While Bob was born in the Bridgeport Hospital, he was soon relocated to his permanent home, 5 Brooklawn Terrace. The house was a two-story frame, with detached garage facing roughly north and south (DI-4). Had a full basement and an attic with a bedroom and bath, which served as the maid’s quarters (in good times). The interior of the house was split more-or-less into north/south halves. The north half contained a kitchen to the east, a dividing breakfast nook and then a dining room to the west. A dividing wall separated the north and south portion of the house. With two young boys, the kitchen and breakfast nook saw a lot of activity. Entering the breakfast nook from the dining room, there was a table with bench seats to the left that could accommodate 4 seated comfortably. There was a window looking out into the back yard. Across from the table in an alcove reaching to the living room wall, was a three-drawer chest with a nice deep top with cabinets in front and on both sides. This was a perfect place for a bar where Pop could play his art or otherwise do his thing. Moving into the kitchen, there was a sink and associated counters to the left, and to the right was the stove that with associated storage facilities and counters took up the space to the living room wall. Directly across from the stove (8 or 10 feet or so) was the door to the cellar and to the outside and the driveway. From the cellar door, a wall extended some 2/3 the way to the back of the house (about opposite the sink), creating a small alcove extending to the eastern and northern walls of the house. This walled area was actually a stairwell to the second floor, meeting the twin stairwell from the living room on a small landing. From that point, traffic turned west, mounted three more stairs to the main second floor corridor. The small alcove was large enough to accommodate our refrigerator. Directly across from the stairwell door was the back door leading to a small “mudroom” and then another door to the left and the back porch. The porch was recessed between the breakfast nook and the mudroom. Between the sink area and back door was a table pushed up to three windows looking out across the back porch.
I will tell you about part of the house in detail because it was the center of a lot of activity (not all good). Two incidents stand out during that time. Mom was in the kitchen while the kids and Dad were in the living room. Suddenly, a crash and a scream from the kitchen and we all leaped up to see what in the world was happening. Turns out she opened one of the drawers in the cabinet on the stairwell wall and there cuddled in a dish cloth was a family of some 6 baby mice, all nice and pink with eyes closed. With deference to PETA, Dad’s solution (and mine too) was a bucket of water. Picking up the six little mice by the tail, each was dropped into the bucket, and when they turned blue, into the garbage. We did have mouse issues and we deployed mouse traps on a regular basis with mixed results. While it seems cruel, there were no if, and or buts in this solution, nor was it as bad as a trap. At any rate it sure explained why Mom freaked out, and I must say it was not a fun experience for any of us.
The second incident involved Pop in the kitchen and Mom, Dick and I in the living room. In this case there was no scream, but rather a loud clatter, banging and shouting. Turns out, Pop had picked up some nice Maine lobsters from the Ocean Sea Grill and seafood Co. and proudly announced we would be eating like kings tonight. As most of you know, a Maine lobster is quite different from a Florida lobster. The principal difference was in the two large claws on the Maine variety. To avoid having customers snapped by one of those claws, small wooden wedges were (and are) jammed in at the base of the claw so it cannot open. About 4 good sized lobsters were in a shopping bag, and a large pot with boiling water was ready on the stove (no mice this time). Dad gingerly picked one of the lobsters out of the bag (that’s the way people pick up Maine lobsters with those big claws). The lobster squirmed and slipped out of Dad’s hand and fell to the floor and in the process a wooden wedge popped out. Too bad we didn’t have portable TV recorders back then. The scene that greeted us upon entering the kitchen was nothing less than hilarious. Picture this: Dad running around with a small ax he had brought in to spit the lobster after cooking. At that moment, the ax was considered a weapon of self-defense as the lobster scurried around the kitchen floor waving his one free claw and snapping it in rapid fashion. Now Pop was a pretty good ax man, but no matter how hard he swung, the lobster managed to dodge. Finally, by pure luck, “Pop” connected, and the lobster was committed to the pot amongst roars of laughter and applause. That of course was short lived when we looked at the chopped-up floor. The cost of this victory? The cost of a new kitchen floor, and an unhappy Mom.
