Oldest at the Table

With the recent Thanksgiving feast behind us, the holiday season has begun with all the shopping, decorating, baking, parties, and family get-togethers we either look forward to with longing or with dread.

I hate the shopping, don’t mind the decorating and baking, and look forward always to having my family around me during the holidays. This year, unfortunately, my oldest daughter and her family in North Carolina did not come for Thanksgiving and will not be with us for Christmas. That makes me sad because I miss them, but she loves living in North Carolina so I’m glad she is happy.

Last year everyone was here for Christmas, and we spent the day at my daughter and son-in-law’s home in Danbury. Their daughter is now my youngest grandchild. It was great fun having my four grandsons visiting because I don’t get to see them very often, especially the oldest, who is now working in Baltimore.

I always get very sentimental at this time of year, remembering all the family parties my family shared through the years and the members of the family that made those holidays so special. Sadly, most of those people from past gatherings have passed away, and five years ago, with the death of my dad, I became something I had never been before.

I am now the oldest at the table during holiday dinners, and my granddaughter, at 6, is the youngest. As I said to my daughter, her mother, on Thanksgiving, there is no one in my immediate maternal family that remembers me as a child because I grew up in a family of adults.

Because we lived so close to my dad’s family on the Gurski farm and saw them so often, we spent most of the holidays with my mother’s family. My maternal grandmother had three children, but neither of my mother’s brothers had children, and I was an only child. Also, neither of my grandmother’s sisters had children and her brother only had one daughter, who married but never had children.

Oh, my mother had plenty of cousins on her father’s side, but they were mostly of her age. Her father had been one of nine children. While some of her cousins had children, they lived out of state, and we only saw them during family reunions or perhaps at weddings or funerals. Even at those gatherings, I was often the youngest there.

I don’t think I ever minded being the only child with all those adults, no matter where I was. I always felt loved, and there was always a willing adult to play croquet or badminton at picnics or to play board games or cards on Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter. One great-uncle in particular always took the time to teach me a new card or board game. He also was a great storyteller and would entertain me with tales about what it was like when he was young. He is probably one of the reasons I was always interested in family history.

One of our family traditions on Thanksgiving at my great-aunt’s on Candlewood Lake was to take a long walk after the noon meal. We would walk out Old Turnpike Road to Candlewood Lake Road and back. Then we would play cards or some board game until it was time to get ready for a light supper. I know I was never bored despite the fact that there were no other children present.

So I never regretted being an only child with all those adults. It wasn’t until my first child was born that I ceased being the youngest at the table during holiday dinners and other festivities. But even then I was far from the oldest.

My two great-aunts lived to be 93, outliving their husbands who had lived into their eighties, so there was a long period of time when I was still one of the youngest at the table.

I have to admit I didn’t think about being the oldest until the first holiday after my dad’s passing. As a family friend said at the time, I was now the matriarch of the family, a role I had once bestowed secretly on one of the great-aunts who was then the oldest in my immediate family. Having that word used to describe me gave me pause.

A dictionary defines matriarch as a woman who rules a family, clan, or group. It doesn’t quite fit how I see myself in the scheme of things in my family relationships. As I ponder the word “matriarch,” I wonder how my children and grandchildren would describe me. Certainly not, I believe, as a woman who rules her family but as their mother and grandmother.

Hanging Out

The need for places for young people to meet their friends, to hang out, is ageless. Brookfield teens today have more activities available to them than those of my generation, but I remember very clearly the need to be with my friends when I was growing up in Brookfield.

There may have been some organized activities, but most of all I remember having to think up fun things to do on my own, especially in the summer.

Our “hang out” place was often the Village Store on Route 25 in the center. We often dropped in there for lack of another place to go. Some of my friends even worked there at times, behind the counter and delivering grocery orders. It was a great place to stop on the walk home from a Girl Scout meeting or after a bike ride around town. We would prop our bikes against the porch before going in to buy ice cream, soda, or candy. Then we would sit on the porch steps and chat.

The pharmacy at the Four Corners was another place you might run into friends. It had a soda fountain, and they made the best orange ice cream sodas with fresh orange juice, seltzer water, and rich vanilla ice cream. Through the years I have tried to duplicate that ice cream soda, but somehow it never is as good.

