In the fall of 1932 I entered Stonington High School, which was located in the village of Stonington, five miles away. This meant a school bus, which was driven by Mr. Brown, a kind and even-tempered man. He had to be. We frequently greeted him with all that smart-assed panache of teenagers, singing, "What's the color of horseshit? Brown! Brown! Brown!", to the tune of "We're Three Jolly Consumptives". The bus, in those deep depression days, was hardly deluxe, but it got us there. We waited in front of West Broad Street School--about eighteen or twenty of us. The bus groaned away through Wequetequock, picking up another dozen or so, and finally made it to Stonington. Luckily there were no steep hills; the little engine that could, on the level, make it, never could in mountain country. Another bus came from Mystic to complete the classes. I always liked school--from the earliest. Those were days when nobody cared whether you liked school or not. There was no catering to scatter-brained teenagers. Moreover, nobody wanted to leave school to go to work; there were no jobs for us. You were lucky if there was a job for your father. As for your mother working, forget it. Not a bad arrangement, come to think of it. There were all new teachers, of course. Mr. Frey was the first male teacher I met, except for Mr. Savage, who was shop teacher, and who had come over to West Broad Street the previous spring to give Owen Sherry and me some advance lessons in mechanical drawing. But you'd expect a shop teacher to be male. So we met Mr. Frey, who taught mathematics, Mr. Griffin, science, and the coach, Paul Cierzo. I never got to know him well; my disinterest in sports of any kind was well-established. Grace Carlson, English, was one of my favorites. She herself liked drama, and sometimes took part in the plays herself. Miss Hogan, Latin, Mrs.

Culver, English--all went into my upbringing. I remember I had a free space one semester during my sophomore year, and elected to take typing—Miss Squadrito. It was probably the single most valuable course I can remember. Mary Brannigan was an all-time favorite, although I don't remember her as a

teacher--she taught business subjects--but as a drama coach, even from earlier days at St. Michael's Church. I saw Mary at the 55th reunion in September 1990, along with Mr. Crouch, history, who looked younger than some of his former students. About the building itself--Stonington High School--I remember mostly the odor, not an unpleasant one. It came from sweeping up wooden floors with oiled sawdust, for generations. But the floors were always clean, if mildly slippery. The old Stonington High School building, abandoned as a school years ago, has been converted to classy condominiums. Somebody joked that I could probably get my old home-room for a quarter-million.

High School became a time for joining. I even (an extreme, this) went out for sports a couple of times. The first time, John Lenihan thought I should make a stab at being an athlete, so I went out for cross-country. We ran a two-and-one-half mile course northwest of the village. I usually approached the finish gasping at the last shreds of life. I was not meant to be a distance runner. But I stuck with it through the end of the season. The next year I went out for track. This was better. I was pretty good at the 400-yard dash, and did win my letter, so if I have a white sweater on sometime, I can wear a big brown "S" on it. This minor participation in high-school athletics did nothing to interest me in sports; it merely showed my tolerance of the foibles of humanity, and my willingness to inconvenience myself slightly to keep others happy. Boy Scouts, of course, were old hat by high-school years. I had joined Troop 2 as soon as I became twelve, and had progressed to Senior Patrol Leader. So, unfortunately, had several others. We liked scouting so much that at the age of sixteen there were still four or five of us in the troop, and we had an overage of Senior Patrol Leaders. When in formation, we lined up in a row in front of the Troop, enough of us to look like another entire patrol. There were all sorts of clubs at school. The Latin club, of course; the Science club. Drama and music were of great attraction. I was something of an actor as a youth, and even at West Broad Street School was treading the boards. My Robin Hood, to Ida Findeisen's Maid Marian, was memorable. (I saw Ida at the reunion last September. She went on to have, I think, four husbands, and looks as dumpy as a sawn-off oak in Sherwood Forest). There was a big musical in, I think, Junior year. I can still remember some of the music. At about age fourteen I joined the church choir. Mrs. Murray was the organist. She commanded an old "tracker" organ, meaning the stops were actuated by cords connected directly from the keyboard to the pipes. It made for a stiff action, but the sounds were every bit as lusty as any produced by today's electric marvels. Charlie St. Onge and Dr. Doyle, my dentist, were basic, and easily dominated the rest of us. Maurice McGuiness was the lead tenor. Even at fourteen I could easily out-second tenor anyone else, so I held my own. I think that it was here I learned to love traditional Catholic music, although it was not until years later that I really learned Gregorian Chant. When I hear the dreary music--and banal liturgies--at some of today's services I can understand why some Catholics no longer go to church, even though I can't agree with them. If there was any peer pressure, I was either not aware of it or ignored it. In an odd sort of way, I think, I have always been a contrarian, but unlike the teen-age "rebels" who have been acting out since the mid fifties (remember James Dean in "Rebel Without a Cause"? An untalented young man who could not act, but who could pout beautifully?), I have always favored the Establishment. I did so as a teenager; I do so today. There may well have been, in some cities, gangs, as we know them today, but they were unknown in Westerly, Rhode Island. If there had been any, I can't recall anyone stupid enough to have joined them. Smug youngster, wasn't I? Yup--and liked it that way.

