Three times before, I stood this place. Me and vigorous cherry trees, face to face. They, protected by the Escarpment and Lake Ontario. Trees aligned like military tombstones. Nurtured by man and Mother Nature, Season after season.
My first time here? A score and a few years ago. It was Springtime and the young limbs were graced With white flowers.Each interlaced With beauty and a promise. This innocence would fall and be replaced By full, fragrant crimson spheres.
In another visit at peak harvest time, The well pruned trees offered their vitality. I climbed in rich, laidened trees To pick ripe clusters for my basket. The choicest ones went in my mouth. I tasted sunshine, wind and water.
In early fall, just two years ago, I saw this grove dotted with biers. Trees had offered sacrificed limbs So parts of them may return to earth. The grove had spaces undotting the landscape. A cool breeze wrestled with the few remaining leaves.
And now, I’m here in winter. This grove knows sifted snow, Uplifted earth and inverted tree trunks. Roots are planted in the sky. And I know why. Next spring adolescent cherry trees, Properly arranged will stand by me –
January 24, 1994
Story by dc HILL Illustrations by Patty Peters
The story I’m about to tell you is true. It’s a magical story that has a secret. Every reader must promise to keep it. You can tell it to someone only if they will treasure your inner most thoughts.
Do you promise?
If you do, read on. But let me warn you. If you break your promise, the secret will be lost forever. Then you may never find the adventure and wonderful friend Beckie and I have come to know.
I.
Beckie’s a pretty girl, about eight years old. It wasn’t too long ago that I remember her standing at her doorway with her feet apart and hands poised on hips. There was a fixed, quizzical stare upon her face. Now, I’m Beckie’s favorite uncle and confidant (I elected myself to that role). So I inquired,
“What’s up Beckie? You seem confused.”
Her questioning face turned into a frown. Then she blurted out,
“I can’t understand it. Mom and I made a big batch of oatmeal cookies yesterday. I counted them when they went into the cookie jar. There were twenty-six of them. Since then, I’ve been keeping my eye on that jar and counting. I’ve only had four now, the best batch of cookies we’ve ever made is almost gone. There should be six left. I just looked in the cookie jar; it only holds three. I can’t understand it.”
“Well, I account for two I snuck when I came in this morning. Oatmeal cookies are my favorite, especially with the nuts and raisins you put in.”
“I’ve already counted yours. I heard you ring the cookie jar just after you came in. You’ll have to be more careful next time. Mom almost caught you.”
Her furrowed frown turned more contemplative.
“I remember other times when cookies have been missing from that jar. It seems every time Mom makes a batch, they don’t last long enough. Whoever is taking them is real smart. I’ve been watching real careful for over a month and I haven’t caught ‘em yet.”
This mystery began nibbling at my mind. Finally I ventured,
“Let’s think about this awhile. We can polish off the last of the cookies with a glass of milk, I need a little food for thought.”
As I poured the milk into two glasses, Beckie turned from the pantry, cookie jar in hand.
“Would you believe? Now there are only two cookies left. No one has been in the kitchen sinc you came in? You didn’t take more than two did you?”
I gave my most angelic pose and crossed my heart,
“Hope to die if I lie.”
II.
We each savored a lone cookie with an oversupply of milk and began to think out the mystery. Then a hazy, long-ago incident came from back to me. A time when I visitedmy Grandma Hill for a week, I must have been about Beckie’s age.
My Grandma made the best toll house cookies in the world. I recall remarking that they too disappeared from the cookie jar faster than they should. So, Grandma took time away frm the stove. She looked me straight in the eye, sizing me up – see if I could be trusted to hold a secret. Then, she made me take a scared oath never to reveal what she was going to tell me unless they were trul trustworthy.
Now, I sized up Beckie that same way my Grandma measured me. And I knew that she was ready. She swore the solemn oath (as near as I could remember it), then we settled in the over-stuffed sofa in front of the fireplace. I began Grandma’s secret.
