Shestories

The Brook and the Bridge by Arthur O’Dea

There was a section of the property called “the brook” where there once was intended to be a separate lot that just never got developed because of a drainage ditch along the westerly line of our property. We called that ditch “the Brook”. It was that side of the house where we rode our sleds down a  slight incline. It was also on that side that Pop built the “cabin” at the deepest  northern end of the property. My best memories come from the “Brook” side of our lot. That is where I learned to drive the old Packard that was parked down there when it was taken off the road. If you planned it well you could get it into high gear running along “the Brook” from North to South. There are great memories about building the cabin with Pop and the stone fireplace back there where we had our cookouts and where I learned how to split rocks but the directions from Susie seem to request the one paramount memory, so that must be “The Bridge”.

At the point where the drainage ditch passed under Mill Street there was erected a stone abutment that we called “The Bridge”. On top of the abutment there was a large rectagonal stone probably blue granite about 5″ thick and  32″ wide x 5′ long. There were many special occasions when I sat down on that bridge. I remember one in particular when my Mother came down and sat there with me. She is the only person who knew how special that place was for me. It was the throne from which my Magisterial dreams flowed. I could sit there for a long time alone dreaming and dreaming as I was so inclined to do as a child.

I had a friend who lived next door. He was my best and closest friend. Once we made statues out of plaster of Paris with some help from his Mom. She worked for a dentist. Now and then Harry Locke and I would have a fight over some child’s conflict and we would separate in anger. When one of us decided to “make up” the protocol was to go sit on the Bridge and then the other would come and sit there and a conversation would begin thereby ending the fight.

Harry’s Dad was a chronic Alcoholic. One day I went over to his house to play.  His Mom was in the process moving out. The furniture was gone. There was a lot of stress. Harry’s Mom told him to say goodbye. They went out and got in the cab and were gone forever. They moved to Michigan and I never heard of him again. Harry was very frail, tall, pale white, coughed a lot – as did his Mom. He was  very smart. He was my first friend because he lived next door and we were the same age.

Gradually the Brook got filled in, the trees died and the Bridge is gone.  Pop or someone saved the big Blue Stone that was the Bridge. When I last saw it there was a bench in front of the flagpole made for the stone. I hope it is still there. Perhaps, if it is, I will stop and sit for a few minutes to dream with Harry and Mom.

Storm Windows by Joseph O’Dea

250 was an older house with green wooden screens and white storm windows.  When not in use the screens or storms were stacked in the attic of the garage.  Every spring and fall a Saturday morning was given over to the task of changing the screens to storms and vice versa.  The screens were not too bad as all you did was hose them off and wash the outside of the window which was not too dirty as it had been protected by the storm all winter. They were also light and easy to handle.  The storm windows in the fall were another matter.

Every year we waited too long so it was always cold.  The windows were heavy and always dirty when you took them down from the garage attic.  You then had to wash the inside and out of each storm window.  Once, long ago, someone purchased number tags, little round flat pieces of metal with a number stamped on it.  There were two of each number and one went on the window frame and one on the storm window.  The theory was you could then match the storm window to the house window it served.  Well over the years either through painting the windows or repairs or the evil mind of a prankster the numbers stopped matching.  Some did and some did not. So what you had was a very large puzzle of which storm window went where.  You would find yourself trying window after window looking for a match.  The first floor was simply frustrating the second floor was exhausting.  You see the ladder we had was an old solid wood extension ladder that nearly killed you when you got it down off the wall in the garage.  You then had to raise it hand over hand while someone held the bottom until it leaned against the house just under the window to be replaced.

Before you could start trying windows you had to wash the outside of the house window.  And, Mom was washing the inside and overseeing your work.  When you thought you had it clean she would start tapping to show you where you had missed and needed more elbow grease.

After rewashing every window at least twice you could start the process of guessing which storm would fit. You would carry over the heavy storm and rest it against the ladder. Then grabbing from the bottom you would push/slide the window up the ladder in front of you.  When you got to the window you would try and line up the storm with the opening.  If it did not fit width wise down you went for another window.  If it fit width wise you would slide it up and try and connect the hooks on the windows with the hooks on the window frame. On the top of each window were two strips of medal with slits near the top.  These slits were designed to go over hooks attached at the top of each window frame.   If the hooks did not match up down you went for another window.  When finally the hooks matched you pushed the window shut and hoped it fit lengthwise.  If not down you went for another window.  When finally it matched Mom would grab the interior hook on the bottom of the window and latch it in place.

Mom was always in a good mood when the job was done.  In the fall the windows were like eyes to the outside.  They glistened.  And there was a quiet about the house when it was all buttoned up for winter.  In the spring the breeze would fill the house; the curtains would billow in as the fresh air passed through and the smell of spring and outdoors would permeate the house.

