A Time to Keep: a Memoir: A Memoir

By Richard J. J. O’Connor

This memoir describes what it was like growing up as the youngest member of a large, boisterous Irish-American family in Massachusetts during the 1940s and 1950s. The author also tells about his experiences as a young naval officer during the Cuban Missile Crisis, his work in international communicable disease control as a Commissioned Officer of the U.S. Public Health Service, and later teaching and research involvement at several universities in the development and application of computer-based individualized instruction, and emerging K-12 classroom technologies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469134833

Richard J. J. O’Connor

Rick O’Connor grew up the last of eight children of a boisterous, gregarious Irish-American family in Fitchburg, Massachusetts. Upon graduating from Boston College, Rick served three years as a naval officer, obtained a Master of Science degree in Public Health, and became a Commissioned Officer with the U.S. Public Health Service where he worked in international communicable disease control, specializing in developing computer-based training programs in tropical medicine. Following this twenty-one year career, Rick spent the next twenty years in university-based Teacher Education, conducting cutting-edge research in classroom applications of emerging digital technologies.

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Copyright © 2012 by Richard J. J. O’Connor.

Library of Congress Control Number:          2011962426

ISBN:                      Hardcover                      978-1-4691-3482-6

                                 Softcover                      978-1-4691-3481-9

                                 Ebook                            978-1-4691-3483-3

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Contents

To Begin…

Fox Street…

Boston College…

U.S. Navy

Amherst

Staten Island

Atlanta

Baton Rouge

Lehigh

Hot Springs Village

A Final Word…

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby (1925)

To Elaine….who has made it all possible.

And to my wonderful children: Michael, Christopher, and Meghan….who have made it all worthwhile.

And, lastly, to my unforgettable family at Fox Street—Dad, Mom, Doris, Kay, Ruthie, Jack, Marilyn, Bill, and Barb—who made it all so much fun…..

To Begin…

I don’t know why it is so, but there is something about the sea—as I watch each large wave roll in on top of one another in an seamless stream of dynamic restlessness—that almost always, and quite effortlessly, leads one to a contemplative state of mind. Again, I don’t have any idea of why this happens but, as an Englishman would put it, there it is.

Take today, for instance. It is a beautiful January morning about 9 o’clock and I am sitting by myself with a hot cup of coffee on a fifth-floor condominium balcony overlooking the beautiful green-blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico— the water’s edge only about fifty yards away. During the night we had a bad rain storm so the surf is high today, slamming against the sugar-white sand beach that extends left and right along the shore as far as I can see. The beach is entirely deserted this morning, except for one large blue heron and several pelicans skimming back and forth over the water’s surface. I especially love to watch the pelicans as they, quite suddenly, will tuck in one wing and dive so fast straight down into the surf for their prey. When the wind calms a bit, and if I’m lucky, I may be able to spot a pod of dolphins that seem to favor this waterfront location as well; perhaps they find this spot as attractive as I do. Also, if I’m especially lucky, I’ll have a chance to see the Navy’s Blue Angel diamond squadron of four F-18 fighter planes fly in close formation right along the beach in front of me as they conduct training maneuvers out of their base at Pensacola Naval Air Station, located only about thirty miles to our east.

Recently, I had Tom Stanley, one of my best friends from high school, visit and before long we began reminiscing about different guys we knew in school, what became of various members of our families, and about the old days in general. And it is really with the thought of that conversation in mind that I begin my story today—the story of the important people and events in my life that have taken me from that small house at 46 Fox Street in Fitchburg, Massachusetts to here, to this place and to this time.

I read once that there is an interesting difference in how we perceive Space and Time. With Space, things appear clearer the closer they are to us; as distance in Space increases, objects become blurred. With Time, however, it is just the opposite; things close to us in Time often are not perceived clearly at all but, as Time increases, things that have happened earlier become much clearer, much more understandable. It is for this reason, I think, that historians are so adamant in insisting that a lengthy period of time elapse before they attempt to make judgments about significant social and political occurrences.

In any event, I found this observation about Time and Space helpful in looking back upon my own life, especially those events taking place in my early years. Things that happened to us in the past really do seem to become so much clearer as you grow older, so much more understandable. Indeed, this enhanced ability to understand events of the past more clearly as one ages undoubtedly is the reason why village elders are held in such high esteem throughout history.

