by common and Latin name. For her gardening was a devoted hobby. Her gardens would grace the two homes where she would live. In our Village home they surrounded the house lighting it up with color. In the little mobile home where she spent most of her older years they climbed rocks, stone walls and hills all the while attracting butterflies and hummingbirds. They surrounded her beloved St. Jude's statue. </div>
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My mother's garden hats were legendary and always hanging on a hook beside her door- unless she was outside wearing one. She went into eternity with one of these hats by her side.</div>
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My Mother is standing speaking with a gardener at a Nature Preserve on 6A on the Cape, a favorite place for her and I to wander the gardens and learn new things. Once I illustrated a children's environmental book (never published) and her genes in me really activated as I learned all I could about marsh plants and animals that translated into a story..</div>
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My mother spoke the language of nature with much love.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_oS0rKMrYRHB0dOYCbyH0bHljVWSnCTEdk4ub9N66fOFDAfCkg3VbRey3sWEwoIvtBnrDIqPtaHiVDP7TxBa8Saw6plEyHQOd7byiDi3vaIWaNU2vzSripiRtGuoZ2p4zNTk25xI4w/s1600/mom+and+her+garden+hat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_oS0rKMrYRHB0dOYCbyH0bHljVWSnCTEdk4ub9N66fOFDAfCkg3VbRey3sWEwoIvtBnrDIqPtaHiVDP7TxBa8Saw6plEyHQOd7byiDi3vaIWaNU2vzSripiRtGuoZ2p4zNTk25xI4w/s400/mom+and+her+garden+hat.png" width="291" /></a></div>
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Angi in her garden, where one could always find her.</div>
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The following is a sweet story about someone's mother and her gardening. It is from this</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9G7BQ6vkWpqnlEDs7LW8W9s9NPCY91Mq9h3d_dWiVS_VZPeNpyxB0n-gyHVoZxyDraGR9gxIiUW9HNu93K-txlD3c_6I_wtkFfZSAChv-QuMs60qMujSHHSBofyc2UTJqMCoVKRN_YQ/s1600/heirloom+plants+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9G7BQ6vkWpqnlEDs7LW8W9s9NPCY91Mq9h3d_dWiVS_VZPeNpyxB0n-gyHVoZxyDraGR9gxIiUW9HNu93K-txlD3c_6I_wtkFfZSAChv-QuMs60qMujSHHSBofyc2UTJqMCoVKRN_YQ/s640/heirloom+plants+.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Always in my mother's pocketbook was a little plastic bag where she could safely nestle a seed or pod from something growing that she met along her way. Those little bags and her camera accompanied her everywhere she wandered. </div>
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Every plant in her garden had a lineage and a story. Each visit with her ended with a walk </div>
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visiting the blooms and green spikes listening to her stories and advice.</div>
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My garden became an heirloom garden in its own right. When I visited our visits ended the same way with a walk in her garden. When she visited me it was a walk in my own garden, where some of her heirlooms could be found. In time, my daughter's became an heirloom garden, only this time with two generations of plantings. The first time my daughere and I walked through her garden, my heart bloomed like the garden at my feet. There are roots in one's hearts, too.</div>
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I am in my later years now, my southern garden is far from their Village cousins . But, snuggled in my patio is a Hoya Vine, an heirloom descendant of my Mothers vine. My mother's garden lives on, too, in many of my paintings . I often sat and painted or drew in her garden. Many of those paintings were sold so her posterity spread far.</div>
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She loved everything about her garden, especially the wonders of spider webs which she immortalized with her photography. From one of her photos, I painted this abstract. </div>
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<i><b>Spider Spins a Moonbeam,</b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhq2GdySBDXgLLgkqARu6QmVFQAEWMIGrV0yESENDjPSjnG_oCg0OqoINKo-ELYoQuBHh4hDU9nDU5UhIYuqqtNsaMmKHhNHibo4wA0QjjlCeAPCzdWbLRCbirUuB6SZXWSPOJO15ddA/s1600/spider+spins+a+moonbeam.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhq2GdySBDXgLLgkqARu6QmVFQAEWMIGrV0yESENDjPSjnG_oCg0OqoINKo-ELYoQuBHh4hDU9nDU5UhIYuqqtNsaMmKHhNHibo4wA0QjjlCeAPCzdWbLRCbirUuB6SZXWSPOJO15ddA/s400/spider+spins+a+moonbeam.png" width="287" /></a></div>
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Her garden was a symbol of the love that my mother gave to her children and grandchildren.</div>
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Her real garden was in her heart. This poem seems written just for her, like this post. She indeed is our greatest heirloom rooted deep within us.</div>
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"My garden is my refuge, I find a solace here.</div>
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I tiptoe toward the the rhythm and a rhapsody I hear:</div>
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The feathered ones give concerts, it seems they all agree</div>
