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.

Learn to Skate

Behind the house at 1777 South Street were three ponds tucked into a wooded area.  They were imaginatively named “The First Pond”, “The Second Pond”, and “The Third Pond”. Rarely were they ideal for skating because the surface would perpetually be leavened with leaves, twigs and branches, or snow. For early efforts at learning to ice skate, however, they were perfect.  There were frozen streams, too, that connected the three ponds, allowing you to conveniently skate from one to the next.  I was forever pursuing my brothers, who without warning would all race off to the next pond.  I think I cried a lot when they did that, not because they didn’t see me as their equal, but because of scary woodland creatures who would then be able to easily pick me off.  And that comment about “equal”, how could they consider me one of the gang when, on the ice, all I managed to do was tentatively walk around – in my skates – with crooked ankles nearly grazing the ice, arms akimbo?  It was a style that forced my body to do splits every ten feet or so.  Whenever the command “move!” was issued as I crossed into areas where frenzied hockey action was taking place, I responded with a fresh startle reflex much like an infant who has been presented with a sudden loud noise or a bright light, my feet shooting out from under me and my arms splaying.   And I cried.  I was better at locating logs to sit on. . . and even better at experiencing hypothermia.  I should add that I did have an important role; whenever the puck sailed into the surrounding woods, I was sent to retrieve it.  Consequently, my skates required frequent sharpening. (pfff!  As if!). I grew up not very fond of skating. . . until I met David, and Johnson’s Pond in Raynham provided a new venue for that dance that teenage boys and girls do in large unsupervised groups.  My feet were just as cold then, too, but I didn’t mind. At least I didn’t cry.

Up for some shinny?

Have I mentioned that our family was BIG into hockey?  Well, it bears repeating.  All my brothers were groomed from an early age to be ice hockey players.  Mom and Dad imagined themselves, at least in the beginning, as devoted hockey parents.  So, I remember as a child watching my brothers in training, each, in turn, skating around the various ponds in Bridgewater, pushing a wooden kitchen chair in front of them.  Youngsters throughout Bridgewater likewise took to the area’s frozen bodies of water; there were several ponds and lakes that provided great conditions for skating: Carver Pond, Skeeter Mill Pond, Sturtevant’s Corner, and the Ice Pond (aka State Farm Pond).  It didn’t strike me as especially fun; therefore, despite all the enforced hours logged on area ponds, I never progressed.  Impressed as I was with Peggy Fleming, her moves just totally flummoxed me.  

The 1960’s and 70’s were the sweet spot, I believe, for pick-up games in which teams were naturally selected by blood ties.  The baby boom generation – lots of families with lots of kids – provided a ripe culture for casual team sports.  The Bruins’ success, too, in the early 70’s converted young spectators into NHL aspirants.  Although gear was optional, hockey gloves were one of the more prized pieces of equipment, given that rules of engagement were rather loose, and hands were constantly getting smashed.  It didn’t matter if they were mismatched, or had holes, or even fit properly.  On the other hand, a helmet, perhaps the most important appurtenance from a long-term health standpoint, was alarmingly absent. Although randomly assembled teams were a perfectly acceptable option, in many cases entire teams could be made up of a single family or a neighborhood combination of families.  Hence, there were rivalries that evolved rather organically; the Morrisseys and Maloneys, for example, nurtured a competitive relationship that regularly included family sponsored fighting.  Kevin, of course, in his typically zealous manner, nobly did his part for the Morrisseys.  As feared as he might have been by his foes, there was great admiration of his skill set, which extended even to ice surface management.  Few kids, for example, would risk submerging their own vehicles in order to clear the ice of snow.  As the baton was later passed to younger brothers Marty and Bob, the family names changed; the Heslin brothers and the Blakelys brought greater finesse and skill to the pond hockey scene.  At this point, kids could just generally boast a more expansive indoctrination.  Organized hockey had arrived in Bridgewater.

Pick-up style hockey continued to enjoy popularity in subsequent decades, but, naturally, the game has experienced a metamorphosis.  What we observe today is akin to a coming-of-age; rarely do we see genuine, improvised games on local ponds.  It catches our eye when we do see a small handful of kids with sticks in hand, movement back and forth between two makeshift goals on a suitably frozen pond.  Even the length of the season has shortened; in earlier years it might have been possible to take to the ice in November; extended periods of cold are much rarer these days.  

Baby boomers never really left their passion behind, however. Pick-up games now more readily conjure ice rink settings, and schedules are firmly set.  And if you live in cold winter states such as Minnesota or Colorado, outdoor pick-up tournaments, which draw thousands of participants and are often sponsored by big-name purveyors of beer, bring you that much closer to your unfulfilled dream of playing professionally.  They’re highly organized programs, with perimeter boards and goalie nets that are the real deal, (one even boasts Zamboni service!), so prepare accordingly.  Make sure you arrive with matching gloves, fashion forward attire, and a mouthguard for your few remaining original teeth.