I’ve been fortunate in life in many ways, but especially to have been born into a big Irish-American family, and brought up by two wonderful parents and seven great older brothers and sisters. That hot summer day in 1936 when I arrived on this good earth was truly the luckiest day of my life. Therefore, this would seem to be a good place to begin my story….

Fox Street…

I WAS BORN AND brought up in Fitchburg, Massachusetts, a small city located in the north central part of the state about fifty miles west of Boston and close to the southern border of New Hampshire. Fitchburg, when I came along, was an aging industrial community primarily known for its paper mills located alongside the Nashua River. Indeed, this proximity to the Nashua River was the reason Fitchburg was originally settled around the year 1735. An early settler there by the name of John Fitch and his two sons were kidnapped by Indians and carried off to Canada. The following year Fitch escaped, returned to Massachusetts and, with his new celebrity status, soon had the place named after him. By the time of the Revolutionary War in 1774 Fitchburg numbered about 800 residents, 200 of whom served in the Continental Army. With independence, the folks in the new village of Fitchburg built a number of paper, shoe, and cotton mills (the third largest cotton mill in North America was built in Fitchburg), and the area quickly became recognized as an important industrial center in central Massachusetts

From the start, Fitchburg was clearly divided into ethnic neighborhoods such as Italian, Greek, Finnish, French, Irish, etc., each characterized with its own specialty food stores, church, schools, and ethnic customs. At the same time, however, people from each of these different neighborhoods all shared Fitchburg’s Main Street shopping area, local transportation services, the public library, and other city facilities. I suppose today this kind of community would be termed by the sociologists as an example of a multicultural society, although for us kids nothing was more natural than to pal around with other kids from entirely different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. In many ways it was what made life so interesting for us growing up, as well as an important learning experience about the importance of diversity and tolerance in everyday life.

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Our house at 46 Fox St. is the one on the left

My house, where I was born and brought up, was located at 46 Fox Street, a broad tree-lined street branching directly off Main Street at the very center of downtown Fitchburg. I remember receiving an early civics lesson from my father one day. As he and I were crossing the next street over from Fox Street, he stopped and pointed out that this particular intersection of streets in Fitchburg was unique in that it represented each of the four branches of government, i.e., a City Park, a County Courthouse, a State Armory, and a National Post Office were each located at one of the four corners of this intersection. The City Park, shaped as a large village green, featured a large World War I monument in the center and was encircled by a wide walking path and green benches, all under a panoply of huge American elm trees. In early evening during summer months, from our house on Fox Street we could listen to the band concerts held in this park. Also, during the World War II years, I remember street dances held at this intersection on Friday nights. Our street, Fox Street, also was graced with a number of tall American elm trees, with several towering more than 100 feet above our house. We also had a huge horse chestnut tree in our back yard. Each fall, the elms—along with other New England hardwoods such as red maple, horse chestnut, oak, ash, etc.—would create the most gorgeous montage of fall colors—bright red, yellow, orange leaves just covering the streets and sidewalks. I remember in grammar school how the nuns would have us bring our most colorful fallen leaves to school and we would trace their outlines and color them with crayons on blank white paper. Such artistic renderings would then be proudly posted along the top of the classroom blackboard.

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Dad at his dental chair

I was born the last of eight O’Connor children—our family consisting of three boys and five girls, with most of us separated in age by about two years. My father was born in Fitchburg in 1896 and was descended from a Giles Bradley who married Mary Casey in the early 1800’s. The Bradleys had three daughters: Kate, Hannah, and Mary Ann. Kate Bradley went on to marry a Patrick O’Connor and Kate and Patrick O’Connor soon had a son, Daniel, who later married Nellie Donnelly. This marriage in turn resulted in the birth of two boys, Harold and John Francis O’Connor, the latter my father. Daniel O’Connor, my paternal grandfather, was known locally as Cuddy O’Connor and operated a haberdashery, or men’s clothing store, in Leominster—a small town about twelve miles east of Fitchburg. Growing up, I was told that my grandfather’s partner at the haberdashery wanted him to move their store to Boston, about fifty miles from Fitchburg, in order to gain access to a larger population. However, as it happened, Cuddy was an excellent semi-professional baseball player with aspirations to make the majors and therefore reluctant to move to Boston. Anyway, his partner did leave the partnership, moved to Boston, and became a major participant in the growth and development of what was to become one of the biggest department stores in the United States: Filene’s. Following high school, my father attended the Baltimore School of Dental Surgery, married my mother—the attractive Miss Helen Agnes Sweeney of South Boston—and opened his dental practice in a second floor office of a large bank building on Main Street in Fitchburg.