To solve any mystery, you have to look beyond what you think is real for truth. Sometimes, what the eyes see or what the brain reasons can deceive you. Then, only a sketchy picture appears. It’s much better if you open up your heart to all of the possibilities. Put imagination and intuition to work. If you do, the whole spectacle in all its perspectives can be seen and appreciated.
Grandma (Beckie’s Great-Great-Grandma) knew that magic surrounds us every day. She saw and knew that the morning’s sparkling dew are really diamonds gathered up by fairies. And the lights reflecting off the sea are really mermaids’ pearls. Such treasures can only be held by the invisible ones.
Grandma told me that fairies come in all sizes and shapes. They are like children, usually good but very mischievous. They never grow old. Grandma thought that the cutest and most loveable fairies were trolls.
Well now, there are big and small trolls. The smaller ones are unsually shy. They can make themselves invisible whenever they want to. That’s why they have remained a mystery to most of us. Trolls like to live underground or inside things. They have enchanted tools and can make secret doors and rooms in the most unlikely places.
Some trolls make secret homes with people. With their tools, they can fashion doors with invisible seams. Doors that only they can see and open. They too look for rewards for guarding places near where they live.
Long ago, when the cookies were first made, some sweet toothed trolls decided to make their homes near cookie jars. They made trap doors in the bottom of the jars and secret passageways to their inner homes. When a fresh supply of cookies were stored by the people, the troll felt obliged to protect the cookie jar and its contents from all other sweet toothed creatures. He always carried his knapsack with tools and his enchanted knife that would chase the biggest of monsters away. He need only raise his trap door and chase them away from the cookie jar. For such a service, the troll would collect his reward, an occasional cookie from the jar that he protected.
Over the centuries, Cookie Trolls have perfected protection scheme and rewards collection cunning. They would try to take cookies that wouldn’t be missed by their unsuspecting family hosts. They value their privacy and wouldn’t take unnecessary chances on being discovered. But sometimes, Cookie Trolls make mistakes.
Occasionally, smarter humans would notice something amiss. That’s when shy, sly Cookie Trolls have to be extra careful.Whenthe occasion suited them, hey could, likebears, hibernate or sleep for long times. That’s what they do when they are afraid of being discovered. They sleep away until the suspicious person is n longer around. Then sometimes, a Cookie Troll will become so nervous of being discovered, he might just pack up his belongings and leave. Sneak off and seek another less suspecting home with a big cookie jar and a good supply of cookies.
Usually though, a Cookie Troll will calm down and go back to snatching his cookie rewards.
From a comfortable inner home, he’d steal
Through secret paddage, a trap door feel.
Listen hard, open quick, hear some more.
Snatch a cookie, secure the door.
Shuffle down to his retreat
And savor his tasty stolen treat.
That is the good and simple life of a Cookie Troll.
Grandma first became aware of a troll in her cookie jar while she was raising seven children. At first, she thought Grandpa was sneaking cookies late at night., something he denied with convincing innocence. Later, it was obvious that unseen powers were involved.
Grandma’s home-made cookies must have provided great temptation. There were always three or four missing soon after a fresh batch went into the cookie jar storage. Her toll house recipe was the most popular with family and troll alike.
Her children grew and went forth to explore the world. Baking, cookie jar filling and troll looting diminished for a while. Grndma thought her Cookie Troll had moved away. Then, grandchildren, such as I began coming by. Fresh baking aroma began to linger in her kitchen. Opening Grandma’s cookie jar was an experience. Sweet fragrances would stay throughout the day. That was when I noticed, how quickly Grandma’s cookie jar would be empty before its time.
“It pleasures me to know I have a content, happy Cookie Troll in the house,” exclaimed Grandma. “He’s been a friend and leaves me signs of his presence. Such a mischieveous invisible friend, and lately, he’s left his smile behind. He’s no trouble, someone I can count on and I haven’t seen a mouse in the house since we moved in.”
I remember Spot, the calico cat, raising her head at that remark. She looked at Grandma and licked a fresh formed frown from her face. She settled back to napping in the box next to the wood stove.