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That now they are together, there needs to be melody.</div>
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The flowers show their colors as blossoms come to bloom-</div>
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they outdo one another in a wonder of perfume!</div>
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Extravaganzas greet me in the most exciting ways:</div>
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My heart is overfilling with the marvelous displays.</div>
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My song is not perfected, nor is my beauty rare,</div>
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But I receive a welcome within my garden prayer.</div>
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I dance within the stirrings of the love which takes control,</div>
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and I am elevated by the flutter in my soul!</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Rhapsodies within by Jeani M. Picklesimer.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomvH13a7CxM_gOlmlW3AsKXcoA3bwZy1mjJVM9U1vCT09SV7hYrSeid6uTjqfmQZI3A3rdMgmD_9A2Jxtt5gcxT58JsJdfR-_Xs4gB8pZU_wzbIMA1L-Ob5dts55yXbzV93yhQwWG5Q/s1600/spring+blossoms+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomvH13a7CxM_gOlmlW3AsKXcoA3bwZy1mjJVM9U1vCT09SV7hYrSeid6uTjqfmQZI3A3rdMgmD_9A2Jxtt5gcxT58JsJdfR-_Xs4gB8pZU_wzbIMA1L-Ob5dts55yXbzV93yhQwWG5Q/s400/spring+blossoms+.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Photograph by Angi Souza</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-91322139606375813102015-04-15T11:31:00.002-07:002015-04-16T08:52:47.694-07:00LISTENING TO THE SECRETS OF AN OLD HOUSEOld houses tell secrets.They tell those secrets in all kinds of ways: photographs, old records, in scratches on the wall where children told their growth spurts. Sometimes, if you are lucky, someone comes along and opens the treasure box of secrets. You get to peel away layers of stories and countless dramas played out between the walls. I got lucky, someone came along.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNGfmfNp6_vXGxHuNLyLXwEsi-lfxzHVzA0D6slVWMLCF9YidLKJXLEPm8W2m0gfZjKarUjaDY2ghBrOEz4Hs0TPvFUAG96hsWJmDNBJzXk0slwHrROW-H6TU0RzP61QXqVs943REDg/s1600/sign-+Blinn's%2BCourt%2B.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiNGfmfNp6_vXGxHuNLyLXwEsi-lfxzHVzA0D6slVWMLCF9YidLKJXLEPm8W2m0gfZjKarUjaDY2ghBrOEz4Hs0TPvFUAG96hsWJmDNBJzXk0slwHrROW-H6TU0RzP61QXqVs943REDg/s1600/sign-+Blinn's%2BCourt%2B.png" height="260" width="400" /></a><br />
A few months ago, a reader commented on one of my posts. Thus began a dialogue. As we chatted online we discovered that she and I had grown up ( myself, at least for part of my childhood) in the same house. She is much younger so it made even more interesting. We grew up in a house on Blinns' Ct in the Village in Taunton, MA.<br />
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Here is the house on Blinn's Court as it looks today. Her parents bought it in 1971 and proceeded to lovingly renovate it. It bears little resemblance, as you shall see, to the house where I and my family spent part of our history.,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaHRliLODec9gT4X-0fTbcdvJMnyOKdX5FrKFFQEUbwW_BZcRI1hxvlfkoyJ0tMT3VJFWpcZvA-x7z7XpvlyTRZIXH7zO1ox-70Yg3sG9rVWBOrcwWNCQ721WAayMoLO99fhUeMBNZQ/s1600/20+Blinn's%2BCourt%2B.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaHRliLODec9gT4X-0fTbcdvJMnyOKdX5FrKFFQEUbwW_BZcRI1hxvlfkoyJ0tMT3VJFWpcZvA-x7z7XpvlyTRZIXH7zO1ox-70Yg3sG9rVWBOrcwWNCQ721WAayMoLO99fhUeMBNZQ/s1600/20+Blinn's%2BCourt%2B.png" height="418" width="640" /></a></div>
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It appears, with exceptions, that many of the houses in the Village were built in the early 1900's as was the<span style="text-align: center;"> particular house we are discussing on Blinn's Court . Our reader remembers an elderly lady of about 90 years of age, telling her (she was ten at the time) that she had been born in that house. Another link. Given time, city records would give us a whole lot more. </span><br />
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In the 1940's my parents bought the three decker, which was almost at the end of the dead -end street just off School Street. Blinn's Court and Lane's Avenue just next to it are hills awesome for sledding, especially then when there was little traffic.<br />
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The two additions on the right of the house in the above photo were not there in our time and the front entrance stairs were different. They were wooden stairs and landing. When I was 7 or so I would slip through the slats and hide away from the wind. There were no big windows either. I do not have one single full photo of this house as it was in the forties and fifties. I do have quite a few of my childhood time with which to try to build a picture of it.<br />
