The Morrisseys move to another very old house in Bridgewater

415 Titicut (as of 1949)

In 1959 the family moved from South Street to a little cape-style house just a few miles away on Titicut Street.  At the time, we were still a family of six.  Margaret would be born in 1960, followed two years later by Martin, and then another two years by Robert.  Surrounded by open fields on all sides, the seven-room house sat at perhaps the highest point in town; in fact, I have it on good authority that Titicut Hill is one of the highest elevations in Plymouth County.  Granted, a vast prison complex interrupted an otherwise expansive view, but few could find fault with those amazing sunrises and sunsets.  In no house since then have I found anything comparable.

One of the more unique features that our property boasted was the small graveyard (a magnet for all kinds of childhood activities) tucked in along the lot’s southern margin.  The lot was about one acre, with a windbreak of cedar trees that buffered against Noreasters. The day we arrived was a crisp, windy day in October; the lawn, I recall, was in severe need of mowing, and a massive tree stump in the front yard drew adult attention, specifically, how to remove it.  After months – maybe years – of axe-wielding by my older brothers that failed to reduce the stump in any measurable way, there was talk of applying more aggressive methods – first fire, then dynamite.  

As for structures, in addition to a house in desperate need of updating, there was a detached garage (that Mom learned well into her next pregnancy was just a little too narrow); there was also a semi-detached building that Dad converted into his “library”, which he filled to capacity with every imaginable history and geography reference book, atlas, and map.  One of its features, the recollection of which I would happily expunge, but that my older brothers remember with, um, fondness, was its “inhouse outhouse”.   While it seems that homeowners have a tendency to want to expand living space with additions (especially as the family expands), in time we adopted a “less is more” mindset; first the garage was reduced to rubble, then the library (with its consequent exodus of rats), and finally the porch.  

Having lived in earlier years on a farm with endless possibilities, our expectations were naturally high.  It is likely that we kids would have rebelled against our seemingly constricted living conditions had there not been a great deal of newness to explore, both inside and out.  Certainly the house and the lot it sat on were on a much reduced scale, but that fall we set about in earnest to uncover the quirks and captivating features of our new realm. 

Outdoors, we quickly found at least a few trees worthy of climbing. Of particular value – from a kid’s standpoint – were the maple at the back edge of the property and a Bartlett pear tree close to the front corner of the house on the north side.  In the early years we enjoyed scurrying up the tree and across the roof.  In later years we used it to sneak out of the house, taking the reverse route.  In season, that tree produced the best, juiciest pears I’ve ever had!  The perennial risk, however, was the occasional bee sting that you’d get when running across the lawn in bare feet; bees were just as in love with our Bartletts, and would get down to business with the smooshy, sweet pears that fell to the ground.  We kids, separately – and competitively, would track the progress of the ripening fruit. We would know the ones that held the greatest promise; from the ground, we judged size, shape, and likelihood of flesh perfection as the hot days of summer worked their magic.  It was a delicate balance; you had to be patient enough to allow for full maturity, but not wait one day over, for every other sibling was engaged in the same type of wordless maneuver.  Fraternal impatience, alas, spelled the untimely plucking of too many pears of great potential.

In contrast to the Bartlett tree, another pear tree in the back yard faithfully produced hard, barely consumable little fruits with tough skins.  We never knew – or cared to know – the name of that strain of pear; it was just always ever referred to as the “winter pear”.  We urchins may have devoted more surveillance time to our cherished Bartlett, but in late fall, pickins’ be slim; you ate what the land produced, gagging at times on undesirable inhabitants, or – conversely – taking delight in the occasional crisp, somewhat tart flesh of the winter pear.

One of my most uncomfortable memories is of the day that I decided to accelerate the maturation process (of the Bartlett), and in so doing nearly rendered my sister a vegetable.  I wanted to assist the tree in dropping one of its prizes, so I found a long, 4-prong potato fork, and hoisted it above my head in hopes of “harvesting” my target.  I wasn’t strong enough to impede or control its downward arc; it came crashing down into the top of Margaret’s skull.  Fearful of Mom’s reaction to fratricide by one of her own – it had never happened to our family before, that I know of, - I hesitated.  And, no, my temporizing wasn’t because I was contemplating flight, a new identity, and a shiny new life on the lam.  I just wanted to present the facts in as reassuring a manner as the circumstances would allow. . . so that Mom wouldn’t kill me.  Margaret is still with us, and by all observable measures is fully functioning, both physically and intellectually.  She’s way sharper than me, so I’m able to comfortably conclude “no harm, no foul”, and put the incident behind me. . . finally.  As you can see, it’s taken a long time.  Mea culpa, Marg.  I hope it doesn’t take another half-century to restore your faith and trust in me.