Writings by Mary Haskell

Introduction by Marsha

Mary Haskell was my Mother-in-Law, but she was much more than that.  She didn’t approve of me - women weren’t supposed to be independent, and I was. As a partner for her son, she felt I was all wrong. I wasn’t interested in cooking or wearing makeup or any of the things she considered feminine.  Before she met me or knew my name, she called me by the name of the villainess on her favorite soap opera.  She continued using that name even after she met me.  Yet, she never failed to teach me about the things she had taught herself about. She taught me about flowers, and nature, and birds.  She appreciated that I loved to read.  She was afraid I might take Stanley away from her, but made certain I was included in her family’s activities. Reading her account of her life, written when she was much younger, was interesting because her account had changed significantly.  When I knew her, she felt her Philadelphia family had given her away and wondered why they didn’t want her.  She also felt that her adopted family hadn’t paid attention to her desire to attend Radcliffe, that they had pushed her to continue her musical performances instead.  Stanley, her son, and I weren’t married until several years after her death.  I’m not sure what her reaction would have been, but she remains a source of inspiration to me.

Story of a Childhood

by Mary Haskell

April 16, 1989

Before the turn at the last century, there was a quiet rural suburb about an hour by horse and buggy from the city of Philadelphia. Many families who had to struggle during the famine in England, came over to the United States, and settled in that friendly village. Among them were my father‘s parents and his brother and he.  Their mother was of small build, but she was known for her courage and energy. She left her homeland with her husband and little boys who were under school age.  They sailed steerage.  Passengers in that class had to bring food for the journey: tea, oats, and items which would keep well. The journey took many weeks and there were many storms. Adding to great discomfort, cholera broke out on board. The law stated that every person must be vaccinated. Grandmother firmly opposed this. She tried to prevent anything being put into their blood. The law prevailed immediately. and Immediately after each child was medicated, she put her mouth on the area, drew out all the serum and spat it on the deck.  It must have been one of their greatest moments when they saw the Statue of Liberty holding her torch high!

The small village had many happy families,  mostly British, but also Pennsylvania Dutch and Scandinavian. A truly delightful atmosphere in which to put down roots and raise a family. 

So there I was born one lovely evening in the upstairs bedroom of my mothers home. Mother was daughter-in-law to grandmother.

The little homes were in Rows exactly like England with an occasional “close” between.  We call them an alley. If one walked up the alley, it was fenced on each side by a tall board fence, painted a sparkling white, over 6 feet, high. Grandfather, father of my mother, had such a fence, and I found a nut hole or two through which I could peek and see him with his fine white hair and beard, going from flower to flower picking off the dead flowers in his garden. The whiteboard walls were pretty with morning glories, climbing, and Holly Hawk all along the lower part. 

All the homes had an ample fenced garden, and a little building at the far end with a crescent moon cut out of the door known as a "two-holer."  It was a delight to me to walk the narrow path of our yard. There was no sound except the bees in the flower beds and happy bird singing. On my way to the yard, I passed the large box where my father‘s pug dog, Tip, lives, cozy and warmly bedded.  When I passed his box I could not resist giving a little kick to it. He always responded with a low growl of warning.

Our garden, next to grandfather‘s, had six hens and a small rooster living there.  The winters were mild. Grandfather built a long, rustic grape arbor in his yard. He grew beautiful grapes, red Delaware, blue concord, and the pale green kind, almost white. I think he chose red, white, and blue because he served in the war. I could smell their fragrance from our yard . When the clusters began to ripen, he covered each bunch with a tied on paper bag to prevent birds and insects from spoiling them. His summer garden was a riot of color. He taught me the names of his flowers. The one strongest in my memory is the balsam, which had flowers all along its long stem. He never had a summer without those.  I raised them too, most years, remembering him.

My room was upstairs in our house. The large window overlooking the garden in the back. Screens were made of black cotton edit put on with Tax. It waved in and out with the fleas as I lay in bed. Never again since leaving my early home have I ever heard such night arguments as those shrill Katydids had.  They grew louder and louder until the dawn made them visible. Then they would vanish and resume the argument the following evening. “Katy-did“ ”Katy-didn’t“ ( or did she?)

