“All Aboard For Pike”


In the summer of 1952, I was five and my little brother was two. My little sister was just in the making, and she wasn’t born until January of 1953. My mother took the two of us across the country on the train to visit our grandparents. We were in a Pullman sleeper car, so we had a self contained room with bathroom and bunk beds. My mother was desperately morning sick, and we spent almost all our time on the first leg from Portland to Chicago in our room. The porter was very loving and brought our food to the room. My brother and I were not suffering from nausea and we were often hungry. My mother had stocked up with activity books for me, especially my favorite dot-to-dot books. I remember feeling cooped up, but probably not nearly as much as my mom felt with the two of us in that small compartment.

The last leg of the trip from Chicago to Buffalo was much less pleasant, but it was much shorter. We were on the New York Central Railroad which was filthy in comparison to the Union Pacific we had been on. The high spot was the dining car whose menu is pictured above. I loved that menu as you can tell since I kept it all these years.

We had come to see my grandparents because my grandfather wanted to christen my little brother. He had christened me when we still lived in New York, but my brother had been born in Oregon. While my parents weren’t religious, my mother honored her father’s desire to pray over my brother.

I remember my grandfather lifting me off the train in Buffalo and then little else about the trip. In Pike, he donned his clerical robes and christened my little brother.1948-50s 253Then we played happily for days, reassured once again of God’s love as it shone through my grandfather.

“Stepping Out In Pike”


My next visit was the summer I was one when my parents had gone to Oregon for work. I started out in Buffalo, at my grandparents’ house, and then accompanied them and my sixteen year old Aunt Cary to their summer place in Pike. I had just learned to walk, and here I am still pretty tentative about trying to pick up a croquet ball and still remain upright. I love that my aunt is wearing a dress on a summer afternoon. I never saw my grandmother in pants, and I am sure she expected Cary to look “presentable” wherever we were. Fortunately I got to wear my corduroy overalls to totter around.

I think that the feeling of safety and peace that I associate with Pike took root during this sojourn with my grandparents and aunt. While my grandmother was fairly restrained, a product of her upbringing by a Victorian English mother, my grandfather had no pretense and a rollicking sense of humor. I know that he adored me, and my memories of him throughout my life are positive ones.

The side yard at Pike was flat and an ideal place to play croquet. I played it throughout my growing up years, continuing to play it as an adult. I am dreadful at the game, despite my years of play. Still I love the thwack of hitting the ball and the bang it makes when it hits another’s ball. And there is no joy so complete as placing your foot on your ball, placed next to your opponent’s ball, and hitting yours hard enough to send the other one flying. Supposedly croquet is a sedate afternoon pastime.   Not any game that we ever played. It was all about knocking the opponent’s ball far across the yard.

The sun is out. Our grass is mowed. Where is our croquet set anyway?

“My Very First Visit to Pike”


I had forgotten(though clearly I couldn’t have remembered) that my first visit to Pike came in the summer of 1947 when I was three months old. Here my father practices the time honored exercise of making faces at a baby while the baby(me in this case) practices making them back. Even now, whenever I am around a baby I find myself making faces and watching to see the baby’s reaction. Babies work very hard to mimic expressions, and if you give them enough time, you can watch them try to arrange their faces to copy yours.

One of the constants at Pike was a hammock hung between two elm trees in the front yard. Summers in Pike were often hot and humid, and some of my best later memories were of lolling in the hammock, avoiding having to do anything helpful. Fortunately, with both my mother and grandmother present whenever we were in Pike, two people in the kitchen were already one person too many, so I didn’t have to contribute as much as I would have at home.

It’s a hot day today in East Hartford, and the first hot day of summer here always brings memories of Pike back in a visceral sense. Of course there was no air conditioning, so the evening breeze was especially relished. Even more so from the comfortable perch of the hammock.

“Sweet Betsy From Pike”


In the late 1920’s, my grandparents who lived in Buffalo bought a small farm in the Wyoming County town of Pike, New York. They had great concerns about  polio sweeping the country in urban settings, and they wanted a place they could take my mother for the summer. Since my grandfather was a university professor, he had the summer off and they could relocate for a couple of the most dangerous months for polio.

Some people have “summer cottages” in prestigious towns. Pike, to the contrary, was a little out of the way quiet farming town whose principal assets were peace and quiet. My grandmother might have preferred a  town with more cachet, but my grandfather was very down to earth, and this town suited him just fine.

I spent time there during four different summers, so I will spend some time over the next few days writing about my times there. Since my nickname is “Betsy,” I naturally felt that the town was my own because of the old song “Sweet Betsy From Pike.” Those who remember stories about my grandfather and his love of old time music won’t be surprised that he often sang it to me–loudly and off key.