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The three decker on Blinn's Court housed three Souza families. We were on the first floor, our Aunt Eleanor and her family on the second, and our Aunt Alveda and her family were on the third. This appears below to be an earlier photo of the house and more like my memories. We did not have a fence and there was an old wooden garage where you see cars parked. On the front right grass near the street was a huge tree. It had a big filled cavity in the trunk just child-height. We would throw snowballs at it and make believe it was Stalin.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Fs46KSjA6xE4LBySHeASBT51xKxUdVTfhgiSs_MLzPOw_ynN-lg3_9gGZd20Ql1AOgOuT-7-5a6vKFoXuGOv_jFzQdA1SdVNVDdXJnGdO5zDFI0pHPf37vXUZpFLcDR_p3je11ZoCg/s1600/side-+20+Blinn's%2BCourt%2B.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Fs46KSjA6xE4LBySHeASBT51xKxUdVTfhgiSs_MLzPOw_ynN-lg3_9gGZd20Ql1AOgOuT-7-5a6vKFoXuGOv_jFzQdA1SdVNVDdXJnGdO5zDFI0pHPf37vXUZpFLcDR_p3je11ZoCg/s1600/side-+20+Blinn's%2BCourt%2B.png" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here is where the fun begins as we seek out the house history we made. Since our years there it has made a whole new batch of histories, to be sure.<br />
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Looking straight back to where the cars are in the above photo, the wooden two car garage had old fashioned garage doors that you had to manually open to the sides. In the picture below you can see those doors and that they are a little askew, There was no pavement on the driveway, just packed dirt, a lot easier on little knees that tended to get skinned. Here are a bunch of us kids just hanging out on our little red wagon.<br />
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1949</div>
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These are ancient (yet loved) photos and they get a little blurred when enlarged. Enlarging it one can see the wooden door going into the basement behind us cowkids with a little window in back of my brother. To the right are the stairs going up into the sunroom off the kitchen in the first floor apartment where we lived. The basement had a dirt floor, like many did in those days.<br />
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1948</div>
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Here is a better look of those back steps, and another of my little brother in the garb of the times. Note the ubiquitous grapevine. If you could peer around the other side of the steps you would see the old kerosene barrel sitting on its tripod. As you can see the wooden fence had seen better days. That was OK, we were all friends and real neighbors then and fences did not mean much. The house on the right is on Lane's Avenue. Our driveway started on Blinn's Court and opened up on Lane's Avenue, the next street over, We knew everyone on both streets, in the Village way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3g0vX70ZBkHVaej4Yw9Apv6myMKTGD5lhoxIyrcKPl7Syxuvy-WiTVUW1vtVCyUH_30ylk_FEKcclSlnm_sETxe-WX0UA1WSIq4I1Jy-CSFHg7XT-zwVRNb2jhm9kiDn7Ec4f-OH8g/s1600/frank+in+the+back+steps+20+blinn's%2B.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3g0vX70ZBkHVaej4Yw9Apv6myMKTGD5lhoxIyrcKPl7Syxuvy-WiTVUW1vtVCyUH_30ylk_FEKcclSlnm_sETxe-WX0UA1WSIq4I1Jy-CSFHg7XT-zwVRNb2jhm9kiDn7Ec4f-OH8g/s1600/frank+in+the+back+steps+20+blinn's%2B.png" height="640" width="456" /></a></div>
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Now you can see the side interior and exterior steps to the second and third floors. The window is on our first floor. I love this photo. I am sitting with my brother and Mom, the rest of the photo melting from age yet still perfect for a memory. I am pretty sure that those are asbestos shingles on the house...back then, who knew?<br />
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In back of little me waiting to walk up the hill to Fuller School are the front steps of the house. Pretty sure this is a joke about a school bus.... You can just make out the wooden side of the front steps with the slats where I used to hide and daydream. The front door was formal and not much used except for storing baby carriages and the like. Everyone used the back stairs for us and the side stairs for going to the 2nd and 3rd floors.<br />
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You can just about see the other houses on the street. I am told that my Grandfather Souza once owned a three decker on Blinn's Ct., I do not know which one.<br />
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Very old photo below of my sister and I on our bikes out in front of the house on Blinn's Court. The fence behind us went around the empty lot next door to us. This street was so safe, hardly any cars went up and down that we children played with security.</div>
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In 1949, my Mom and Aunt Eleanor hosted a Halloween Party for us "older" kids in the basement. Residing there was a big old coal furnace in the back of which I got my very first kiss. Brick walls and the musty smell of those cellars linger in my memory. Looks like all my classmates were invited and the decorations were great. I distinctly remember bobbing for apples in a big white enamel panella (as it was called in Portuguese) filled with cold water and bright red apples. I was growing up, after all here I am dressed as Carmen Miranda, a favorite movie star of the day.<br />
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1948</div>