I'm being prompted to talk about sports, and the story of my sports life has already been told. Aside from that brief experience with cross-country and track in High School, taken to normalize myself, sports had had zero influence on my life, other than to bore me whenever forced to go to a game, and during later years I have even refused to do that. I can't imagine anything more boring that watching a couple of sides of beef race up and down a basketball court pursuing a bouncing ball, and collecting fouls. All I can think of is that famous play of about fifty years ago—Tobacco Road. The first act opens on a vista of a backwoods hovel with a loutish young man bouncing a rubber ball against the wall. The door opens, and

the protagonist, Jeeter Lester, comes out to the porch, to say to the oaf, "Dude, stop a-bouncing' that goddam ball!." I'd so address any nationally known five today. I won't, though; nobody's asked me to.

I was a largely deprived youngster. I never was allowed a cat, and the only dog we had was on Beach Street, a collie named Nip. We got him from one of my mother's friends who had a farm in Bradford, as I recall. There must have been breeders and kennels than, but I never knew anybody who bought a dog from any of them. I can't recall any hobbies. I was always interested in something or other, but I never built something, as Owen Sherry built a beautiful surfboard, and others of my friends build well and carefully. I remember making a heliograph, which I mounted on a tripod with nails. I was somewhat resentful when told I should have planed the wood smooth, and used screws in the mounting.

I started working summers when I was nine years old--at the Misquamicut Golf Club--caddying. I didn't earn much; there were over one hundred of us competing for the jobs, and I frequently didn't "get out." Eighteen holes paid a dollar, at the time. Later, during depression years, the tab went to 75 cents. The sports used to add a dime, or sometimes a quarter tip. Watch Hill was a resort area, and the big summer homes were owned by old money--what there was left of it after the Wall Street crash of 1929. A few of the rich had taken a swan dive off a skyscraper. I remember that the oldest caddy was 24 years of age, and supporting a family. Such were the times. A friend of my mother's, Mark Driscoll, was manager of the local Mohican market, and gave me a summer job on the fruit counter when I was a senior in high school--at $14.00 per week. Another young man earned $17.00, on which he supported a wife and child. I remember they lived up on Morgan Street, in the loft of what appeared to be an old barn. Such were the

times. I worked hard, and every Saturday night had to stay until about 11:00 p. m. to take inventory. We catered to the Watch Hill crowd--slavishly. I remember the boss (I forget his name--he was a Greek) once told me, in front of a customer, to "get that watermelon we've saved for her", with a big wink. I went to the cooler, picked out the first melon I saw, and cut a big X in it. Everybody was happy. A couple of summers later I got a job with Gene Barney, brother to the sisters Barney, friends of my mother. The sisters Barney operated the Misquamicut Inn, an old barn of a hotel, and Gene ran the Watch Hill market. I did generally everything there, including delivery in his old Ford truck. This was, as I recall, the summer of 1937. My meager earnings were spent partly on household expenses, and partly into savings for college. I think I earned about 35% of my college costs, which were minimal. I am convinced that early experience with work--gainful employment—is the most important part of growing up, even for the children of affluence.

Nothing--not school grades, not home chores--so instills a sense of self-discipline so well. If this work interferes with "after-school" activities, so be it. Much after-school activity is useless, and serves only to fill time and to keep the student's interest from flagging, anyway. And even in Depression days children’s work time was restricted.

My father bought a new 1933 Plymouth in 1933. IN 1933! This was during the Great Depression. The local dealer didn't have our model in stock--few did--and we had to go to Providence to pick it up. A banner day, indeed. In Connecticut one had to be 16 in order to get a license. I was still only 14 in the summer of 1933. But I taught myself how to drive. The 1933 Plymouth had an automatic clutch, plus overdrive. Shifting was still by hand, but easing up on the accelerator threw the clutch, and shifting was then possible. I used to clean the car, which we kept down in Billy Buck's garage, a building with four garages for rent only a few steps from the house. (It's now a residence, as I noticed on my last visit to Westerly.) One afternoon I washed the car, backed it around a few times, and then drove around the block. My father, after learning that I had taught myself, occasionally let me drive during trips. On one trip to Providence, we were stopped by a state trooper, who considered my youth and unlicensed status, and let us go. Needless to say, when I went to New London the next year to take the tests, I passed with flying colors. So I've been driving legally for nearly forty-seven years. Cars never meant much to me. I never had one at college (few did), and at my first job in Buffalo I got along very well with streetcars. In fact, my first auto purchase came in 1945, with a 1946 Ford.

We stayed at 25 Washington Street in Pawcatuck until 1938, when we moved to an apartment at 5 Grove Avenue, in a house owned by the Healey sisters. Two were widowed, and two were maiden ladies. They were great people, and were my first real acquaintance with the gentile poor. They had only the house, and very little income. Delia had been a singer, and still had a fairly good, if quavering, soprano voice. I took singing lessons from her, at, I think, a dollar each. We both benefited.