The town beach on Candlewood Lake was another gathering place. I remember beach parties there, but the beach was very different from today. It was primarily the sandy beach, a float to swim to, a guard shack, a snack bar, and rest rooms.

In the summer or on weekends during the school year, we would shoot hoops on the outside basketball court at the Consolidated School (now Center School) or play softball in the field next to the school. All we needed was for someone to bring a basketball and a bat and ball and we could while away several hours with our friends.

Bike riding was, of course, a favorite activity. There was so little traffic in Brookfield back then that we could ride all over town without any problems. One time some of us rode all the way to Lover’s Leap in New Milford.

Square dancing was also an activity some of us enjoyed. We would make up a set, go to Medlicott’s on Route 109 in New Milford or a dance in another town and have a really great time. There would be refreshments and even some slow dancing and rock ‘n roll.

There was a little cabin that some of us girls tried to fix up as a place to hang out. It was cold there in the winter and a trek through a field was required to get to it, but it was a great place for girl talk.

In the summer Melody Fair set up its tent in the vacant field on the corner of Federal Road and Candlewood Lake Road (now the site of Kohl’s). I’m sure some of my friends attended musicals there with their parents, just as I did with my mother. Kids also played baseball there.

My cousin Helen and I were lucky to grow up on the Gurski farm (now town-owned open space). We spent a lot of time exploring and playing in its fields. We played house in a rocky area on her parents’ property across from the farm. The space between two trees would become a door, and rocks would outline rooms. On hot days we would take off our shoes and wade in Merwin Brook.

There were some scheduled activities we enjoyed. St. Joseph’s CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) offered basketball games one night a week during the winter. We would all arrive to watch the game, and then Frank Thomas or John Kolinchak would drive us home. We all tried to be the last one off so we could stay out just a little longer.

We also had clubs, such as Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, and 4-H.  A weekly Senior Girl Scout meeting highlighted our high school years. Barbara Walker, the wife of Rev. Edward Walker, then the minister of the Congregational Church, was our leader, but much greater than that, she was an example. She made learning fun and fun activities even more fun. I remember hobo hikes around town, sleepovers at her home next to St. Paul’s Church, a campout at Mt. Tom, and trips to Boston and Washington, D.C.

She also knew the importance and the sense of accomplishment felt from earning what is to be enjoyed later. We held many bake sales and fund-raisers to raise money for those trips.

We may not have had many organized activities, such as what are provided now by the Parks and Recreation Department, local clubs, such as Scouts, and the schools, but we had fun, nevertheless. The need to think up things to do helped our ability to be creative and, as with Girl Scouts, to learn new things and also to be aware of how good it feels to work hard to accomplish something you want to do in the future.

Animals I Have Known

I have always been an animal lover. It doesn’t matter what animal, really, so I have seldom turned away a stray or an offer to adopt an unwanted pet.

The first pet I remember having was a white rabbit that some unthinking adult thought was a suitable Easter gift for a 3-year-old. I remember playing with it for a day before the poor thing was saved from my over-zealous overtures.

My first real pet at the age of 4 was a black, curly-haired cocker spaniel aptly named Curly. I loved her, and she put up with a great deal because of that love. I would dress her up like a baby and push her around in my doll carriage. She was very good about it, but after a while she would jump out—doll clothes, blanket and all—and would eventually be found and relieved of her unseemly attire.

The kitchen stove had legs that allowed just enough room for a small dog to take refuge. One time when I tried to pull her out, she promptly planted a tooth in my thumb. It didn’t bleed, but I learned to let sleeping dogs lie.

When my mother married Stanley Gurski and we moved to the farm in Brookfield, I left Curly behind, but I saw her often when I visited my grandmother.

The farm exposed me to many types of animals, some of which I liked and some not so much. We had chickens, pigs, cows, and horses, as well as numerous barn cats.

 We also had two dogs. Goldie helped with the cows, herding them into the barn and out into the pasture following milking. In between milkings, Goldie kept my father company as he did other farm chores.

Daisy was the other dog. I adopted her early. I guess she was meant to be a guard dog, but she hardly met the requirements. A very sweet dog, she was often my companion as I wandered the woods and fields.