It is one of my earliest memories of the satisfaction of hard work and a job well done.

Grandma O’Dea’s Desk by Maureen O’Dea Feeney

Dad always used this desk in more recent history at Mill Street. He kept all his smaller treasures in the drawers like the tiny jade hearts that were inset into his Claddagh rings, his Teillard de Chardin paperweight, his Giant team statistics and of course pencils and rulers. Frank Lucianna gave Dad a dark green leather desk set with a flip out writing arrangement, a leather ruler, and it was equipped with some tiny leather boxes Dad filled with erasers, matches and things a man needed to have at hand. This sat on the desk until it fell apart a few years ago.

Anna Willis O’Dea ordered the desk from Macy’s and attached is the 1927 letter she wrote to Dad who was in the Paulist novitiate at the time. The picture was taken from the newspaper and glued to the upper corner of her letter. The desk sat in the hallway of 250 Mill Street with a rush seated chair and  it matched the woodwork of the desk. Some sat there when on the phone; others did their homework at the desk.

When the stereo came to the hall, the desk was placed in the den under the bay window with the large green glass lamp on top. Dad reclaimed the desk for his use in the front bedroom of the house where he installed book shelves over the desk and it became his office.

Bogart furniture repaired the desk when it came to me. The top of the desk still has a beautiful deep walnut patina which I covered in glass to further protect the finish. The tiny brass drawer pulls just keep getting brighter and with a yearly polish, the finish of the desk has taken on a burled look. The small drawers are lined each year with lavender paper and house all my needs. I sit there first thing every morning and it is the last stop at night. Owen sits at the desk to dry his hair and do his nails. The kids know where to find chap stick, hand lotion and any little need they may have at the desk. So it is a center to keep neat and tidy for the family. Even the tiniest tot can pull up on the desk and open the drawers to examine polish, lotion or make up, while older grandchildren love to play with all Grandma’s trinkets in the drawers while looking at themselves in the mirror over the desk.

I have a great emotional attachment to the desk; to me it is a connection to my Grandma O’Dea and her love of nice things that were pretty and feminine. Never having met, I am left to my imagination to fill in the details of her person using one or two pictures I have seen in albums and this letter from 1927 about her desk and life in general. I love her in this incarnation, and use her as my own fairy godmother in all my endeavors whenever needed. I like to see her writing at the desk and feeling happy there as I do doing what I do at the desk: clean up, get ready for the next event, daydream, play with makeup, and look at myself in the mirror getting to know each person who shows up each decade.

Her excerpted letter to Dad is dated April 7, 1927 and it is mailed from 183 Mountain Way, Rutherford, NJ

My dear son,

Today March decided to come back and let us know he was still around the corner. Yesterday was a balmy spring day, and all the flowers were requiring to open their buds but now all is changed again.

We planned to drive over to a wonderful florist near Hillman’s in East Paterson to see his beautiful flowers, and perhaps select some for Easter. I think we will go this afternoon.

Larry was here yesterday with his new car, he had it simonized and it really looks fine and shiny. He  wants Dad to have ours done, but Dad says he will do it himself. Do you remember how you used to watch the garage men work on the old Durant and then do it yourself next time. I think Dad has something like that in mind.

We were all so sorry for Father Gillis but then God has been very good to them. His father must have been so happy and proud of his good son, and to be able to be with him all these years.

Miss Lyndham spent the weekend with us and we enjoyed having her. She loves the country, but of course, did not get much of it here. We have invited her to Cedar Lake and are going to bring her to Mt. Paul soon.. Ben and Carrie invited us all over to their house for supper Sunday eve. And we had a wonderful time. The children are so smart, and they all performed for Miss Lyndham. Tommy is dear and says he is your boy. Bub is still a Paulist and is anxious to write you a letter.

Last night Father Murray spoke over W.L.W.L. His text was “Play Fair”, and he is certainly a good preacher. It came over clearly and distinctly.

I am enclosing  a picture of my new library table desk on which I am writing this letter. I bought it in Macys last week and they advertised it in the paper last night so I am sending you the picture. It is made of walnut and I hope it will help keep things out of the sideboard that don’t belong there. I have always wanted one and now I am like the Irishman “I am in the parlor at last.” I have also my long coveted rush bottom chair to match the desk.

Lovingly, Mother

The Dining Room Table 1 and 2 by Anna O’Dea Morris

I am Dining Table 1. I came to 250 Mill Street sometime in the fall of 1939 from my first home in Rutherford, New Jersey. I came with my family; the server, the buffet, the china closet and, of course, my six dark green upholstered chairs one of which had arms and always sat at the head.