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The distinct advantage for an adventurous toddler like my brother (here above with our Aunt Eleanor of the Second Floor) is that he could tell his Mom he was going to see Titi (diminutive for aunt in Portuguese) on the second floor, then say he was going to see Titi on the third floor and then announce he was going home. This he did not do. Instead .with our little black cocker spaniel shadowing him. he peddled his little tractor up the hill and along School St. Someone from the Village would eventually call my Mom or just bring him home.<br />
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Gives new meaning to "it takes a Village." </div>
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The memories come cascading through my mind. I remember walking (shakily) in an old pair of high heels outside on the dirt driveway and the sound and feel of it as I played at being a sophisticated lady. The sense of walking up the stairs to one of the Aunt's apartments and the slight tilt of those stairs. The well-used white refrigerators and stoves that cooked up the most wonderful meals and desserts, the birthday parties with a big dose of loving. The enameled kitchen tables and chairs.</div>
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A big old three decker laced with family and caring. Way back then it was not very updated but it was as comfortable as an old shoe. It saw my growing up and it seems many other growings up, too.</div>
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Imagine if this house could talk. Laughter, tears, small feet running here and there. We had one of the first TV's in the neighborhood, a little round 10" screen and into the small living room crowded as many as could fit to watch Uncle Milty.</div>
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The grass outside was soft and cushiony where in the summers we ran barefoot screaming with glee when a grown-up held a hose with sprinkling water to cool us off. We were always spending summer days sitting out on blankets for a nap or just lazy mind-meandering. Our grass was a thick cushion because we had a cess pool. When it rained a lot, it would bubble up and fertilize the grass. </div>
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A kind of night soil.</div>
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Here is my Dad cutting my brother's hair, my Uncle Bunny/John looking on. My Dad learned to be a barber when he served with the Civilian Conservation Core. My brother knew better then move around or a knock from the scissors handle would straighten him out. Again you see another rickety fence between us and the house on the other side.<br />
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The same Uncle Bunny bought the house from my parents around the early 1950's when it was decided we would go to live with my Grandmother Souza up at 184 School St. That School St. house story is for another time...but what a metamorphosis it has had!<br />
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The current owners of Blinn's Court graciously shared the photo of the Blinn's Court house as it is today and this excerpt from the deed as it passed from my uncle to them in 1971 when a new history page began.<br />
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The stories of houses paired with photographs are fascinating. I did a little internet research on this subject finding some charming anecdotes. One home owner bought her old home along with a big empty yard. She spent most of her time working on the house, neglecting the yard. Then, the first Spring the whole yard blossomed into a rainbow garden as its legacy gift to her. Not only was it a rainbow- they were arranged by color! Sometimes houses reach out to connect you to those who loved and lived in that house before you.<br />
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This was true for me when in the 80's I bought the little red house on Ashland St. built by Manny Silva (of the Top Hatters band back in the day) and his wife Kay. Manny was my Dad's partner and it felt strange to be there at first. Both of them had passed away. The color was its legacy.<br />
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They loved the color red. The house was red shingles, the wall to wall carpet everywhere was deep wine red and the kitchen had a wonderful red linoleum floor I loved to polish. The house did give up a few secrets: a printing plate of the Top Hatters discovered in a little nook. Like the house above, the first Spring brought forth a legacy garden of bright red tulips! When it was time to repaint the house, I had all the shingles removed and side board put on. Everyone waited to see what color it would be...well, of course, RED !<br />
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As a side note: I found this Christmas card photo of that little home on Ashland St.<br />
I had written it to my future husband. It was very early in our courtship, very early. I had written...Keep in Touch! The rest is our own history started in this little house in Taunton with our wedding day. W e moved from there right after the wedding<br />
(the house had found itself a new owner) and started our combined history<br />
in many other houses right up to where we are today.<br />