My favorite farm animals were two work horses. Prince could be snappish, but Chubby had a very sweet disposition. I sometimes sat in the feed box in his stall, petting him and feeding him sugar cubes and apple slices. One time when Uncle Frank gave my cousin Helen and me a ride on him, we went down to Merwin Brook, where Chubby attempted to follow Uncle Frank over the plank walkway. I guess he didn’t want to get his feet wet.

 Though I loved the baby chicks, the adults were quite another story. On those times when I had to feed them, I threw the grain as far away from me as I could to avoid all those pecking beaks running toward me. Chickens could also be cranky when you tried to collect their eggs. I learned to collect from the empty nests first and hope the others would be minus the chickens when I returned.

Baby pigs were cute, but not so much when they grew up. They never did anything interesting but just ate and slept in their pen. Needless to say, they received very little attention from me.

All the cows had names. I liked the calves  best. They were cute and enjoyed being petted.  Though I never thought cows were very smart (sometimes one would get lost in the pasture, and we would have to go find her), I did learn the hard way they were easily agitated. You would think that I would learn not to run in a cow barn after being kicked once, but I was a child always going at high speed so it took a second time and a stern lecture from my dad to show me the error of my ways. I gained a greater respect for cows after that.

When I grew up, married, and had children, we had all types and sizes of pets, from tiny white mice, hermit crabs, parakeets, fish, gerbils, hamsters, rabbits, and several cats and dogs to a 1,500 pound horse named Sunshine that once tried to follow my children into my kitchen because someone left the back door open.

 My first dog as a married person was a reddish-colored mutt our first daughter named Dinah because that was the name of my father’s dog. As a pup, Dinah had an overwhelming appetite for Pam’s stuffed animals. You could put Pam and the pup together but all stuffed toys had to be picked up first. Who would ever have believed that Dinah would become a hero.

We had lived in an apartment in Brookfield for a while, but it had become too small for us. So we purchased a small home in Newtown that had more bedrooms, plus a nice yard for Pam and the pup. One thing we had not counted on when we moved was that Dinah seemed to regress after being totally house trained. After several times, it finally occurred to me she was just checking out the new territory, much like small children always want to see the bathroom in a new place.

If I made her wait, no accidents occurred, but she would whine for a while until she realized I was on to her. One morning after breakfast, I was hanging clothes in the bedroom closet, and Pam was playing in her crib. Dinah was by the baby gate by the stairs had been whining and crying for a while, and didn’t stop like she usually did. Finally I decided I’d better let her go out.

When I opened the gate, Dinah started down the stairs, then froze halfway down, looking back at me instead of running for the back door. I went down to stand by her and looked into the downstairs. The dining room was on fire. Terrified, I ran up, grabbed Pam, told Dinah to go and I followed her through the living room and kitchen and out the back door. I called the fire department and my husband and father from a nearby doctor’s office, then left Pam and the pup there while I waited for the firemen.

If I live to be 100, I will never forget that day. Had I not realized that Dinah was being overly upset that morning, Pam and I might not be here today or might have been badly injuried. I owed our lives to that dog.

We owned several dogs after Dinah, but she is the one that comes to mind whenever I read about some animal that through its efforts saved someone from harm.

After three children and the numerous pets we have had through the years, my house seems very quiet. My cat, a Maine Coon named Periwinkle Blue (Peri for short), is totally convinced he is the boss of the house. And you know what? He may be right. It is said that dogs have masters and cats have staff.

The Never-Ending Story

I have always loved history, so it should not come as a surprise to anyone that I eventually became interested in a different type of history than that taught in school. It is the history of my family.

Someone once said that only a genealogist regards a step back as progress. It seems as though I was always interested in knowing more about my family. I always wanted to know the “who and the why” of family dynamics. Mostly, I wanted to know about my birth father, who had left my mother and me when I was only 2 years old.

Despite a great-aunt who could not understand why I wanted to know about “all these dead people,” I found out later that genealogy isn’t only about learning about deceased family members. It can also help you locate some that are very much alive.