In the end, Grandma cautioned me not to get too curious. Don’t open the cookie jar too often. Cookie Trolls are sensitive. They’d pack up and leave on the littlest impulse. Grandma knew she had a good one, accustomed to the home, content. He wouldn’t leave without good cause. I impressed on Beckie that she should do the same. I said Grandma’s rhyme that she taught me.
Good Cookie Trolls share; they earn their keep.
Give them peace, full jars, sweet rewards.
Bad ones leave only crumbs to sweep.
Be fine friends and considerate landlords.
Beckie and I finished our secret discussions. She informed me that she would ask her mother’s permission to refill the cookie jar. It was time for me to go. I turned to look for the rest of the family to say my goodbyes. Her father was standing on the stairs – with a smile, twinkling eyes and I thought a bit of cookie crumb at the corner of his mouth.
When I left that day, Beckie was busy in the kitchen, singing and rolling out a batch of sugar cookies on the breadboard. The cookie jar would once again be filled with freshness that every child and troll should know.
I’ve acquired certain eccentricities growing up in the Great Depression. Such quirks are common for people my age. Depression idiosyncrasies are not contagious. They don’t contaminate the next generation, so my children need not worry. You must live in the havoc of hard times to be so afflicted. I suspect future generations might be vulnerable, given the uncertainities of economic pendulum swings.
One of my quirks deal with inner cravings and the need to satisfy them. Right now, writing and sharing my literary efforts is a consuming focus. This chronic condition (like many of my others) has economic implications. Afflictions that eat up money need medicine; otherwise, the fever spreads and spills over on others surrounding me.
I’ve recently rediscovered an elixir for such quirks. Properly taken, its impact on daily living and soul vitality can be astounding. No I’m not talking about anabolic steroids. My remedy is homeopathic, it produces no ill side-effects. I call it Coffee Can Philosophy. Carefully administered, it helps to keep my life in balance.
Coffee Can Philosophy relies on a holding vessel to fund dreams and expectations. It has three maxims.
Put money away for something worthwhile.
If you don’t have it, don’t spend it.
If you do, spend it wisely.
Investment in the soul always compounds.
My mother used and refined a similar philosophy long before I could remember. What she called it, I’ll never know.
Mom kept the household money in a “safe place”, an antique teapot tucked way up in the corner of the dining room cupboard. Here the family fortune was cached. From it was dispersed the funds for daily living — nuturing of the body, so to speak.
My mother kept another vessel in that same cupboard that endowed the family spirit. Cash from my mother’s and family dreams came from her personal treasure. She put her “pin” money in a small silver trophy cup, one she had won back in high school days as the outstanding woman athlete. At times of nostalgia, I recall the sound of nickels and dimes tinkling and tumbling to the bottom of that cup.
Mom often needed to make change so she transferred funds back and forth between teapot and trophy cup. She was meticulous in keeping the two separate accounts balanced. Silver, copper and nickel were exchanged for paper greenback. Then, my older sister would be off to the store for some body essentials. On her return, penny candy would content sweet tooths and warm the souls of us toddlers.
I don’t ever recall seeing my mother’s trophy cup ever being empty or full. I’ve come to realize that she had another holding vessel, one she kept close to her heart. There she stored her dreams, desires and wishes. She had the innate ability to gauge the contents of her trophy cup and match them to the most important inner desires. The connection between those holding vessels was always synchronized. Their ebbs and flows were part of our daily life. A worthy wish fueled the filling of the cup. Our early happy times were generated by mom’s balancing act, family rhythms intimately tied to the trophy cup’s pendulum swings she so carefully managed.
I’ve emerged from the depression. Have I climbed into great prosperity? I think not. I swing and satisfy today’s needs in what appears to be a modern and stylish mode. Still, the basic desires and goals discovered in the 1930s are my firm foundation. Sometimes, it’s tough to superimpose them on today’s living. Today’s trends can be a bit discordant with earlier ideals.