A large entryway led from the dining room south to the living room which occupied the entire south half of the first floor. The living room was divided east and west into roughly three segments. Dead center as you entered the front door was a fireplace with built in bookcases on each side. I should mention here that there was a double front door. The first outside door led to a covered entry where coats and boots could be shed before entering the door leading to the living room. This protected the occupants from cold or hot blasts of air created by opening the door. Completing this central congregation area was, to the west (left) a full-sized couch running from the dining entry toward the front of the house, and to the east (right) a couple of easy chairs and tables. This middle section was a bit more than 1/3 of the area and was the central activity portion of the living room.
The eastern segment of the living room was dominated by the staircase to the second story against the eastern wall of the house. This flight of stairs ended in a landing with a matching set of stairs descending to the kitchen area. From the landing three stairs led up to an east west corridor (hall) defining the upstairs. The first room to the left (south) of the hall was the guest room, where my dad slept most of the time (he snored often and loud). That room had an attached bathroom with a tub and shower. We kids used that bath most of the time. The room had two windows facing the street directly in line with the end of the driveway and the streetlight. Across the hall was what we called the “little room”. My brother Dick claimed that one which was called little because ¼ of the space was taken by the attic stairs aligned with the main stairwell. Right across from the attic door was another opening onto a small upstairs screen porch. Just big enough for a couple of chairs, tables and lights. It was wide enough for reasonable leg room. Dick loved it and had it well decorated with beer bottle candle holders and other period memorabilia. It was a fine, usually cool retreat for a summer evening (without parents, or me for that matter). It covered the area we called the back porch.
Down the hall on the left was the master bedroom, where I spent a lot of sick days. Directly across the hall was the master bathroom (where I was allowed to pee). Finally at the end of the hall was my room. It occupied the north/west corner of the house. I had two windows, one facing north and the other west. Looking out the western window I could see the traffic running up and down Stratfield Rd. and could hear it too. While I didn’t know it, I had perfect exposure to what is now called the Doppler effect of sound. It is that sound exhibited by tires on pavement, especially big truck and bus tires, where the sound starts out faint and builds in volume to a crescendo and then fades away. This phenomenon is exhibited in satellites as they orbit the earth allowing for sophisticated tracking and distance calculations (i.e., GPS – Global Positioning System). From my north window I could see the corner of the upstairs porch’s roof, and during the summer, I really had the coolest (literally) room in the house, because the cross-breeze created with both windows open was delightful. Even in the winter I just buried myself further under the blankets.
One of my first and earliest memories in that room occurred early on the morning of May 6, 1937. Now that is way back there, and I was just about 8½ years old. Certain things you remember when you were young. In this case I heard engines with a curious clanking sound to them. The morning was a little foggy, but looking out my west window I saw what I considered a humongous blimp, or zeppelin eerily “drifting” southwestward through the mist toward NY. Turned out it was the famous German Von-Hindenburg dirigible heading for its birth at the Naval Air Station, Lakehurst, NJ. I know the date because that very night on the evening news, word of the crash and burning of that fabulous dirigible shown in these photos (Courtesy “Airships.com, a dirigible and zeppelin site”). It was in fact the top of the news that night and in the next morning papers (DI-5).
Back to the house after that brief diversion. Out of my room and back downstairs, the western segment of the living room was mostly a wide passage to the dining room. In the front corner of that space was Pop’s favorite chair and reading spot complete with hassock and right next to the front window (and a radiator). A small bookcase was located next to the chair and right next to double doors leading to a screen porch that ran the width of the house (A second set of double doors led to the dining room). Between there and the dining room was a fine piano (maybe Baldwin?) My mom loved to play, and where the whole family would gather on Christmas Eve to sing Christmas carols (or other bawdier selections as other occasions dictated). Next to the piano was a fancy radio with an automatic record changer and player. From there the likes of Lowell Thomas, Walter Winchell, and Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians held forth most nights and NY disc-jockeys filled the days.