In the early 1980s, I was part of a small genealogical group that met at The Brookfield Library. It was composed of newcomers to the hobby, such as myself, and others who had been researching their families for many years. I knew quite a bit about my mother’s family line, but I needed help in taking that first step back to finding my birth father and those who came before him.

I didn’t realize it then that I was beginning a never-ending story.

I did not have a clue about how to go about finding my birth father. The last we knew of him was that he was married again and living in Chicago. But how was I to find him all those years later?

Someone in our group suggested that I write to Social Security about my quest, enclosing a letter to my father, asking that it be forwarded if there was a current address for him. I knew I would not be given the address, but I was hopeful someone would help me by sending on my letter and that he would then respond.

It was a slim chance, but worth trying. I had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive. I also knew that people who work for Social Security have more to do than answer requests from people looking for family members.

I wrote the letters and sent them on their way. I did not have to wait long for an answer, however, and the news was not good.  My birth father had died in 1973 in Michigan, according to a copy of the death certificate sent to me.

I was saddened. I had spent years thinking about what I would do or say if I was ever to meet him. In earlier years, I was angry. How could my father just walk away from me and never look back. It was as if  I was erased from his life. However, as I grew older I lost the anger and exchanged it for curiosity. What was he like? My mother often said I took after him with my dark hair and eyes, so different from all the blue-eyed blondes in her family. She said I was smart, just like him.

But that didn’t answer my initial question. What was he like? As I looked at the death certificate, I noticed the name of the funeral home that took care of the final arrangements. I wrote them, hoping  they could give me additional information. What a thrill when they sent me a copy of the obituary notice for my father that appeared in their local newspaper.

But the best was yet to come. As I read the obituary, I realized that my father had left a widow and four children, two girls, and two boys. I remember clearly how I felt as I read those names. These were my half-sisters and brothers. I had always known about a little girl born to my father and his second wife in 1945, but I had never been able to locate her. I still haven’t.

I wasn’t sure what I should do with this new information, knowing they probably didn’t  know anything about me. My father had not told his second wife about my mother and me, until somehow she found a letter one of my mother’s aunts had written to my father years before and wrote to her, telling her about their marriage and their daughter.

I knew I could not just drop into their lives. As I re-read the obituary notice, I realized the gathering after the funeral took place at the home of the widow’s brother. I again wrote the funeral home, asking if he still resided in the area and, if so, could they send me his address. Just a few days later, I received a reply.

I now had the address of my father’s brother-in-law. If he replied to my letter, I would know how my father’s family would react to hearing from me. Of course, I wasn’t sure how I would react to a negative reply.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about it. As luck would have it, he was in the hospital, and his wife, upon reading my letter, took it to his sister. At 11 o’clock at night my telephone rang. It was my father’s widow.

I had been correct in thinking she would not know anything about me. My father had turned his back on his life in Connecticut just as he had turned away from me. When I asked how she felt her children would react to a half-sibling appearing into their lives, she said they could make their own decisions. Only one, the oldest, born the year I graduated from high school, decided to contact me. The others were more the ages of my children. I have never heard from them.

My sister not only made the connection but came to Connecticut to meet me in person. Since then I have learned so much from her about our father. She had him for 16 years and had memories of him she could pass on to me. I learned about my father as I never could have without her.

My never-ending story continues. I have learned that I am the oldest of what we think are seven children, though my sister pointed out several years ago there are several years when we don’t know where our father was. There could be more of us out there or maybe not.

 

Though I will probably never know my other half-siblings, I have been blessed with a sister. Though separated by many miles, we talk on the phone, send e-mails, and support each other as best we can. We didn’t grow up knowing each other. It is not a typical sister relationship, but as I grew up an only child, I’m so thankful for it.

I continue to pursue my never-ending story. It’s a difficult hobby to stop. A new name automatically leads to two others and so on, a never-ending line of people that stretches back through history.

Has spring finally arrived?

The calendar says it’s spring…despite cool temperatures in the mornings and the recent snow showers that my dad would have termed the “poor man’s fertilizer.” A farmer for most of his life, he always looked upon those spring snows as nutrients for the soil and harbingers of the greening of the land.