My mother’s family also emigrated from Ireland in the mid-19th century. Her grandparents initially arrived from Ireland at a small port in Canada and trekked their way south to settle in Bangor, Maine. Her grandfather, Martin Sweeney, served as a sergeant in the Union Army during the Civil War and later had duty in Texas. My mother was born in the year 1900 in South Boston and had one brother, Teddy. Her father tragically died of tuberculosis while still a young man; at the time of his death he held a good position as the manager of a large seaside hotel in Marblehead on the north shore of Massachusetts. This hotel was owned and operated by the famous Boston hotel, the Parker House (of Parker House rolls fame).

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Mom outside of our house at Fox St.

My grandmother also worked at the hotel, eventually becoming Head Housekeeper. I remember this family connection well since once in high school I asked my mother to arrange a summer job at this fancy Marblehead seaside hotel and she turned me down, saying there are too many fast girls working there. Speaking of Parker House rolls, I should point out that our mother was a wonderful cook, and especially liked to bake. I can hardly remember a time in our house when my mother was not in her kitchen baking bread, a batch of doughnuts or cookies, huge apple pies, or some other luscious treat. All of our bedrooms at Fox Street were on the second floor of the house and, each morning, we would be awakened by our mother in the kitchen hitting the ceiling with her broom handle. As we would all slowly make our way down the kitchen stairs, Ma would have the kitchen table completely covered with slices of bread while she made up individualized lunches for each of us, amazingly with each sandwich carefully made in accordance with our own individual preferences; I never did understand how she could remember all of that. Then, with the table cleared and the lunch bags neatly lined up by the door, we’d all find a seat and she would dish out the oatmeal, eggs, toast, etc. for the whole crowd of us.

One day when I was about in the 2nd or 3rd grade, I was out the yard after school playing and my sister Barbara found me playing with matches in back of the next door neighbor’s garage. Well, wouldn’t you know Barbara immediately ran in the house to report this to my mother and I was quickly summoned and told to go directly to my bed—just about the worst punishment a boy of my age could receive (today, it’d sound like a pretty good idea). Anyway, as I tearfully ascended the kitchen stairs to my bedroom, I was really angry with my mother and turned with a red, frustrated face and blurted out: Well, well all right, you, you old kitchen woman! My mother first had this shocked look on her face and then laughed right out loud, thinking that this was about the funniest thing that ever happened in that kitchen. To this day, I still haven’t heard the end of my little burst of pique. With regard to the rest of my family, Doris was the oldest, followed in order by Kay, Ruthie, Jack, Marilyn, Billy, Barbara, and myself. Generally, about a two year interval existed between our ages so that, collectively, we were quite a handful for my parents to manage. But, that’s what made life always so interesting on Fox Street!

1936 was an interesting year to come into the world. President Franklin Roosevelt was ending his second term of office, trying desperately to bring the country back from the depths of the Great Recession; for example, in February of 1936 the very first Social Security checks were mailed out. A new house in 1936 could be bought for $3,925 and a brand new car for $780. Gasoline was 10 cents a gallon and a dozen eggs cost 18 cents. Average annual household income in 1936 was $1,713. The Oakland Bay Bridge in California opened that year, and Girl Scout cookies made their debut. Postage stamps were 3 cents each, and the average life expectancy of Americans was 59.7 years (which, incidentally, is why the entitlement age for Social Security was initially set at age 65! No dummy, that FDR.). Horse racing was America’s favorite sport, and early that year the country marveled to learn about jockey Ralph Neves who, after falling from his mount and being trampled, was declared dead and taken to a local cold storage facility. Shockingly, however, Neves quickly revived, took a taxi back to the track, and was riding again the next day!