A tall privet hedge along the western property line gave the porch almost total privacy since there was no door to the outside. In the front inside of the porch was a deck-type dining table with chairs. There was a glider along the house wall as well as several cushioned chairs. When you consider central air conditioning was a thing of the future (with window units sporadic at best and even rarer in the northern states), the porch with fan was a Godsend in the summer (unless there was driving rain). To my memory, we not only ate many meals out there, but there was no better place to witness a thunderstorm (not for Ma though).
Significant changes have occurred over the years. The aforementioned screen porch has been closed in (shame). I guess in the neo-era central air conditioning and heating, a big screen porch is not very efficient. Outside, spanning the driveway (where the car is parked in the picture) was a Porte cochere (a covered entryway) where we could enter or leave the house and keep dry, and it provided direct access to the basement (Where the car is parked in the picture). Between sidewalk and street, was a nice line of Norway maples (Acer platinodes). A telephone pole has remained in the same place, but the driveway was dirt, and gravel and not nicely paved as in the picture. In the late ‘30’s the neighborhood grew, and our house number changed to 294 Brooklawn Terrace.
This was all happening as the 18th amendment to the US Constitution (Prohibition of the sale of alcoholic beverages in the US) was coming to an end, to be replaced by the 21st amendment repealing the 18th. While this has little to do with Joyce or Bob directly (I hope), there were some artifacts left around to remind us of the extent to which some went to circumvent the onerous 18th. Hard cider, for example. At the far end of our basement there were two rooms: one on the left (front of the house) and one on the right (back of the house). The back room was a laundry with two deep sinks and an onerous washing machine complete with roll dryer that had a mind of its own. Anything that dangled was in mortal danger when the machine was operating; but I digress. The front room was for storage where “Ma” would store her preservatives (peaches, pears, blueberries etc.). It was also a repository for two old barrels of hard cider (considered by many to be a preservative as well) “Pop” had which were mostly empty (of course). “Mostly” here was the operative word, for the residual hard cider had morphed into a foul-smelling sludge that smote the senses like a brick wall. I often thought “Ma” should have stored her most valuable items here for it was unlikely any burglar would spend much time looking in there.
Beyond the Porte co-Chere was a two-car detached garage (just visible in the picture). Like most garages (even today) two cars just fit with all the other “stuff” stored there. In the back of the house, was a narrow rectangular backyard much of which was dedicated as a “victory garden” during the ‘40’s (WWII). At the very back of the yard, “Pop” built a dog run to accommodate a rambunctious German Short-haired Pointer named “Bess”. I remember one day coming home and heading for the front door. To the left toward a flower bed along the property line I noticed several pieces of black cloth and what seemed to be a mangled box with the name “D.M Read Co.”. When I asked “Ma” what all this was, she went ballistic. Turns out Read’s delivered a black cocktail dress she ordered for a dinner-dance she had finally cajoled “Pop” to take her to. He just thought he was off the hook. Unfortunately, Bess found the box before anyone else. I thought the marriage was about to end right there (“it’s me or the dog; your choice” kind of thing). An acceptable compromise was the dog run.
Of course, on a more practical basis the dog run was essential. Bess was an unspayed female. A couple of times a year the backyard was a virtual zoo of dogs. Most dogs ran loose back then, and it seemed every single male made it to our back yard in those “ripe” situations. Every time Bess was let out of the run, she would make a beeline for the back porch. Now our back porch was an open area right under the small up-stairs screen porch. Access to the house was to the left through a door to a small kitchen pantry/mudroom. One day I was standing in the driveway when “Pop” let the dog out. A blur went by me and made a mad leap up to the back porch. Well now, there were four steps up to the porch and Bess made three of them. Her front legs went out as her chin smacked the deck and with her four legs splayed, clattered into the side of the house. Ma was standing in the doorway as the dog ended up in a heap and she dissolved into hysterics when the dog hopped right up as if nothing happened. Bess was clumsy but an excellent hunter with a joyful personality, and we loved her dearly. However hard we tried, the inevitable happened, when one morning we went out and found a dirty, raggedy, albeit sexually adequate “friend” ensconced inside the run with her…she died in puppy-birth.