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I am grateful to the current Blinn's Court keepers of the house and their<br />
daughter, our reader, for sharing some of their history of that house<br />
with me, and with all those who follow this blog.<br />
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It is very true that when we return to visit a place where we have lived we go to<br />
where those memory-keeper houses still reside always seeking the echoes of our lives.<br />
We do not see the present there, our minds and hearts are full the the past.<br />
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Keep in touch, all, and perhaps you can share some of your house stories....<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397642438846383636.post-45296730075397067322015-03-16T07:42:00.002-07:002015-03-16T07:42:21.038-07:00MAKING YOUR WORDS LINGER<br />
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Still reading Pat McNees online and her "story catching", I found another phrase I love: "between rattles and rattling bones." McKnees , Stallings and Bragg have a book titled: <i><b>My Words are Going to Linger,</b></i> which is top of my list to read in the near future.<br />
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<i><b>"There was never yet an uninteresting life. </b></i></div>
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<i><b>Such a a things is an impossibility. Inside the</b></i></div>
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<i><b>dullest exterior there is a drama, a comedy,</b></i></div>
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<i><b>and a tragedy."</b></i></div>
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<b> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>Mark Twain</i></span></b><br />
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All lives contain those elements, one has only to scratch the surface of family members to see that.Those of us digging into the past for treasured facts and memories devour such books and websites. The search, in reality, is never ending. People go at their research and their presentations in all kinds of ways. Our own Eileen Gouveia painstakingly wrote out in long hand the memories she had as well as those told to her by her parents and others. She, as we know, has shared them with us. Many people do just that, writing out their thoughts and remembrances. It is always a possibility that in the future a curious descendant will enter all onto a computer and complete with photos. Arlene and her mother had saved many wonderful photos, which again, we have shared in this Blog.<br />
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Above a Page from Arlene Gouveia's</div>
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<i><b> Memories of the Village</b></i></div>
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Below is a newer, sort of hybrid manner of safeguarding and presenting memories, Scrapbooking. Not like the scrapbooking you and I grew up doing, but rather a craftier method of preservation. A whole new industry has grown around this hobby and Pinterest as well as the Net in general abounds in help for this endeavor. One of my sisters is doing scrapbooks for each of her grandchildren, a grand endeavor involving all types of tools and embellishments. Two of them, twins, cannot get enough of their scrapbooks. What a treasure to keep, to hold, and to look back on when they are adults and can share with their own children and grandchildren.</div>
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I am doing scrapbooks(below) now which will utilize marvelous collage tools on my computer such as Canva and Pic Monkey as well as many others. This is a work in progress as are all things that relate to memory-keeping. My dining room table has been pressed into use, as my computer </div>
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area is not sufficient</div>
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"The greatest gift we can give our families is the story that charts our history."</div>
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McKnee</div>
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ANOTHER WAY</div>
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Stan Pierce, however, chose a totally different way in recording the charting of his history. He began by sharing his story in posts on an on-line community publishing program that willfully blurs the lines between blogging and social networking (like Facebook and Twitter and formal blogs like this one) . Below is the Live Journal site is below for you to check out.<br />
<a href="http://www.livejournal.com/">http://www.livejournal.com</a><br />
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Stan started with his project around 1999-2003 and as all Storycatching it was an exciting journey.<br />
He indicates that Live Journal's time, as he knew it, has come and gone. However, it provided him a venue, a beginning, a template within which to frame his story. Stan interacted with others posting on the site.He began to post his own history stories and the response was amazing. As he was probably the oldest person posting, his online friends began to ask for more . First he made 100 friends and it went on from there, Stan entered into a whole new and interesting community.<br />
