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From time to time, I have asked my three older brothers and three older sisters to write about their memories of our family. Being a teacher, I am afraid these appeals closely resemble an assignment I would give to one of my writing classes. However, they dutifully respond, and then I am the recipient of a lovely stash of stories. Some of these collections appear elsewhere on Shestories, but for Christmas Day it is only appropriate to record their memories of the house where we were once children – 250 Mill Street, in Westwood, New Jersey. The stories begin with those about the outside and then on into the house. It is my hope that in reading these stories my readers are brought back to their own memories of their own childhood home. 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.

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