Is the world any better today than when Hitler was reaching for his pinnacle? Drug resistant tuberculosis is trying for a big comeback. AIDS has displaced small pox as the pestilence headliner. Cancer and Alzheimer’s ride along with those in extended living. Look closely, the evils of disease, starvation, and fear still rain upon humanity. We live with these age-old dilemmas with incomprehension, just like our ancestors have.
I figure the necessities of life cost about ten times the amount my mom had to take from the teapot back in the 1930s. Her trophy cup just can’t hold for me in these inflationary times. So, I’ve come to rely on a pound coffee can for my inner cravings treasure trove. A red and black “Hills Brothers” (Columbian) does the trick. I keep it in the closet net to my computer work desk.
Paper money and a few rare quarters go to that coffee can. Such a treasure trove has no weight. It doesn’t feel substantial. Susan B. Anthony dollars would make a better ballast; too bad she didn’t catch on. Oh, how I miss the sound of real silver coins striking others journeying to the trophy cup.
In retrospect, I have witnessed the total demise of the cupboard teapot. Balancing the checkbook is a chore we all abhor. Today, we use the latest credit cards with sixteen digit numerics, even photo images. They identify us, “here is a likely safe transaction”. Plastic has lulled us into instant gratification. Later we must wrestle with “borrow on tomorrow mentality”. Whatever happened to, If you don’t have it, don’t spend it.
It’s one thing to have a coffee can, it’s another to work out its cash flow details. I’m continously experimenting to refine and find balance. In earlier times, my mother stacked coins and piled dollar bills daily. Mom had an instant picture of what was there and how to disperse it. We have progressed somewhat from then. I may not keep retirement savings in the mattress or cash in teapots, but I envy her simple, more objective perspective on cash flow. I’ll have to work on that. Then, just maybe, value judgements and real worth can creep in and displace this nonsense associated with instant gratification.
That brings me to the final point,
Investment in the soul always compounds.
On many occasions I’ve spent wisely to gain experiences for me and my family; a vacation in England, the Bruce Springsteen concert, sharing a mountain ridge with my son, a drive back to a childhood home. Such investments have touched the inner me. The memory of these occasions is engraved there, always available for recall.
Such experiences never dented my wallet. The price you pay for significance can’t be measured in financial terms. The investment is in sense, not dollars. Soul investments that truly compound, fill the treasure houses that hold awareness and time. Money is but a tool that converts them to priceless memories.
I, Patricia Charlotte Hill Peters, am three years older than David. My early memories of David are as a laughing baby – he was my mother’s favorite. His mouth was always wide open in laughing glee.
His good humor was occasionally altered by a jealous older brother (Donald Roland Hill Jr.), who was my father’s favorite. David had beautiful strawberry blonde curls that were often fondled lovingly by his mom. Don cut them off – (see David’s poem “Take a Little Off The Sides”). Early on he was dubbed “teasy teasie”. Donald teased him alot – I thought too much. But it was David who got the name “teasy”.
I remember the night when he was six months old. The doctor lanced his ear and the incessant screaming and his red face calmed down. Mother was frantic. Father seemed to escape somewhere.
David had a series of women who “adopted” him. Aunt Jennie (I have a picture), “Olli”, Lou Mason, Betty Knapp, Aunt Carrie and Aunt Dot! David could endear himself so easily. Don and I were more withdrawn.
David went to be with Gram Charlotte Hill at various times as an infant when Lydia (mother) went on the men’s hunting trip. Gram said he had rashes and she proudly administrered to him. At 3-4 he swallowed a cup hook which now is at the Boston Children’s Hospital in the Foreign Body Museum.
We blew up dynamite caps when we were 10, 9 and 7. David had a large piece of the shrapnel go through his right foot. He had a cast and a brace. That summer he went to Gram Hill’s and she with her Christian Science background, threw away the brace and left him barefooted to heal beautifully. I don’t remember him ever complaining. The doctor was pessimistic about his walking well, ever. Gram Hill was a healer, I think. She saved cousin Bob Hill from sure death about the same timeframe.
