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| 892 Shirley Street, Winthrop, Mass. USA, photographed in 2018. |
Diary 26.1, p. 104 October 24, 1926
Yesterday, Saturday, met A. at the [105] Public library, lunch among
lights and colors at Brau Haus, a delightful, quiet hour. After lunch to Orient
Heights, from hill above station one of the most beautiful views of Boston I
ever saw. Beacon Hill in blue grey against the lighter sky, dominated by the
Custom House tower. Chelsea: a series of drumlins with gentle skyline covered
with grey houses. At the foot of the hill the red brown saltmarshes with wide,
winding channels, mother of pearl; so beyond Beachmont N.E., the silver grey
ocean, the horizon behind the flat, grey shape of Nahant
Island on the horizon & in the East [106] the friendly hills and narrows
& peninsula of Winthrop. From the Orient Heights we wandered across
Winthrop, & on the Boulevard, along the beach, from Drumlin to Drumlin: Grovers
Cliff, Winthrop Head and out to Shirley Point: the ocean calm, in color
reminding the Persian sea, now and then a low, gentle wave breaking at the
beach. Dark stone standing out of the water – low tide, a brown belt of sea
weed stretching between the water and the seawall – the dominating white water
tank of Winthrop [107] Head standing like the tower of a Sarazene castle – and
the dear little girl with shining brown eyes, showing her treasures, the beach,
and the walls and the sea she loves. An evening in her home at Shirley Point,
remote from the world. Her mother a plump little lady with irregular features, brutish
forehead, but lovable and kind and goodnatured. The father, who arrived
somewhat later, serious, official, simple, but sincere, agreeable, regular
features. Assistant manager of the Alston Manor. The light and [108] the beauty
of the home: The children. Sitting at the fireplace, fed with driftwood, paved
with cobblestones from the Drumlins. A., the oldest, with her gentle, lovable
features, her sister, fifteen, a strong husky girl, with clear, open grey eyes,
blond, straight hair and a strong nice chin, and finally came the little boy,
warm from his bed, insisted to see me, tried to behave like a little man, and explained
to me his monkey. – About storms in Winthrop, the breakers washing through the
gaps between the houses, the children [109] spending days on the beach, in
bathing suits, in direct touch with gentle and violent nature – the library in
Shirley Point, grocery store a little world in itself. The father from Aussee,
Gasthof Schober, wanted to study medicine, some time in Italy, met in London
brother of his wife, both went over to Boston and settled. His brother-in-law
headwaiter at Copley Plaza. The early days of the young couple, tramping up in
White Mountains, since then living in this little home, no travels, except the
family for short time [110] to Colorado Springs – her father.
Towards
eleven I left, went with A. and her father around the Shirley Point back to W.
station beautiful moonlight, the ocean calm. The dear little girl tight at my
side and while we walked behind her father, I told her silently how I felt, by
a kiss.
Today,
a quiet day, still under the impression of yesterday’s evening. The picture of
the girl was with me: her innocence, her happiness at her wealth in her modest
surroundings, the [111] blessings of an education paid for by the self restraint
of conscientious parents, a bud, on the point of becoming a flower – her
lovable way of nursing the smaller ones of the family, the drumlins and the
ocean as a background. I had the feeling as if I had found something I was
longing for since years.
2 comments:
Thank you!
How small is this world. My brother used to shovel snow for Mrs. Plath over on Elmwood Rd. And I knew Bear Terzaghi's wife Ruth. And, of course, how can I forget Mr. Crockett, my beloved English teacher. Sylvia was my mother's generation give or take, but my life has intersected with hers in many many ways.
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