I love spring. It’s my favorite season, despite the rain, despite the cool temperatures. I love the newness of it, the renewal of what has lain dormant through the winter. The signs are here already.

As for me, spring really starts the day I pull my wheelbarrow out of its winter resting place in the garage and lean it against a tree in the yard. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I will start yard cleanup that very day. It’s my promise to myself that I will get to it soon. In the meantime, before that happens, I am content to watch for the many signs of spring and rejoice.

 I find myself looking out my kitchen window toward my weeping cherry tree. It started its full bloom for Easter, but its cycle is so short that I never want to miss a moment of it. I think I’ve taken a photograph of it every year since I’ve had it. My uncle bought it for me all those years ago, and it’s now taller than the house.

In regard to other types of trees, I especially love that early shade of green when they first begin to leaf out. I once had my living room painted a color that was named April Green. It was so much like that first green before the leaves darken.

Despite my great desire to get my hands in the dirt, it is too early to plant most annuals, though pansies thrive despite the cooler temperatures. My dad always said not to plant any other annuals until Mother’s Day, and then only those that can sustain a late spring frost. Geraniums and other annuals, according to dad, were to be planted around Memorial Day.

Since I have a great deal of yard cleanup to do, it will have to do until planting time comes in May.  Meanwhile, though, the rhododendron in my front yard is blossoming, and the azaleas are beginning to bud. The forsythia is simply beautiful in its golden glory. Snowdrops and crocuses are gone now, but they were springing up everywhere just a few weeks ago, along both sides of the stonewall that borders the road. They also pop up in the lawn in places where I never planted them.

Most of my daffodils are in bloom, but others are budded and ready to bloom. They are one of my favorite spring flowers. When I see their buds in the spring, I’m always sorry I didn’t plant more of them in the fall. Deer don’t like them so they survive to bloom, and they multiply without any help from me. Unfortunately, deer have already eaten the early shoots of some tulips I was looking forward to seeing.

I know it was a hard winter for deer, as far as food goes, but why do they always have to go after the tulips, even ones that I have surrounded by daffodils? Nothing seems to protect the tulips from their inevitable fate. I once had a border of beautiful pink tulips in one of my flower gardens. They had actually made it all the way to flowering. One day they were there; the next day they were gone, each pink flower only a memory. A line of green stems remained. I never planted tulips there again as it seemed to be a deer route through my yard.

However, to give the deer the benefit of the doubt, I have never known them to eat the stems and leaves of tulips, so the most recent tulip massacre may not have been caused by deer at all. There are several rabbits that have their habitat in tall grass behind my house and under trees, and, while I usually see them in my yard munching on clover, I have seen them fairly close to my flower gardens. I’m not sure the deer repellant works with rabbits, so I’m concerned that some of my other early bulbs that are already sending up green shoots may fall victim to the cute little bunnies.

 The bunnies are cute, but they can be as destructive as deer. One of them ran out in front of the car when I returned home from dinner recently. It had no doubt been inspecting the greenery in my front flower garden, though I saw no damage the next morning. It may be just a matter of time.

Since I have deer repellant on hand, a trip up to Shakespeare’s Garden here in Brookfield may give me some ideas on what I can do to combat the bunny onslaught. Yes, they are cute and fun to watch….as long as they (and the deer) stay out of my gardens.

Candlewood Lake Revisited

Looking back over the years, there have been many changes in Brookfield, not the least of which have been to Candlewood Lake. When I was a child, the population of Brookfield and other area towns grew when the seasonal people arrived to spend their summer at the lake.

The area around Candlewood Lake has been a residential and recreational area since the 1930s. My maternal great-aunt and uncle were among the first local residents who saw the beauty there and built a house in an area called Sunset Cove. Their “cottage,” as it was always known, was a rustic log cabin with a large screened porch where you could watch the beautiful sunsets over the water. Inside the house, the walls were knotty pine. A huge fireplace dominated one side of the room next to a built-in window seat. The first floor also included the kitchen, a bedroom, and a bath. Up a curving staircase there was an open loft area that served as a second bedroom for my aunt’s sister and her husband, who shared the cottage during the summer.