This same year, at seven years old, he got both scarlet fever and diptheria and went to the contagious hospital. I was in the ward – 3rd floor. David hovered in danger for a week-long recovery. Our older sister Marge (16) had to go on street care with the the full blown case of chicken pox as mom had taken to bed with a migraine. What a happy reunion!
In this same timeframe, David had a ruptured appendix – emerency time! I didn’t want to go to school and ended up in the bed next to his crib as my stomach pains were taken seriously. He was really sick, I wasn’t. No wonder we looked like skeletons and Miss Kemp was so worried about our weight loss and failure to thrive.
Dave was a bit solitary – loved comic books – did not do much in school. He spent a lot of time alone in his room. He read the world almanac and quoted statistics alot.
Don ridiculed him, seemd miffed by his reclusiveness.
Dave and I used to sit and talk and do imaginings while I knitted. A favorite theme was that he was the fisherman and I the mermaid. We put together a series of adventures. Once I found a way for him to breathe underwater and we found old Spanish gallions and treausre and had such fun making believe. This would be evenings after Don and Ellyn went to bed, before Mom would come home on the 12:30AM train from the Dell Restaraunt in Newtonville. Our inventions were so wonderful or so we thought.
When Aunt Alice moved in with her three children, and Aunt Jenny took over after Marge eloped before I manned the fort, Dave had some trouble with mischief with Tom Rich that ended when Uncle Tom came home from WWII and we moved to 215 Auburn Street from the tenement.
The tenement was misery. I came home from two years with Gram Hill after I had a stomach problem to a different house. We had built an English Tudor in Bedford. It was lost and I moved to a four apartment at 237 Auburn Street when Donald (father) had become a full blown alcoholic, lost his tree surgeon business and seldom worked. He had a gastrectomy – depression – turned violent and disoriented. He left during Ellyn’s infancy and all of our illnesses. No wonder David withdrew and I hung out with the Johnsons.
Don played cards and outdid himself trying to do sports and improve at school.
The apartment at 237 Auburn Street was dark and dingy with bedbugs, trains ran by right in back. I remember being packed four in a small room. Dave was quiet.
We did have some neat outings on days off. Romping through the Weston woods, fishing at Norembega and games in the yard, many that were made up. Rollerskating – Camp Day – Welfare – fear of the social worker making unexpected calls and us having to go a foster home if we weren’t good.
Dr. Rogers, our minister, was an angel to us. He came with what we needed before Donald (father) died and mom went to work. Lydia (mom) claimed that she was a home Baptist but made us go to the Congregational Church every Sunday. Marge ended up teaching and David won an award for memorizing all the books of the Bible. He was seven or eight.
Dave moved to Lew Beach, NY at 14. I stayed with Marge to graduate at Newton High School and then nursing school at Newton-Wellesley Hospital.
I missed Dave’s high school years which I heard were good. He started working, gained weight and found a stage presence and starred in musicals. He won regents scores, typing also with only college typing course. I heard he had the highest Regents School of his class. The superintendant’s son got the prize that he earned – politics. Somehow David got inspired by a representative from Cortland, Alfred to go to school for engineering.
David Charles Hill was born on May 6, 1935 at his home in Westford, MA. He was the fourth of five children. He went to the Williams Elementary School (K-6th grade) in Auburndale, MA; then went to Warren Jr. High (7th-9th grade) in West Newton, MA. His family moved to Livingston Manor, NY where he graduated with Honors from high school in 1953. His interest in ceramic engineering began there. He went on to Alfred University in Alfred, NY majoring in ceramic engineering and received a BS degree with Honors in June 1957. In 1959 he received his MS degree in ceramic engineering from MIT, Cambridge, MA.