Before Bess, two other dogs were part of our lives: Jackie, a brown and white Springer Spaniel, which I barely remember. I think she died of Distemper (a distinctly fatal canine malady of the day). My favorite, Spotty, a black and white Springer was around during my pre-teen and teen years. As is typical for the species, both these dogs were loveable and kid friendly (good thing). They were inside and outside dogs, but being long-haired, picked up all kinds of transportable vegetation including cockle-burrs. Combining them out from time to time was a real exercise. These dogs were great hunters also. Instead of pointing to the prey (birds: pheasant, ruffed grouse, woodcock) as a pointer does (or is supposed to), Spaniels would barge right in and flush them into the air where “Pop” or us kids would have slightly more than 0% chance of bagging them (though I never did). I must say that the overall or even local game bird populations did not suffer much from our intrusions, and dinners of them were rare. You must remember that wild game and animals raised domestically do not taste the same. Wild game is a bit more “gamey”, I guess is the best way to put it, and it really is an acquired taste. Missing many such meals did not pose a serious setback to us kids.
As mentioned, the utility of the backyard came into play during World War II (1941-1947, plus a few). The patriotic name for them was “victory gardens”. Of course, during war mobilization, many things became scarce, but none more than oil/gas. There was gasoline rationing, where stickers were placed on your vehicle indicating how much gas you could get per week. How much depended on how necessary the vehicle was to your livelihood, or the community (Doctor’s, etc.). The price of anything transported by truck, especially long distances, rose dramatically (No Interstate highways even thought of until the mid-50s), thus the victory gardens (tomatoes, squash, green beans, peas, cauliflower, etc.). Plenty of organic materials were deemed essential to the successful productivity of these gardens. To this end, “Pop” would have a truck load of manure delivered each spring (and a sizable, aromatic pile it was).
Every year, great Uncle Ed Leeds (“Ma”), a proper gentleman from New York City traditionally spent Christmas with us. On Christmas Eve or perhaps a day before, we would all drive down to the train station, pick him up and bring him home. It was generally quite cold, and often in the evening we would have a fire going. I can see Uncle Ed now, standing in front of the fire, thumbs in his vest pockets, spinning one yarn after another, to which we kids sat spell-bound while the adults rolled their eyes. One year (for some reason or other) he came to visit in the spring during “spreading time”. Standing just off the back porch with his thumbs characteristically in his vest pockets, he was pontificating on some point or another when he sneezed, and a bright shiny upper plate arched through the air to alight on the top of the steaming manure pile. Like Bess before him, he undoubtedly strode forward and picked them off the manure, brushed them briskly on his trousers and plopped them back in his mouth as if nothing ever happened (I am not making this stuff up! – uh -maybe a slight exaggeration from time to time to emphasize a point). As with the Bess episode, “Ma ” had a hard time containing herself.
The telephone pole and light clearly visible from our guest room, was a critical feature of the landscape. Every kid then as now cherishes “snow days’ ‘. The light was a bellwether: if it were snowing at night when we went to bed the chances of no school tomorrow were good (cheers). If snow was not evident by bedtime, chances were good school would be open (groans). We all walked to school, so road conditions were not an issue (usually). The light also furnished my very first recollection of anything that occurred in March of ’34 (only 5 then), the year of the big blizzard. I really don’t remember much except for the guttural grind of an over extended truck engine before sunrise one morning. My brother Dick called me in to see. Out in front under the streetlight was a truck and plow totally buried under a huge snow drift. I know nothing else about it except next spring it will be gone.