The cottage was where we would enjoy picnics from Memorial Day to Labor Day and sometimes Thanksgiving dinner. In later years, it was also the site of anniversary parties and even a wedding reception. It was a place of joy and fun. On the Fourth of July, my great-uncle would set off fireworks that could rival more professional displays. His grand finale was always thousands of firecrackers that he spent hours tying together. The noise they made was awesome. When I was small, there were sparklers for me, and when my children were young, he always made sure there were sparklers for them.

It was a wondrous place for a child. I learned to swim there, paddling back and forth between my mother and my uncle. I would practice kicking by holding on to the dock. When you stood in the water, it was so clear you could look down and see your toes and the fish that were swimming around them. In between swimming, we would play croquet and badminton. There was an outdoor fireplace where my great-uncle and my dad would cook the hamburgers and hotdogs.

My great-uncle and my father had motorboats, and we spent hours boating on the lake, sometimes going all the way to New Milford. I always liked to sit in the bow of the boat so I could have the full force of the wind in my face. There were not as many motorized boats as there are now, but I remember many beautiful sailboats, with sails of many designs and colors, which would seem to glide over the water.

Once in a while I would stay overnight at the cottage. Being there early meant I could get to swim earlier. As I grew older, I would often have friends come with me to spend a day at the cottage. We would bring snacks, sandwiches, and sodas and spread out our blankets on the grass nearest the water. We would swim all day, with time out to play badminton or croquet or just to sit and talk.

For years we watched from the boat as new homes and marinas were constructed on the lake’s shore. More and more boats, of all sizes, began to use the lake. When we swam, the lake’s water was less clear; we could no longer see our toes or the fish. More weeds invaded the water; you caught your feet in them when you were swimming.

Change had come to Candlewood Lake. It is not the same lake I remember from my youth. The cottage is also gone, taken down to make way for another grander home. But in my mind and in my photographs I remember the cottage and the special aunts and uncles who lived there and helped to make my childhood special.

Remembering Elementary School Days

I have many memories about attending school when I was a child. I loved learning, but sometimes there were personal obstacles I had to face that made school a little less enjoyable. Some obstacles I learned to overcome quickly, but others took more time.

I began my school years at Sacred Heart in Danbury. I never questioned why this child from an Episcopalian family was attending a Catholic school. I often wonder why I didn’t ask, but before it occurred to me, everyone who might have known the answer had died. In spite of that, I think I have come up with the most obvious reason for my attendance there.

The school was located only one street away from where I lived. Because my mother worked nights, my grandmother was my caregiver during the day. She had a heart condition, so perhaps it had been arranged that I would attend the school that was closest to where we lived so she didn’t have to walk me to school. A friend told me recently that Catholic schools did accept non-Catholic students then, but an extra payment or donation would have been required in addition to tuition.

At first I was really afraid of the nuns in their long black habits, veils, and rosary beads. I had never seen anyone dressed like that before. I was so upset one day that I ran home during lunch hour recess, hoping my grandmother would let me stay. She comforted me and then sent me right back to school.

I never was tempted to do that again. I became comfortable with the nuns, especially the one who taught our class. I don’t remember her name, but I remember her sweet face and nice smile. And she was very nice to me. Perhaps she felt sorry for me because I was so uncomfortable with the unfamiliar church services and religious instructions that were part of our school days.

That was the year when I caught almost every childhood illness and overall lost about a month of school. Years later I found my report card and was pleasantly surprised that the teacher had praised my efforts in catching up with the class despite my frequent absences. 

For grades two through eight, I attended the Consolidated School (now Center School) in Brookfield. It was a difficult transition, from Catholic school to public school. Because of my mother’s marriage to Stanley Gurski, I also had a new father as well as new grandmother, uncles, and cousins. It was a year of many changes, so it’s no wonder that I have no strong memories of second grade.

Third grade was different, and perhaps it was because I received some special attention. I owe it to our teacher, Mrs. Martin, that anyone is able to read my handwriting. My printing was adequate, but my cursive was so very small you couldn’t distinguish the letters from each other. I remember the time she spent with me after school, showing me how to write larger without overly compensating. She had so much patience.

