Emily Hall (we called her Momily for reasons unknown, but probably similar to the reasons our cousins and others called Mom “Nenna”) was friendly and very much the farmer wife. Bud was the father, big and strong and we mostly avoided him although he seemed nice (we were little and he was big and that alone was enough to scare us off). I remember contemplating the circumstances of his death – walking home from the post office, crossing the tracks, and collapsing on the side of the road with a heart attach, spotted by a passing motorist – less than 50 yards from his front door.
The oldest son Al Hall competed in 4 Olympics (1950’s & early 60’s) and won medals as a Hammer Thrower. Although he was considerably older than me, it was fun to watch him on TV claim to know him. David Hall went off to Vietnam and went MIA after his helicopter crashed (we found his name on the memorial wall in D.C.). Sally Hall, daughter & youngest – but still older than us, later married and moved to Guilford NH (location for a few stories - including a ghost story - to come later).
The most famous family story involving the Hall family and ours is this: Nenna crosses the street to visit with Momily. Al and various Olympian friends and team-mates (including a western European javelin thrower who was married to Bob Backus, a shot putter) were practicing in his yard. Knowing that my mother was known as a tomboy and athletic, they dared her into trying the shot. Her expertise was with baseballs and footballs, and had never held a shotput before. They handed her the 16 pound iron ball after quickly demonstrating how to hold and push it. She lunged and thrust it airborne. Surprised and impressed they grabbed the tape measure – on her first and only attempt, it fell only a few feet short of the women’s Olympic record (with a 16 pound men’s shot – not the 8 pound shot the women use). The astounded javelin thrower insisted that mom train for the Olympic team, Nenna replied “and what will I do with my six children?”.
The house, just in off of Main Street, was a typical rustic old white farm house, with few modern amenities but always smelling of good food. I vaguely recall there once being a fire, but it was caught before it did TOO much damage.
Between the railroad tracks and the house was “The Witch Tree”. This was an enormous tree, scraggly and twisted, always looming visible from where ever we were, and (at least seemingly) perpetually barren. During the daytime we might be brave enough to approach it, but come dusk when the sunset silhouetted it’s gnarled branches and the flying squirrels that inhabited it could be seen sailing to the ground (looking remarkably like the flying monkeys in the Wizard Of Oz) it was a terrifying sight. One night under a full moon (don’t ask what we kids were doing anywhere near there at night – really – well we might have been out on the pretense of searching for nightcrawlers in the back yard to go fishing with the next day) I remember Laurie being incredibly brave (or foolhardy – possibly responding to a dare by Billy Tobin) actually touching the tree. It was a sad day when that tree was cut down.
Further along, the distance between the tracks & Phillips St widening (and therefore the farm), separate “fields” became like rooms and various kids were assigned their spots where we would fix up with invisible walls and improvised furniture and we would visit each others “homes”. Maybe Eric had the old pig house, someone had the space between two logs, someone else had that clear spot over there, etc… Now this is not unusual behavior as many little children make play houses with invisible wall in the pine grove or under the forsythia bush (don’t they?), but our central feature in our make-shift neighborhood-in-the-fields was our elaborate church.
Just off the main cart path was a clearing with a thick tree stump about chest high, with remnants of other trunks scattered about roughly in a semi-circle. With a little muscle and rearranging we had pews and a pulpit. Wes being the eldest son and the one who conceived of most of our adventures was the primary preacher and master of ceremonies. Laurie or one of the older cousins occasionally got invites as guest speakers. During funerals for deceased pet turtles or baby birds who had unsuccessfully attempted to fly too soon, anyone could get up and say their piece. I believe we even convinced Nenna to attend a service or two. As most good churches, this one had it’s own adjacent and crowded cemetery - full of shoebox coffins, popsicle stick crosses and dandelion bouquets.
When we got a little bigger, we found that atop of a hill beside one of the dilapidated barns that we had always steered clear of was a zip line and a rope swing. The barn was scary and full of old rusted junk and occasional dead cats, but the zip line was even scarier – going down a steep hill between the tall pines. I was still small enough (or maybe scared enough) so I stayed away from the zip line, so the rope swing was my favorite thrill ride. Set high and with some sort of rod/handle instead of the traditional seat, you could spin it and wind, wind, wind it up until your toes couldn’t grip the ground anymore – then pick up your feet and let it unwind faster and faster. By touching one toe as a pivot point and keeping a tight spin you could go incredibly fast, the whole world becoming a dizzy blur. This was entertainment for many hours at a time.
Later, with Bud and David gone and Al famous and moved on, Momily moved to New Hampshire to live with her daughters family and sold the farm to a local business tycoon. Much to our intrigue and amazement the house was lifted onto a trailer and moved – first to the Ocean Spray parking lot, then to behind the Urann house (we were not supposed to play inside it, but who could resist), and eventually to High Street where it now sits. The land was bulldozed clear, in preparation for much speculated industry that would move in and make him rich. All vegetation was removed and the rich loam soil pushed into huge mountainous piles. Always able to make lemonade out of life’s lemons, this became the perfect motocross training grounds with flat tracks and hill climbs and jumps and stream crossings. As various friends and neighbors also acquired dirt bikes, we would go out in groups and race or play follow the leader – trying to find a route that others couldn’t follow us through. One day the rear tire of my Suzuki sank up past the axle into the quicksand-like mud along one of the streams. Eric and I were unable to overcome the suctioning effect to extract it, and had to go home to recruit more help. One day my brother David was riding with Johnny Casoli, who had no speedometer but wanted to know how fast he was going. Dave paced along side, staring at his meter – ignoring the mostly flat raceway (mostly, except for a few random 1-ft high lumps of dirt). Johnny appeared at our door announcing David was hurt and unconscious. Mom took the car, and we with dirt bikes (any excuse was a good one) sped up to help. Dave was dazed but on his feet and had removed his shirt (???), and had decidedly unusual lump on his collarbone. He indeed had broken it, and we were later told by the doctor that when he lifted his arm to remove the shirt it was miraculous that he didn’t puncture his lung with the broken bone.
Neither Gillette nor Anheuser-Busch ever built in “the fields”. Now the commuter rail station and parking lot cover the lower end, and a couple of small businesses built facilities at about the mid-section. The rest is mostly overgrown again.
http://video.google.co.uk/videoplay?docid=4245867189656042017
Al Hall hammer throw video
1 comment:
Hello,
My name is Shawn Hall and Al was my father. I just stumbled across this article and loved it. I remember very well my times at my grandparents farm. I am sorry to say, however, that my father passed away October 9th, 2008 due to Alzheimers.
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