The second floor of our house on Fox Street consisted of four bedrooms (no upstairs bathroom, unfortunately) while the downstairs area contained my father’s Dental Office, a Reception Room that doubled as our living room nights and weekends, a large kitchen and pantry, small bathroom (one tub, no shower), and large glassed-in porch. (Note: As I mentioned earlier, originally my father’s dental office was located in a bank building on Main Street; I do not know when he moved his office to our Fox Street house, but it must have been before I was born. Incidentally, this was not an uncommon occurrence; on Fox Street alone, there were multiple medical, dental, and law practices operated out of family residences.) My mother spent most of her day in the kitchen, with us kids playing mainly on the porch or—more likely—outside of the house altogether. But my main memory of Fox Street growing up is not so much of the house itself but of the incessant activity, the constant commotion of people coming and going. It really was a frenetic family life style. Looking back, I think there were several reasons for this. First and foremost, we O’Connor’s were a gregarious bunch and my brothers and sisters always seemed to have friends stopping by since our house was located so close to Main Street shopping. Too, my mother loved to have people visit and, as I indicated above, she always kept a plentiful supply of freshly-baked pies, cakes, doughnuts, etc. At that time it also was common to have various merchants such the bread man, milkman, dry-cleaning man, or newspaper boy stopping in for weekly collections (Note: Milk, for example, was left each morning on our doorstop). Recently, one of my schoolboy chums told me that one morning he stopped by our house on Fox Street on his way to school and, before he knew it, my mother was cooking him bacon and eggs and, just as he finished eating, my father came into the kitchen and wanted to know if he wanted to have his teeth checked.

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Rick in his own Fireman’s hat

But perhaps the most important reason for all this Fox Street activity was due to the economic times we were in. In the late 1930’s and early 1940’s, the country was just coming out of the Great Depression and, because cash was scarce, bartering of services and products was a very common practice. Thus, instead of receiving cash payments, my father often would provide dental care to a man and his family for goods such as chickens, firewood, etc., or even services around the house such as minor plumbing repairs, carpentry, etc. For example, I would go to Bennie’s Barbershop just down the street whenever necessary and never think of actually paying the barber since Bennie had a mutual payment agreement with my father for his own family’s dental care. The Fitchburg Fire Station was located right across the street from our house and, accordingly, we always seemed to have a fireman or two doing some kind of work around the house. In fact, in my earlier years I was named the official mascot of the Fitchburg Fire Station, had my own official Fireman’s hat, and was even allowed to ring the big fire truck bell while riding on top of the huge ladder firetruck on special occasions like the July 4th Parade.

In addition to the constant stream of Fox Street visitors, even my father’s dental patients often become part of our O’Connor household. For example, the only bathroom in our house was located just off the kitchen and so, as patients would use the facilities, my mother would have them join us at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee and piece of pie while they were waiting to receive their dental care. In fact, this whole notion of having a dental office in one’s own house could lead to some funny occurrences. For example, I remember one day in high school I had a girlfriend visiting for lunch and, as we were sitting at the kitchen table talking, a loud woman’s scream emanated from the front of the house. I knew of course that this was just some poor soul who was perhaps over-reacting to having a procedure but this girl with me in the kitchen was so frightened her face turned white and she almost fell off her chair. I suppose she thought she was in some kind of house of horrors!

So, growing up at Fox Street was an exciting, sometimes even overpowering experience, for a young boy. A few years ago, my sister Marilyn and I were recalling those early days and she said that it was no wonder to her that, to escape it all, that I would go off by myself to some quiet spot and just read. And in fact I did read a lot growing up; actually, I think now that it was all of that reading in my early years that allowed me to do so well in my schoolwork. I remember when I was about ten or twelve years old we had a summer camp on a nearby lake (Wyman’s Pond) and I would take a stack of funny books and other reading material out in an old wooden rowboat to the middle of the lake by myself and just spend the morning swimming off the boat and reading. Wyman’s Pond, incidentally, is located in Westminster, Massachusetts, just below Mount Wachusett, a place where our family would go to pick wild blueberries. Mount Wachusett is well-known to local historians because in the year 1676 a captive white woman, Mary Rowlandson, and her two children were freed from Indian captivity to end the major hostilities between area Indian tribes and the pilgrims. Specifically, she was freed by the son of Chief Massasoit, the most famous of the Indian leaders who helped the early pilgrims become established in North America; as such, this event at Mount Wachusett is an important piece of American history. Near the bottom of Mount Wachusett is a large rock, Redemption Rock, which commemorates this event and was a place where we would often visit to have summer picnics. In 1972, when I drove Elaine and the kids up to Massachusetts for what turned out to be our last big O’Connor family reunion, I remember taking the boys over to Redemption Rock and showing them my initials carved in a nearby tree there, along with my two best friends: Paul Devin and Joe Stephenson. The three of us were inseparable those days, and on that day we had ridden our bicycles from Fitchburg up to Mount Wachusett, a distance of about ten