Like the lovely song “there are fairies in my garden”  I was lighted by a constant display of fireflies, carrying their lighted fairy lamps around the garden, as though inspecting it.

All streets were lighted by candles in a lantern on a post. At dusk a lamplighter came, silently walking, holding a pole with the burning candle at the tip to light our street light. At dawn he returned to put out the flame. There were no sidewalks, just a narrow path, and small trees, and meadow grass. At the base of our lamp post I discovered where the praying mantises said their prayers.

The Lamplighter by Robert Louis Stevenson

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky.

It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by;

For every night at teatime and before you take your seat,

With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,

And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;

But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,

O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,

And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;

And oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light;

O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!

By 7 o’clock in the morning, I’d like to unlatch the front door, smell the fresh cool air, and look up and down the street. Men had all gone to their work. No automobiles. One by one the housewives came out in their starched aprons holding a pail of warm soapy water and a cloth. Each house had two or three white marble steps to enter at the front, rounded and smooth from the years of use. The lady would kneel down and wash her steps as clean as though they were her dishes. This also is a ritual in the villages of Scotland but most of their steps are a huge stone, or stones. Often a house was built so that one could enter at the front and walk a straight line and go out the door to the garden, walking on brick or stone floors. Everything is so very clean. A Scottish friend who was born in Aberdeen, Scotland told me that at age four it was her daily task to wash the long stone hall, floor and steps. It was she who gave me her delicious recipe for real Scottish shortbread.

It was safe in those days for a child to take a walk alone after supper. Most of the people were on their porch rocking chairs. (There was no radio or television.) Even then, the little streets all in line had tree names.  Mine was Hawthorne, then came locust, cherry, chestnut, mulberry, and poplar. I thought of it as walking around the block in different routes. I always stopped in to chat with Mrs. Rondsdorf and her son Ernest. She had come over from Norway. They lived on Mulberry Street.

Further down the main thoroughfare, a huge tent was pitched in summer. The floor was clean, sweet smelling, yellow, moist salt, dust. Every afternoon, Billy Sunday, the great evangelist, led a revival service. I was allowed to go. I love to sing all of those old, beautiful gospel hymns. Everyone sang lustily led by Billy Sunday and his singers.  “We shall gather at the river”, and “I have a mansion just over the hilltops.”

Some days were exciting when we would listen for the loud voice of the man with his little cart.  We could hear him in the quiet distance singing about his waffles so that people could get their penny ready. I was one. He finally came into view after what seemed like ages, walking slowly and pushing his cart. I was afraid that the waffle batter would be used up. I watched him cook the batter on a little stove in the small cart. When it was hot, puffy and golden, he sprinkled powdered sugar over the fancy top left by the hot iron.  I gave him my penny so gladly and ran into the house. Some days I heard the song which the iceman loudly sang as he travelled through the streets. One time, he, went to the back of the cart, took off a large sheet of cloth, chopped off a chunk of ice gave me a little fragment, and wrapped our piece in heavy black oil cloth.  He carried it through the front door, through the parlor, and dropped it with relief into our beautiful zig- lined “ice chest“ which we kept in the sitting room. I wish that I had it today. It was made of nice brown wood, and ornately carved. The ice was lowered inside from the top. I remember vividly the little door behind, which had a spigot turned up to the vertical position, and when turned down  would provide lovely delicious, melted, ice into a tin cup which kept it cold. The water tasted strongly of ammonia, but I became addicted to it. How cooling on those sultry days and how delightful to use the shiny spigot! I wish that I now had that piece of furniture from the old house! 

Other peddlers sang their own Irish tunes, and rhythms were very clever. It was like the commercials of today, only in person. The meat man sang about his offerings,, the fish man sang about  what fish of the day was fresh, but the knife grinder rang a bell. There was no electricity, or phone, but the good peddlers were our radio.