I don’t know what was going on during fourth grade, but nothing seems to stand out. I loved to learn, though I was not so thrilled about oral reports and current events. I think fourth grade was when I first became uncomfortable speaking in front of the class.

From my desk I could participate, but there was something about standing up and having all eyes on me that made me want to run for cover. This shyness lasted throughout the years until high school, when one of my teachers there helped me confront my fears and have more self-confidence in making oral presentations.

One of my teachers obviously loved flowers. While covering an event as editor of The Brookfield Journal years ago, I spent a few minutes talking with Mrs. Tucker, my fifth-grade teacher. She told me she would always remember how I had once brought her a fringed gentian, now an endangered species but plentiful in the woods on our farm.

When I was 12, I received a gift of my first camera, and I often took it to school to take photographs of friends and teachers. I treasure these pictures as well as the photograph of our graduating class. Those 30 girls and boys are an important part of my memories of the Consolidated School. That June was the last time we would be together. Most of us went on to Danbury High School, but others attended private or other local schools, such as Newtown High or Henry Abbott Technical School. Our time together was at a close.

The teachers at the Consolidated School were among some of the best I ever had. They prepared us well for high school and for life. Many of the things that I enjoy doing today and the way I live my life were rooted in that small, white schoolhouse on Obtuse Hill.

From City Sidewalks to Country Road

I was asked recently if I am a lifelong resident of Brookfield. Unlike my adoptive father, Stanley Gurski, who was born in the house that once occupied the site of the Assembly of God Church, I could best be described as a long-time resident. It was not until my mother married Stanley that we moved to Brookfield. I was seven years old. 

I was born in Danbury Hospital, and for the first six years of my life lived in Danbury and for a short time in Bethel.

I remember walking with my grandmother from our house on Prospect Street to the stores on Main Street, the major shopping area for the city in those days before malls. You could find almost anything you wanted on Main Street, from grocery stores to shoe stores. Main Street was also where the movie theaters, library, post office and Hotel Green were. Main Street’s stores and sidewalks were social gathering places, where friends and neighbors would meet while shopping or having a bite to eat at a store’s lunch counter.

I loved sidewalks. Even as a young child, I could walk safely by myself to visit my friends down the street. After school and on weekends, my grandmother would only need to watch out the window to make sure I arrived at my destination.

I attended first grade at Sacred Heart School, and walked to school every day, following a path through a neighbor’s yard. The school was located one street away so it wasn’t a long walk, and I was never alone because other children also used the shortcut. When I was older and visited my grandmother, I would sometimes follow the sidewalk around the entire block so I could walk by the school, trying to remember my year there or the names of children I knew then.

I still don’t remember much about my first grade experience except that it was the year when I caught most of the childhood illnesses and was absent a lot. It was also a year of change in my life when we moved to Brookfield.

Here in Brookfield, I had to walk to the Consolidated School (now Center School) from our farm on Obtuse Hill Road. What was new to this child of the city was that there were no sidewalks. The only sidewalk was the one that still runs along Route 25 in Brookfield Center and up Long Meadow Hill Road. It was strange to me to walk along the side of the road with no protective sidewalk.

The Consolidated School was opened in 1938 and replaced one-room schoolhouses located throughout the town. The school as it appears today includes additions, the one on the western side, was being constructed when I was in eighth grade. That addition was built on the site of one of our playgrounds. 

Several years ago I took my grandson Jonathan to the open house for the addition constructed on the eastern side of the school. I wanted him to see where I went to school for seven years, but I don’t think he was impressed. It was just another school building to him.

To me, it was a quest for my past. What I sought, as we walked through the hallways, was the little Consolidated School of my memories in the midst of the new, larger, more modern Center School. Sadly for me, there was little to find that was familiar. Among many other changes, my sixth grade classroom and our school’s little library had been swallowed up in the additions; the playgrounds on both sides of the school had disappeared.

I remember playing on the rocks near the ball field on the eastern side of the school. I and other little girls also played “house” among the trees nearby. Before that addition was built, I remember wondering if the small rock walls we built to resemble rooms still existed, and if they were used for the same purpose by other little girls all those years later.

When I attended the Consolidated School, there were classrooms encompassing first to eighth grade. My eighth grade class numbered 31 students at the time of our graduation. I would imagine that the other seven grades had a similar number of children so there were probably less than 300 students in the entire school.

