Monday, July 02, 2007
Janice Harvey's Worcester Magazine Column: June 21, 2007
Where the grass really is greener
Written by Janice Harvey
Thursday, 21 June 2007
By Janice Harvey
The newly planted grass in Donna Hackett's backyard is beginning to show promise. The blades are thin and not nearly as lush as the vegetation that once grew there, but with a little TLC and a bucketful of optimism, it just might be a place where memories will be made. New memories, planted carefully over the old ones.
Growing up in Columbus Park meant knowing the name "Hackett." Three homes, all in a row, housed generations of the clan. My mother called it "the Hackett compound," a gentle poke and a nod to that other tight-knit Irish tribe located in Hyannis, the Kennedys. At the corner of Englewood and Hobson Avenue stood the three-decker where Grandpa Bill and Grandma Catherine lived. Beside them, their son Paul and his wife Blanche raised four kids, while another son John and his wife Helena brought up their own brood of five next door. Around the world, wars have been waged, hurricanes have struck, governments have been overthrown and regimes have been toppled; still, the three houses remain in the hands of Hacketts.
Behind the yards, between fences and vague boundaries we never really understood, there grew a clump of trees, weeds and snarled brush where kids could go. It was the perfect refuge — within shouting distance should your mother call you in for supper, yet dense enough to camouflage any questionable kid stuff you might consider. Half the neighborhood lit cigarettes for the first time beneath the cover of the place we called "Chop Suey," the other half explored a first kiss there. It was a not-so-secret "secret" hide-away and we loved it.
Why "Chop Suey"? Who knows? One of the adults most likely named the thicket, likening it to a bowl of mysterious tangled vegetables. For decades, Chop Suey remained untouched, providing a buffer zone between Hackettville and the outside world, our own version of The Hundred Acre Wood.
"Chop Suey was smack dab in the middle of the city, a little oasis. It was green. It had onion grass you could chew on and branches you could swing on. Raccoons, skunks and possums lived there. What kid wouldn't love it?" Donna remembers.
A curious thing called life has happened since those days when our TVs aired only three networks with the aid of rabbit ears and a roll of aluminum foil. Along the way, Donna's 26-year marriage ran out of gas. The prodigal daughter returned from New Hampshire, and after a year as an apartment dweller, began the search for permanent digs.
Months of disappointing open houses, Realtor wrangling and "Let's Make a Deal"-type negotiations led to a modest townhouse. The condo sits on Lovell Street, but the newly created lawn out back grows over what was once good old Chop Suey. Her 84-year-old dad Paul still lives in the middle house of the compound, nine years after his beloved Blanche passed away. At night, Donna can tell when Dad's burning the light over his reading chair. From her living room, she can see the window of the bedroom she slept in as a girl, and if she closes her eyes tightly, she can almost conjure the smell of a small campfire being stoked by the boys of Chop Suey. The raccoons, skunks and possums still populate parts of the brush left untouched; they have the right of way, says Donna. Onion grass still grows for the chewing.
The bulldozer doesn't exist that's powerful enough to rip up and haul away what really grew in Chop Suey. Now, instead of "Spin the Bottle," the game being played there is badminton; in the garage, there's a brand-new bocce set Donna plans to pull out of the box by Fourth of July. It won't be long before Chop Suey is once again a not-so-secret secret hide-away, and on quiet summer nights, if she listens very carefully, Donna just might hear her mother calling her in for supper.
Written by Janice Harvey
Thursday, 21 June 2007
By Janice Harvey
The newly planted grass in Donna Hackett's backyard is beginning to show promise. The blades are thin and not nearly as lush as the vegetation that once grew there, but with a little TLC and a bucketful of optimism, it just might be a place where memories will be made. New memories, planted carefully over the old ones.
Growing up in Columbus Park meant knowing the name "Hackett." Three homes, all in a row, housed generations of the clan. My mother called it "the Hackett compound," a gentle poke and a nod to that other tight-knit Irish tribe located in Hyannis, the Kennedys. At the corner of Englewood and Hobson Avenue stood the three-decker where Grandpa Bill and Grandma Catherine lived. Beside them, their son Paul and his wife Blanche raised four kids, while another son John and his wife Helena brought up their own brood of five next door. Around the world, wars have been waged, hurricanes have struck, governments have been overthrown and regimes have been toppled; still, the three houses remain in the hands of Hacketts.
Behind the yards, between fences and vague boundaries we never really understood, there grew a clump of trees, weeds and snarled brush where kids could go. It was the perfect refuge — within shouting distance should your mother call you in for supper, yet dense enough to camouflage any questionable kid stuff you might consider. Half the neighborhood lit cigarettes for the first time beneath the cover of the place we called "Chop Suey," the other half explored a first kiss there. It was a not-so-secret "secret" hide-away and we loved it.
Why "Chop Suey"? Who knows? One of the adults most likely named the thicket, likening it to a bowl of mysterious tangled vegetables. For decades, Chop Suey remained untouched, providing a buffer zone between Hackettville and the outside world, our own version of The Hundred Acre Wood.
"Chop Suey was smack dab in the middle of the city, a little oasis. It was green. It had onion grass you could chew on and branches you could swing on. Raccoons, skunks and possums lived there. What kid wouldn't love it?" Donna remembers.
A curious thing called life has happened since those days when our TVs aired only three networks with the aid of rabbit ears and a roll of aluminum foil. Along the way, Donna's 26-year marriage ran out of gas. The prodigal daughter returned from New Hampshire, and after a year as an apartment dweller, began the search for permanent digs.
Months of disappointing open houses, Realtor wrangling and "Let's Make a Deal"-type negotiations led to a modest townhouse. The condo sits on Lovell Street, but the newly created lawn out back grows over what was once good old Chop Suey. Her 84-year-old dad Paul still lives in the middle house of the compound, nine years after his beloved Blanche passed away. At night, Donna can tell when Dad's burning the light over his reading chair. From her living room, she can see the window of the bedroom she slept in as a girl, and if she closes her eyes tightly, she can almost conjure the smell of a small campfire being stoked by the boys of Chop Suey. The raccoons, skunks and possums still populate parts of the brush left untouched; they have the right of way, says Donna. Onion grass still grows for the chewing.
The bulldozer doesn't exist that's powerful enough to rip up and haul away what really grew in Chop Suey. Now, instead of "Spin the Bottle," the game being played there is badminton; in the garage, there's a brand-new bocce set Donna plans to pull out of the box by Fourth of July. It won't be long before Chop Suey is once again a not-so-secret secret hide-away, and on quiet summer nights, if she listens very carefully, Donna just might hear her mother calling her in for supper.
# posted by Jim O'C @ 12:01 PM 