My mother had an older sister, Amelia, who was childless. I was the fourth child of my mother and father.  Aunt Amelia was my mother‘s only sister, and she lived in a sub of Boston called Charlestown.  She worried over my mother‘s health and came to visit her often, staying to help her. She loved to take me, the baby, home to Boston with her for a visit. These visits became so frequent and extended that I called her mama. Every time my aunt returned me to my parents I would not eat, and I cried and cried for her. . I was about age two.

My aunt took me back-and-forth by train on many frenzied trips, but I was adamant. I enjoyed being an only child.  Finally I started to remain in Boston with my aunt and made visits to my parents! 

When I was four, I asked to go to Sunday school and also to school. The day school was around the corner. It only had grades one, two, and three. That was fine with me, and so I emerged into the outside world by joining the grade one children. School ended at 4P.M. But we ran home for lunch at noon.  Miss Morse was my teacher, grey haired, tall, with light blue–gray eyes. She was very strict and always had a wooden pointer in her hand. She demanded excellent work and perfect attention. We learned from large white oilcloth charts painted in black lettering. They hung on a sort of easel and could be removed, rolled up, and changed for a more difficult one. Miss Morris pointed with her stick and we stood attention close to the chart at the front of the room. This prevented us from becoming restless in our chairs. I recall no behavior problem nor slow learners. We were happy and very obedient. The first song we sang was “Sweet and low, Sweet and low, Wind of the Western Sea.”  I enjoyed the music hours.

When I was six, a neighbor bought a piano. I was intrigued. She practiced evenings after her day's work. I was enjoying her sounds, right or wrong, so I begged that I must have a piano. My dad bought a very pretty one “Briggs and Briggs“. Little did I dream that this instrument would become my profession for nearly 80 years! Neither my aunt or uncle could read music even though grandfather was a teacher of the basics of music. He owned seven organs. He shipped me a small one as soon as I could play well. This was the grandfather that was in the civil war as a musician, and he arranged all of the music for the band.  Each instrument required special notation.

It was very easy for me to learn to play. At age seven I performed in a large auditorium in Boston called Steinert Hall. My solos was

“Austrian song with variations.”  I memorized the seven pages and played without music. When I completed my solo, I walked to the front of the stage as I had been instructed, for my bow. Then my attention was drawn to a lady in black coming towards me. I was disturbed as she came toward me, unpinned her lovely corsage and handed it to me. I noticed that she was crying which disturbed me more. I was certainly relieved to get back to my dressing room!

From then until age ten I played in many concerts at church, events, women’s and professional clubs, and such. I was never nervous. I had eye memory. I could see the page as I played without using the music. I never felt. Just once, later, when I was about twelve.  I was performing for a ladies club. In the midst of Debussy’s “Reflets dans l’Eau” where the right hand pictures of waterfall, the music rushes to the right hand, end of the keyboard and back, over and over, but when I arrived there on the first one, I discovered that the lovely baby grand piano was an apartment model, missing quite a few of those highest keys!  I went right ahead, carrying the left hand correctly, but there were no keys for the right hand, I kept tickling what keys were up there came down and ran off tinkled went down, until the next page resumed normally. It being a beauty, I could fake it. Only one lady noticed it and afterwards she whispered in my ear, “You are very clever.“ My turn to laugh came when the newspaper reported that I had transported Debussy’s ”Reflets”.

When I was ten my aunt decided to change instructors. She took me for an interview at a fine music school in Boston. Two German brothers had founded it, and it was gaining in fame. They taught only piano and the basics of music and Shaun had 1000 pupils and many remarkable teachers.

My interview went well. I played Mendelssohn’s “Rondo Capriccioso” by memory for them. I was not nervous. They seemed pleased. A few days later we received an acceptance letter and scholarship. The cost for a year would be $30. I made it up to them by giving concerts around New England and as far north as Presque Isle, Maine.  Groups of young people came to Boston to study at the school instead of attending high school. Some roomed with us.