While we are talking about the streetlight, one more ridiculous episode needs to be told. Several years after the big blizzard, we had another big snowstorm, but not debilitating. Dick with his brand-new Argus C3 camera (current state of the art) rousted me before dawn and convinced me to go with him to capture some fantastic scenes of the pristine snow before vehicle and foot traffic ruined it. I grudgingly put on all my heavy stuff and went with him to be his “assistant”. God it was cold and hungry out there, and we must have trudged around for at least an hour. Later, warm and in the house, I told Ma about our early morning adventure and when she asked Dick how many pictures he managed to take, he glumly said, “20 and all of the inside of my camera” He had forgotten to take off the lens cover. The urge to kill has never been greater, but I was too small.
At this point I need to mention a very positive influence in my life: an aunt and uncle. Aunt Genie (Eugenia) and Uncle Hubie (Hubert) Morfey. Eugenia was one of Pop’s older sisters (about 10 years), and we nick-named her “Squirt or Shrimp” for she was a short, but not skinny person. Hubert was a former British artillery officer in World WarI (1914-1918). We nick-named him “Ham” for reasons I quite forgot (but probably about the war stories he would spin about his time serving in the Royal Artillery during that time). For physical reasons, Eugenia could not have children of her own, so they made themselves available as surrogates when “Ma” and “Pop’ were out of town. Back in those days, women didn’t work at a paying job, so “Shrimp” fulfilled the house-wife roll well, though Anna the maid was a big help. “Ham” was a well respected and successful underwriter for the Equitable Life Assurance Co. Not only did they fill in for weekends, but for extended periods of a week to 10 days upon occasion (DI-5). See, she was shorter than Joyce, hence the nick-name.
Of course it was in our early life that they had the most influence. I don’t know if I would have ever matriculated from grammar school if “Ham” had not tutored me heavily in mastering the concept of fractions. He actually wrote a poem that began: “These fractions are pie for you so let’s get busy and get through ”. I don’t remember the rest but it worked and totally impressed my teacher and principal, Miss Regina Stuesick. Ham thought of her as just outstanding as an educator and she was very happy to work with parents (guardians). Of course we were all terrified of her and the very last place any of us wanted to be was sitting in her office awaiting an audience. She was one of those people you didn’t appreciate until much later, I remember her coming into our 6th grade class and reading us all the riot act about something, and for effect wheeling on her heel, opening the door and just as it closed, “Crash!!”, and the door slowly opened, You see, that door was to the mop and broom closet right next to the door out into the hallway. Rest assured there was no laughter at that point, and not a word from Miss. Stuesick as she quietly exited.
Uncle Hubie also taught us how to swim, while we were fairly young. My first lesson (they tell me) was when he suddenly pushed me into the pool at the Black Rock Yacht Club. No water wings, life jacket or anything except me and my bathing suit. I sputtered mightily but managed to dog paddle to the side of the pool, work my way to the ladder, and got out. “Best way to learn” he said, Anyway it seemed to work so it was a few days later (they tell me) at the same pool an elderly guy, and friend of Ham, came walking up as we were all lounging on the deck of the pool. Of course “big mouth” here asked the guy if he could swim. Trying not to get into a long conversation with this tyke, he said no, and turned facing the pool. Well, based on Ham’s advice, I gave a mighty push to his back side and sure enough, in he went, As he sputtered to the surface, I simply said: “Uncle Hubie says this is the best way to learn how to swim”. Poor Ham was sitting in his lounge in complete horror. Instead of being furious (as he was well justified in being), one look at Ham and the guy burst out laughing, and hopped out of the pool. I guess the look on Ham’s face made it all worthwhile. Of course there were other witnesses around who all doubled over as well and while I heard no more about it, I am sure it was brought up during various cocktail hours that evening. “Ma” and “Pop” found out and shared a few comments with me, but could hardly hide the smirk.