I worked very hard as all meals were served on me. Some were special occasions. I would be all dolled up in a linen tablecloth and set with simply beautiful Limoges china. These lovely place settings were white with grey blue tiny flowers adorning the brims of each elegant piece. Green, apple green, long stemmed goblets stood beside each place. It was not until the fifties that Gorham’s buttercup sterling silver climbed aboard.  Dessert plates like you have never seen kept me dressed up t the very end of such an event. They were apple green too, but in the shape of a large leaf, even the edges were designed to be uneven as  a maple leaf might be. As time passed I wore newly acquired things like a really large turkey platter. It was sort of brown in color theme with an outdoor scene on it. It was Johnston Brothers. It sat in front of the place where the arm chair was. As fast as a fancy event was over, I would get cleaned up and for a long time, or until the next occasion, I wore a flannel backed oil cloth type cover.

By 1942 most of chairs were full, or at least promised because we accepted apart timer called high chair to make a very tiny occupant happy. So Mom and baby were at one end, the girls on one side, the boys on the other side, facing the buffet mirror, and Dad at the head of the table, nearest the kitchen. They always sat in the same place.

If I could talk (I can only write) I could tell you so many stories. That was the one perk of working so hard – three meals a day, snacks, a cup of tea long after dinner, birthday parties…sometimes there were so many extra chairs, even benches were dragged to my side. Sometimes I got wet when milk or cider spilled out of a knocked over goblet or glass. I always wore a thick flannel protector under my pretty cloth. I was quite beautiful under these clothes. I was a rich dark wood, maybe mahogany or cherry or walnut. A carved trim was etched all around my edges. My size was for a family of six and I fit perfectly into the Mill Street dining room.

I began to fail, though, as my legs wobbled and my old friends, the chairs, were even frailer. One day we were all taken for a ride. Those years were the best and the most interesting ones a beautiful table like me could ever have.

I am Dining Table 2. I came to Mill Street in a truck with all my friends; china closet, buffet, server, and six gold upholstered chairs, one of them with arms. It was great to leave the auction house. I have a lot of work to do now. I inherited some lovely coverings from the previous occupant, and as time went by I acquired some new and lovely ones. One was a white Swiss batiste cloth with white appliqued flowers on it. Once I was dressed up in pure Irish linen with napkins to match. There were lots of fancy affairs in my time; weddings, anniversaries, graduations, christenings, and parties, parties, parties. I wore Waterford now and sterling silver, a big sugar bowl and always ready to go with a little cup with alphabet cubes in it with numbers. Scrabble and it only took two minutes to see how good you could be at it.

My chairs were reupholstered a couple of times – once by the head of the house. What a tedious job that was! All those tacks that had to be hammered in just the right place! Ugh! We were all quite beautiful. Made of rosewood and walnut burl – something I understand you cannot get anymore except in some already made old furniture- with lovely wood carved designs we were quite large though, and so server went upstairs to a bedroom where it had plenty of room.

In 1993, we all went to different places. China closet now hold a TV console in Manasquan where she is the center of attention. Server lives in basking Ridge looking as elegant as ever and still works, serving hard. I am not sure where buffet is, nor do I know exactly where I am now, but I know exactly how I can find out. Just go to Google.Com, but in my world you spell that O’Dea and then do GPS.

The Dining Room by Elizabeth O’Dea Kennedy

My O my I never shall see a dining room as charming as thee.

A mammoth table is center stage with a hanging lamp by Tiffany.

There’s a buffet table against the wall whose drawers house cutlery, pictures of brides.

A silver domed turkey tray sits on top with elaborate candlesticks at its sides.

A large hanging mirror reflects it all.

Four large windows form a bow, each with a view–it’s quite a show.

In spring the forsythia can be seen.  The next frames a hundred foot evergreen.

Then comes a slope to the erstwhile brook, the fourth a passage, no need for a screen.

A china closet with an interesting drawer filled with bank books, check books, matchbooks galore

Stores glasses and dishes,  treasures for sure.

The tea cup-topped server stands ready to brew from a silver service–magnificent too.

Then a glass enclosed breakfront proudly displays valued possessions, a sight to be praised.

And last but not least adorning the wall, a Parisian scene comes to the fore.

This charming room remains no more but lives on and on in the deep heart’s core.