In Boston Society, it was fashionable to entertain by having a budding “artist“ give an hour’s “musicale.”  No pay.  I did this on Beacon Hill and Brattle Street, Cambridge.  Some tease, others black tie. A Beacon Hill woman’s home had a room with a travel little stage. She created and made beautiful marionettes. She liked me to play classics appropriate for her shows, as a soft background.

By now I was seventeen.  The year that Proper Bostonians “Come Out” into society. The school, though I never knew who else, decided that I must come out for my future acceptance and profession. I knew nothing about all that. I was deeply interested by then in many pupils and obtaining a diploma from the music school. My aunt took gone to where the angels sing.  She sang all her life in the church choir and as she ironed or cooked in the kitchen.

A society lady in Brookline was chosen, by the school, or offered, to manage a coming out for me! I was not asked if I wished it. She ordered a copy of a “Parisian Gown” made for me, a fact which she repeated often. I’m sure that I was obedient but not appreciative. A program of solos was chosen for me to play at a home on Brattle Street in Cambridge. It was to begin at 9 PM. Following the concert everyone was limousined to the Copley Plaza for a midnight dinner. My guest for the coming out were my beloved piano teacher and my faithful minister, both of whom had guided me from a young child. The concert was by candlelight. It was fortunate that I did not need music.  No one ever mentioned the cost of that affair, nor did I. I had become accustomed to being obedient, pleasing people, and I never thought of money.  What my dear people  chose to give me filled all my desires.

The next big shock came when the older German brother summoned me to his studio. He had to witness a series of concerts for me to give on a tour in Germany! I could even study over there. Also, as they wished their little niece to go to stay with relatives for a few months, I could take her to them.  Perhaps I chose wrongly, but I preferred to remain as I had planned, here in the US.

On top of all those events I had an opportunity to play Saint-Saens piano concerto, in “a” minor with the Boston Symphony Orchestra.  This appealed to me. I enjoyed the experience, especially at the finish. As I walked past the string section, the men all smiled and applauded by tapping on their instruments with their bows. 

So, I obtained my diploma in music. I was the youngest to obtain it, and became a happy teacher for the rest of a happy and busy lifetime.  

Now I have leisure at last to “smell the flowers“

The Magic of May

May, 1989

It’s May again.  Though far away

I see again an unspoiled land

Of skies and Nature made God’s way

The chestnut trees are lovely red

Now in full bloom along the lanes.

Our chestnuts here are white, instead.

We have no cuckoo birds that sing

Nor heaven hued bluebells in the woods

As by Loch Lomond every spring.

The yellow gorse in meadows square

Near high Ben Nevis, grey in mist

Spreads cheer snd perfume to the air.

Such blended colors soft snd rare

O’er great expanses are not spoiled

By signs  and wire everywhere.

The giant thistles reign supreme

And black faced sheep have young to tend,

White border collies guard the scene.

Oh lovely May give me the view

And smell at eve of burning peat

In Scottish hills and skies deep blue.

RECITAL DAY  AT JOAN HANNON’S

It was in May.  A lovely day.

We met to hear the children play.

Joan dusted well and washed the keys

Of the piano, and the breeze

Brought in the scent of lilac trees.

The rows of chairs were all in place.

Each parent wore an anxious face

For fear their child might strike a sound

Of sour notes to spread around.

The little boys were sweet and clean.

The music teacher looked serene.

The darling girls knew well their piece.

The boys looked forward to release.

Each child tried hard to make us proud.

And parents praised them long snd loud.

A happy afternoon for all.

And now vacation until Fall.

We loved the cooling party fare

And friendly warmth for all to share.

We thank you, David, Dick and Jean

And Lois, Marsha, JOAN the Queen

The precious Mother, kind and true.

May love surround you all life through.

September in New England

The lovely hills are at their best.

The trees was ripened fruit are blessed.

Along the road, we slowly ride

Our squash and pumpkins, side-by-side.

Some trees are orange, others red.

Each tiny Woodfolk has his bed

Made ready for a bitter cold.

His food shelves have all they can hold.

Our schools still teach again “The Ride 

Of Paul Revere“, with fervent pride.

We hope you’ll read of Concord, too

To bring our family near you.