While they had us, the Morfey’s did a lot with us. Along with my parents (sort of), they were active members of the United Congregational Church, where “Ham ” was an usher and deacon (my “Pop” was not nearly as active). Every Sunday we spent with the Morfey’s we were in Sunday School. Overall, we spent a lot of time involved in church activity. Most of the time we took the bus, which dropped us almost to the front door. It was on the corner of State Street and Park Ave. a mile or so north of Seaside Park (DI-5)
Ham was an avid supporter of all kinds of sailing vessels, to the point he built his own 15½’ centerboard “knockabout’ ‘ Marconi rigged (mainsail and jib) sailboat in his garage on Hilltop Rd. Blackrock CT. A centerboard replaced a keel and had the advantage of being retractable so one could venture into shallow waters. He spent many hours out there in the garage paying attention to the most meticulous detail, except one: the overall width of the beam. It was slightly too large to get out the garage door. Well, I guess the garage could have stood a bit of a remodeling job, because that is exactly what had to happen to get the boat (named “Genie”) out and launched. Later in life there was to be a “Genie II”, but we spent most of our time in “Genie I”. The original mooring was in Black Rock Harbor, at the Black Rock Yacht Club. It was located on Cedar Creek directly across from Fairweather Island and lighthouse.
Although Ham was a naturalized American citizen, and proud of it, he never lost touch with his British background. After all, his “Mum” still lived over there along with a sister Phillis and a brother Roger (I think). He had another sister living in Australia, named Dorothy. From time to time he would host some British dignitaries who happened to be in the area. One of those was a manufacturers representative of the Ratsie Sail Company, at the time the stellar sail company in the world and may still be. At any rate he was in this country promoting his product through the just completed 1937 America’s Cup race in which the new American J boat Ranger with Marconi rig defeated the British Gaff rigged Endeavour, one of the last of the racers so rigged. The moving pictures he had of that race were breathtaking even in black and white. I remember feeling like I could almost taste the salt spray. I also realized quickly that racing was a great and exciting sport, if you could afford it, Ratsey made the sails for both boats (DI-6).
Speaking of British visiting dignitaries, Ham once had a British cleric by the name of Robert Peel, and yes a descendant of Sir Robert Peel of British historical fame. He was a most interesting guy full of stories and rich British humor. Whenever the occasion arose for a “thank you”, Robert would always say “thank you very much” (add your own British accent). Aunt Genie very diplomatically suggested to him that the term “thank you” could very well stand on it’s own in this country, and “very much” was not really necessary. Upon leaving he grasped the hand of the hostess and proclaimed with passion: “thank you, but not very much”. A good lesson on leaving well enough alone. Of course there was a twinkle in his eye when he said it.
Back to the Yacht Club. After we had to drop our family membership at the Brooklawn Country Club (“Pop” still retained a golf membership for business), we joined Black Rock Yacht Club for a few years, On weekends when we were staying with the Morfey’s (weather permitting) we were on Ham’s boat eather for a picnic lunch on Fairweather Island (across the harbor) or out watching the races, which was usually the case. Serious racing was done among three major class boats; Star, Lightning and Atlatic, from smallest to largest. We usually would go out to see the Atlantics. We soon left the Yacht Club to join the Fairfield Beach Club. They had good tennis courts, and Ma enjoyed playing, but so did we. Meanwhile the Morfey’s pulled up moorings and re-moored at the Pequot Yacht Club in Southport. We still went out on weekends but there was an added attraction, Cokenoe (pronounced “Co Kee Nee) Island, a small island just off the coast that typically represented the end of a leg of an Atlantic race course. While we could have beached the boat given our centerboard capability, we just anchored instead, had lunch and watched the races.
The Morfey’s moved from Black Rock to Fairfield Beach and joined the Beach Club. They became famous for their often held picnic lunches that seemed to become a family affair. These went on for years even after Aunt Genie died, to the point that even some of our kids remember them. Other things we did with the Morfey’s included multiple trips to the National Boat Show in City Island, NY and the 1939 World’s Fair in Flushing NY. To say that “Ham” and “Squirt” had a positive impact on our youth (would be an understatement. Uncle Hubie spent his last years with a new wife Helen, a widow of an old friend and colleague John Tewksberry. They shared the Tewksbury’s ample home and property in Brookfield CT, just north of Newtown (of school shooting fame).