The Hall Closet by Susan Dorsey O’Dea Boland

It is hard to talk about just one room or just one object when it comes to 250 Mill Street. There was a little round red table in the kitchen where you sat only for a serious one-on-one with Mom.  When you sat at the dining room table with your morning coffee, you could see the rhododendrons through the dining room windows. Rhododendron leaves curl in a direct relationship with the temperature  allowing you to decide which coat to wear to school by how tightly the leaves were curled.  The coffee table in the living room was a large slab of polished Connemara marble which my father shipped from a quarry which he had visited in Ireland.  There was a wall of books in the den which included three or four sets of encyclopedias on the lower shelves and above that a large and diverse collection of novels, biographies, poetry, and short stories.  These are all very dear memories of the house on Mill Street in which my parents raised their seven children. I have walked through this house in my mind trying to find that one thing that would truly summon up for me my experience of growing up as the youngest of their seven children. I have decided that this would be the downstairs hall closet.

If I were to show you a floor plan of this house, you could see that the hall closet was situated in the center of the ground floor. The closet was at the physical core of the house. It was the width of a typical one-door closet, but it was double the typical closet in its depth.  Everyone’s coats, a couple of umbrellas, and numerous pairs of winter boots were in this closet, as well as the vacuum cleaner.  The phone – this was the 1960s and the house had one phone- was on a little table near the hall closet and important phone numbers were scribbled in pencil on the inside part of the closet door.

We all reached an age, usually at the start of our teens, when we wanted to talk to our friends on the phone in private.  When this happened at 250 Mill Street, the only place to talk where no one else could hear you was in the hall closet.  You would have to tell whoever called you to wait a minute while I get in the  closet, and then you would  set yourself up as comfortably as you could way back on the vacuum cleaner and close the door TIGHT before you would say to whoever – OK I can talk now. These conversations would last until someone else expecting a call knocked on the door and said Get off the phone, Susie!

But there was something wonderfully exciting about sitting in the dark on the vacuum cleaner way back in the hall closet.  While in that closet I was creating the new grown-up me on the phone with my high school friends who all knew me as Susan. But when I left the closet and wandered out, maybe into the den where Dad would be watching TV and smoking a cigar, I was once again Susie, the baby of a wonderful family. As I began to make my way through my teens, the hall closet showed me how to move  between these two worlds  as the red kitchen table, the rhododendrons, the Irish marble, and the row upon row of books in the den  were always right there for me to safely return to when Susan’s world wasn’t quite right.  I could always go home.

One day the kitchen door replaced the closet door, when I eagerly left 250 Mill for  so many  far-away places.  On my wedding day, I left 250 Mill Street by the front door on the arm of my brother, as my father had already passed away.  Eventually, life takes all of us away from home to be with our new friends and  on to our own families. But whenever I returned to 250 Mill Street to visit my mother,  Susan remembered what it was like to be Susie growing up within those beautiful gracious  rooms.

If I could walk into 250 Mill Street today, I might just crawl into the hall closet and sit myself down way in the back like I used to, closing the door tight.  I cannot remember one conversation that I had with any one while I sat on the vacuum cleaner, nor would I be trying to.  Rather, I would pretend that upon opening the closet door I could walk back into the kitchen with the little round red table, the dining room windows framed by rhododendrons, the living room with its slab of polished Irish marble, and the den with its row upon row of books.  In the end, though, I think I would be left in the dark to wonder…….why in the world were we all in such a hurry to grow up?

250 by Thomas O’Dea

When I think of “250″ , which is often,  I have only happy memories and realize how much of my adult successes stemmed from spending the first eighteen years of my life in that home. 250 provided me not only with shelter and sustenance as any house can, but more important it provided me with membership in a family. Within that group I felt loved, wanted and deserving.

Whenever I was away from 250 I would  look forward to returning.
Always happy to bound up the front steps after a long walk from the bus stop or returning from a movie or pizza with my grammar school friends in town . Later on when in high school parking the car in the garage and walking in the back door, always unlocked, and Mom and Dad asleep confident that I would do the right thing and arrive home safely. At 250 there was an atmosphere of comfort and security. This was created not by the house but by those living in the house. My parents, brothers and sisters. They liked me and told me they liked me not with words but with loving acts. There was never any deep  hostility or jealousy from any of my siblings.

I noted only respect and admiration. Is it any wonder I felt I could achieve anything  as a youngster? I well realize the nurturing environment I experienced at 250 was created and continued by my Mother and Father. Somewhere in their  past it was instilled in them the value of “family” and the necessity of creating not only a safe and secure environment for one’s family but an environment also filled with love respect and devotion. It is no accident that my brothers and sisters continue to be so close and caring about each other.

In the mid 14th century a man built a home for his family. It was the O’Dea castle in County Clare, Ireland. Built for his family ,its strong walls sheltered and protected his family. The perils may have been a little different at that time but the purpose of that castle was the same. To enable his family to be safe, secure and to give them the opportunity to grow, prosper and pass to the next generation of O’Deas the traditions and values he believed in. Several generations later in County Bergen New Jersey another O’Dea built his castle for the same reasons. We all were a part of it and what a glorious experience it was.