Neighborhood: My Story of Greenwich House

Neighborhood: My Story of Greenwich House

Neighborhood: My Story of Greenwich House

Neighborhood: My Story of Greenwich House

Excerpt

A BIG Newfoundland dog, Bruno, went with me as I walked on the little plank sidewalk to my grandmother's in Chestnut Hill on a brisk fall morning. I had on a white coat with a cape. There were little blue dots in the basket weave, and Bruno was taller than I. This is my earliest memory. Grandfather's farm was beautiful with orchard, fields and swamp. Huge cherry trees, the old winter-long-green pear trees, summer and winter apple trees, and above them all an old elm that swept the roof of the farmhouse. Trees! Next to friends come trees. In the hothouses were cucumbers long before they came to the Boston markets from California or the far South. At twenty-five cents apiece they helped to fill a goodly bank account. Inside the spacious house was the "clock room" where Grandfather's grandfather's clock ticked in the corner. An open fire heated the room, where, before my day, my great-grandfather John lived with closed windows to help him combat his tuberculosis. Even so it took a long twenty years for him to die. It was strange a few years ago to see that clock again in San Francisco in my cousin's drawing room.

In the farmhouse there was a suite of rooms upstairs different from the others. Gilt moldings under the cornice . . .

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