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He decided to review his posts culling them into his biography. After merging the posts, he found an online site that published them for him. This is a great option and one which eliminates the need to type and enter, cut and paste photos (not an easy task either by hand or on a computer, I assure you). Cut and paste gets old quickly.<br />
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Stan set his biography in a historical context, then goes on to lace his posts together in an easy, conversational manner. If you keep a journal and calendars, that might work for you for a foundation as Stan's posts did. Reading Stan's bio it is no wonder his readers enjoyed him so much.<br />
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He begins with:<br />
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<b> <i> "I am curious if you can remember the first toy that you had (and maybe the second). It has to be a toy you actually remember and one that your parents told you about."</i></b></div>
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He then skillfully goes in in paragraph bursts leading one back in time, awakening memories in many of us. One paragraph reads simply:<br />
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<i><b> "It was a good life."</b></i><br />
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and much later:<i> <b>" and that's a sample of life in a small city in Massachusetts </b></i></div>
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<i><b>in the 1934-1942 era".</b></i></div>
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Those years preceded my remembrances - just. I very much enjoy reading of those times. Things like "gas jets in every room", awaken one's imagination. Also, of course Stan writes as a boy and then a man, a different perspective from my own feminine voice, so his work is refreshing for this writer.<br />
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<i><b> When you are a child you make mudpies. then on day you realize </b></i></div>
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<i><b>you were really making memories. </b></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Sandra Pineault</span></div>
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Focused, his memories sharp and honed with telling, Stan gives his family a forever gift, movie-ready as the new saying goes. I really enjoyed hearing about the big bands and how he loved dancing to them in such places as Rosalind Ballroom in Taunton. This is a photo from Pinterest, your imagination supplies the music, right?<br />
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Wit, description of the smallest detail, a large dose of love for one's life, a sense of history - all those ingredients make for a fully-formed memoir. Watching the child, the boy, the teen and then the man you walk with him all the way. That is the way to tell a story.<br />
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Stan's memoir is 51 pages in length. When I wrote my Grandmother Isobel's story it was 100 pages but I included many photographs and it was a complicated story.. I have yet to tell my own story....hmmmm. Perhaps, Stan, you are the one to inspire me on. Right now, I write the stories of others which in reality ring around my own. The way you write a bio, your story or memoir depends on many things. In many ways our stories write themselves.<br />
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Stan finished his story, published it and then did a marvelous thing. He distributed a book to each of his children and grandchildren. Someday a future grandchild will start to ask about him and the information will be there for him or her. A forever gift, as I said.<br />
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Thank you, Stan, for your generous sharing and willingness for me to write about you. I hope I have done it some justice, and that it will inspire others.</div>
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RESOURCES </div>
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There are many e-book publishing sites on the net. Here is one to help you begin. </div>
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They vary in price and page limits.</div>
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<a href="http://www.your-life-your-story.com/autobiography.html">http://www.your-life-your-story.com/autobiography.html</a><br />
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Other sites to help: If you do Pinterest, look for the Board: Ancestry and enjoy. </div>
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This is a site from one of the pins to be found there...</div>
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<a href="http://www.atticlightstudios.com/page-layout---design.html">http://www.atticlightstudios.com/page-layout---design.html</a><br />
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Some notions about photography in telling your story. </div>
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This is from my blog.</div>
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