The Consolidated School had a gymnasium that also served as an auditorium. Our eighth grade graduation was held there. There was no music room, and I remember the music teacher wheeling the piano into the classroom when it was our turn for class. We also had dancing lessons. It was there I had my first introduction to square dancing, which I learned to love.

There was a just a touch of home economics, in that we girls had a “sewing” session. I don’t know what the boys did during that time. The only thing I do know is that I never sewed a stitch and no one, much less the teacher, seemed to care.   

Unlike today, the Consolidated School was the only primary school in Brookfield.. There was no high school. Following eighth grade, students either attended Danbury High School, Newtown High School, Henry Abbott Technical School or private school for grades nine to 12.

Eighth grade was the last year I walked to school. I had learned to love walking on the side of the road, where we could pick bittersweet or wildflowers for our teacher on our way, rather than through a neighbor’s yard or on a sidewalk. Those years were now over. For the next four years, I would wait in front of my grandmother’s house with my cousin Helen for the bus that would take us to Danbury High School.

Love of Winter Changes Over Time

I have always loved Christmas—but the season in which it falls not so much. Through the years, winter has become my least favorite time, but it was not always so

As a child I loved winter. I don’t remember minding the cold. In snowsuit, hat, gloves and boots, I met those cold, snowy days with childhood glee. Unless I had a good book to read or toys from Christmas that I particularly liked, I preferred to be outside.

The Gurski Farm in Brookfield where I grew up became a wonderland in the months that followed Christmas. There always seemed to be plenty of snow, and the farm offered many places for winter fun. There were fields for making snowballs and snow angels and hills of varying sizes for sledding and tobogganing. Once it was cold enough, there was even a pond for skating.

Though I was enthusiastic about sledding and just running around in the snow, one thing I never mastered was ice skating. To his credit, my dad, Stanley Gurski, tried to teach me, but my feet just would not cooperate. I was not the most agile child, as I remember. Photographs of me at that time always show bandages on my knees so it probably came to no one’s surprise that I could not master skates. My ankles would turn, and I would fall down. After this happened a number of times, my dad finally gave up, and I was content just to slide on the ice without those skates that had been my downfall.

When it snowed, my dad would plow all the driveways plus a path through the orchard from our house to my grandmother’s that I would follow to meet my cousin Helen on school days. Since we lived so close to the Consolidated School (now Center School), we walked to school every day, no matter what the weather. It was an uphill walk to the school and a much easier walk home later in the day.

I don’t remember having snow days, but perhaps we did. I probably don’t remember because it did not create problems in our household for childcare. My mother worked, but my dad was home during the day, as well as my grandmother, so the concern probably never arose.

I loved sledding. My favorite route was from our house, following the plowed path through the orchard, and ending in my grandmother’s back yard. Sometimes several family members would toboggan from the very top of the hill behind our houses. There was a marvelous view from there. The trees were not as tall as they are today, and you could see the steeple of the Congregational Church and the school, the only one in town at that time. Below us was the entire farm with the houses, barns, and other buildings surrounded by snow. It was a glorious sight.

Then we would pile onto the toboggan and down we would go, following the road that ran between the hay fields. I remember one time we made it all the way down to the top of our driveway where the toboggan suddenly came to a stop and flipped over on its side. All of us scrambled off, I had a minor cut on my hand, but no one knew what had happened.

When my cousin Frank was learning to ski, I wanted to learn, too. I think by that time in my life, my parents were convinced that I was not to be trusted on anything but my two feet and perhaps they were in themselves dangerous. My father always said I could trip over a blade of grass, so there was no way he would let me go down a hill on skis. More than skinned knees were something I’m sure he envisioned. Needless to say, I did not learn to ski.

My disenchantment with winter began years later when I had my first job. I loved cars and loved to drive, but not in snow, and that has not changed as I have aged. Now that I’m retired, appointments can be rescheduled, food shopping can wait until the roads are plowed. It’s again time for me to enjoy winter, watching the snow as it falls, seeing its beauty from the warmth of my house and, most of all, not having to drive in it.