That first summer I was only one year old, so I have no concrete memories of that time, but pictures of me from that summer reveal my happily tottering around. My Aunt Cary was a teenager and my lasting bond with her was established that summer. That first visit was warm, loving and sunny. I have carried an internal sense of Pike from then on, which I still draw on whenever I am asked to imagine a safe welcoming spot.

“The Back 40”

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As far as I was concerned we had a gigantic back yard in this new house. It had a climbing tree, a swing set, a garden, a hand dug wading pool, brick walkways and lawn. It was very easy to pretend I was a cowboy(I don’t think anyone ever mentioned cowgirls to me.) I had a cowboy hat and a cap gun which shot off strips of caps making repeated loud bangs.

As I have mentioned earlier in my writings, all my friends were boys since that was who lived in the neighborhood. But we all loved the same things anyway: running, climbing, jumping, yelling, chasing and gunfights in the yard. My little brother was too little to participate when I was 3, 4 and 5. He was often in his play pen in the back yard watching us run around. I am amazed that play pens went out of fashion, replaced by very watchful parents. My mother didn’t have time to keep a constant eye on my brother, and he–to all appearances–seemed perfectly happy to be playing in his contraption. Once he was semi-reliable, my baby sister took over the play pen and my brother was free to join in the fun in the yard.

Only one family had a television, but there was almost no programming on the one station. It never occurred to any of our parents that we should be watching tv. They assumed that kids should be outdoors, running around. In the rain, we had boots and rain coats. In cooler weather we had jackets and hats. In the occasional snow we had snowsuits and boots. We all went home for dinner, followed by baths and bed.

By the way, some have commented that I must have had a wonderful childhood. Parts of it were indeed wonderful, but much of it wasn’t. I choose to chronicle the good times.


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Living among all those Douglas fir trees certainly came as proof that we were in Oregon and no longer in New York City. But Oregon is also famous for its green terrain. And the green is courtesy of rain and more rain for much of the year. The winter of this photo produced extra ordinary rain, loosening the soil around the large fir in the back yard. Then all it took was a strong wind and the tree toppled. A careful look reveals that our swing set is mangled in the wreckage.

Of all times for a tree to come crashing into the yard, it picked a night my parents had gone out to dinner. This left our babysitter with three frightened children as the branches(already removed in this photo) crashed onto the roof, leaving a significant hole. My parents arrived back home after a frantic call to the Chinese restaurant where they were finally sharing a meal without us. Fortunately, in those days, parents left numbers where they could be reached by babysitters. They rushed home, with the food in those little white containers, and finished their meal by candlelight. The tree and others like it in the area had knocked out power.

My brother and I were unconcerned about the hole in the roof, but were very upset about the swing set. My mother was unconcerned about the swing set, but upset that her clothesline had been destroyed. My father, leaning on his ax,  was unconcerned about the swing set and the clothesline. He was just trying to figure out how he was going to turn all that tree into firewood.


“A Home of Their Own”

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After my brother was born, and after my father had established himself in a law firm, my parents finally were able to buy a home of their own in Portland, Oregon. This 1937 Cape, two bedroom, one bathroom, galley kitchen, unfinished attic space and unfinished basement was it. We moved in July, 1950, with me 3 and my brother 6 weeks old.

At the time, this area was still fairly undeveloped, though it had been platted for future growth. They bought the lot next door and were able to make money from a later sale to a builder. The lot was deep in the back, allowing for a very large vegetable garden, abutting the gravel road which ran behind our home. The area was full of kids, as every place was in the 1950’s. My granddaughter laughs at the phrase, “baby boom,” but clearly that was the reality of those days. People were having babies as quickly as humanly possible. On two blocks of my street alone there were four boys my same age as well as numerous siblings.

I have clear memories of my years here from 1950 to 1955, from age 3 to age 8. Here I began elementary school, riding the big yellow bus with all the other kids. Supervision of kids was much more lackadaisical then, and we wandered from house to house. Someone’s mother probably knew where we were. We certainly had no sense of fear of strangers or cars.

I shared a room with my brother until I was considered old enough to sleep upstairs. Eventually, after my first sister was born, my brother joined me in another twin bed with matching cowboy bedspreads. The attic was never converted into rooms, but the walls were finished and we shared a portable metal closet. Today when I hear of children not only having their own room but also their own bathroom, I wonder what they are missing. We learned to share and to wait, valuable skills for later life.

When we first moved to New England, I found myself surrounded with Cape houses built in the early 1940’s for all the aircraft workers. The area looked so familiar, as if I had teleported back in time to Palatine Hill Road.