MERRITTON MATTERS

The House on Chestnut Street
By Tom Barwell
My earliest memories of Merritton were when we lived
at 57 Chestnut Street. Ironically, my future wife lived
at the opposite end of Chestnut but we never formally
met until ten years had passed. I told her that we were
forbidden to visit that end because we were much more
sophisticated. Actually we moved from Merritton to a
farm near St David’s before once more returning. We
were then united at the tender age of thirteen. But that is
another story.
Our backyard almost butted up against the railroad
tracks and we were always tuned into the happenings
there. The great trains were almost a constant, and the
powerful engines hurtled past night and day. Most stopped, however, to
drop or pick up cargo as Merritton was an important hub because of the
wealth of industry in the area. Passenger trains as well stopped to deliver
mail and carry passengers. During the war, troop trains would pass
through with the soldiers waving as they went by. Mysterious cars would
go through with all the shades pulled. Apparently they were full of people
of a religious sect who would remove all their clothing in protest against
some government rule. There were military trains carrying all sorts of
equipment. Most were covered in canvas but you could always spot the
enormous tanks by their protruding gun barrels. It was never boring living
next to the tracks.
I had my first taste of school when I attended kindergarten at what we
called the little school. It was across from Central School where the big
kids went. I immediately fell in love with my teacher. Her name was Miss
Patterson and to me she was the most gorgeous lady (next to my Mom)
who was ever placed on the earth. I was convinced that she and I would
someday be wed and live in a castle in the sky. But her halo became tilted
when she scolded me for spilling milk over my Dick and Jane story book.
My punishment was not talking to her which my Mom said was a blessing
as I never shut up anyways.
There were many memories of that time in my life. We climbed up upon
the piles of train coal with bags to gather the coke we used for cooking
and heating the house. Chickens had to be tended to in the red coop in the
backyard. My Dad was in the Air Force and when he came home on leave
he brought us each a small box of chocolate coated raisins.
What a treat they were. We would travel up the street to
Keating’s butcher shop where we would shuffle our feet in
the sawdusted floor. He would give each of us a weiner as
a treat, thus he acquired the name “Weiner”. The next stop
was Richardson’s grocery store where all sorts of goodies
were available. I noticed a small boy running around
inside whose name was also Tom. Later in life he would
become a boyhood chum.
Then, of course, there was Mains, the heart of the
community. You would see Mr. Main busily grinding
away with his ‘mortar and pestle’. In those days drugs did
not always come in made up containers and he had to make up a lot of
the prescriptions. He always had a ready smile and was full of advice on
remedies for a host of ailments. Or people would come in just for a gab.
The milkman, the iceman, who we pestered for a chunk of ice, as well as
the bread man and the postman. All were in uniform and were always well
respected. There are memories of the ending of ‘World War Two’. People
rushed out of their houses cheering, dancing in the streets, along with the
banging of pots and pans. I didn’t know a lot about this Hitler guy except
that he was one bad dude. One thing we did realize and that was that Dad
would be home for good, safe and sound.
I think I became the first ‘mooner’ when I stuck my bare bottom out the
upper bathroom window at the girl from across the street who was in
our backyard. I didn’t notice that Mom was hanging up the washing at
the time. After a serious dressing down I thought I heard muted laughter
in the hallway from both my Mom and Dad as I gingerly stuck my head
out the bedroom door. It was an all too short period of time in our lives;
a time of little stress, a time when people were not always in a hurry and
took a few moments to talk to one another, a time when you could walk
the streets both day and night and not suffer any danger.
The old family home is still there and, miraculously, so is the chicken
coop. The place seems to be in a time warp. I often drive slowly by and can
almost see in a mist, all the characters that made up my life during those
very short years.
I MERRITTON MATTERS