His first job was at Argonne National Laboratory in Argonne, IL. He then worked at Western Electric in North Andover, MA; then Myerson Tooth Co. in Cambridge, MA; then Fenwal Electronics in Framingham, MA; followed by Texas Instruments in Attleboro, MA; and Charles Draper Labs in Cambridge, MA. He opened two of his own companies Omni Materials and MLC (Multi Layer Capacitors) Technologies in Attleboro, MA and Warwick, RI. He finally went back to Texas Instruments before getting sick with kidney cancer of which he died three months after the diagnosis.
He started writing poetry more frequently in 1991. When he worked at TI in Attleboro he often shared his poems with friends on his lunch hour. He became well known in Attleboro and within family and friend circles for his talent. He had a poem called “Queen Anne’s Lace” published in the Sun Chronicle the day before he died.
In 1992 he began to attend a story telling group in Milton, NH. He became very adept at story telling and told them often to his family and grandchildren. He also told one at the wedding of his daughter Stacey, and Tom at the Old North Church in Boston on November 17, 1993. This was the 60th wedding anniversary of his late mother-in-law and father-in-law.
Dave was known for his positive attitude and always looking at the bright side of life. He enjoyed playing golf with his friends and teaching golf to his three daughters, his son and his wife. He had an abundance of patience. He was a hiker and mountain climber, particularly with his son, Doug. He traveled to Germany, Hong Kong, China, Japan, England, Nova Scotia and throughout the United States and Canada.
Camping with his family and dog was on the agenda many times. Even on a trip to Disney World in Florida in February 1978 after the Big Storm.
In high school he ran cross country and track. He was a photographer and enjoyed fishing and canoeing.
Dave was active in church and community activities. He particularly liked singing in church choirs with his tenor voice for 30 years. He was on Christian Education boards and co-taught Sunday School with his wife.
Other interests were the theater, gardening, playing cards, particularly with his family. He won his last game of cribbage from Stacey and Doug at the hospital before he died.
He had a close relationship not only with his wife, three daughters and son but with his brother, three sisters and mother as well as his inlaws. He was loved by family and friends.
Some notes I wrote on September 14, 1994 – four days before he died at Newton-Wellesley Hospital of kidney cancer:
Dave has a very good attitude and a positive outlook. He always has an encouraging word – a good listener – his laugh – he is a worker, a helper and very thorough. He transferred his creativity from gardening to writing poems and storytelling and he is a good cribbage player.
Even though he is in pain, he always has a smile to greet us. It’s difficult to see someone you love in pain and not be able to help. It’s the medicine controlling his body and the cancer fighting.
WORDS TO DESCRIBE DAVE – dependable, kind heart, many friends of all ages, good mentor. We want to please this man because he has such a positive outlook on life.
Cancer lying dormant ready to pounce.
THINGS WE DID TOGETHER – wallpapering, movies, choir – He designed two beautiful brick walkways – one in West Boxford and the other in Westboro. We entertained a company family Strawberry Festival with home grown strawberries. Grandparents picked 80 quarts of strawberries Dave planted. The experience of sharing LaMaze childbirthing classes when I was pregnant with Doug. Square dancing.\
“Now you are a storyteller, poet and I also write.”
We planned funerals of parents together; weddings of daughters; opened up our lives to foreign visitors that came and had dinner with our family; and traveling.
Two wonderful trips to England – one with children, the other the two of us celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. Several west coast trips to beautiful California. Camping experiences – Disney World in Florida after the storm of ’78 and the last one to Horseneck Beach with our dog Ernie in the pup tent on the beach. That was our last one.
A tired, elegant home stands at the corner.
Three times before, I stood this place.
In another visit at peak harvest time,
Don’t you ever forget
The story I’m about to tell you is true. It’s a magical story that has a secret. Every reader must promise to keep it. You can tell it to someone only if they will treasure your inner most thoughts.
Now, I sized up Beckie that same way my Grandma measured me. And I knew that she was ready. She swore the solemn oath (as near as I could remember it), then we settled in the over-stuffed sofa in front of the fireplace. I began Grandma’s secret.
I’ve acquired certain eccentricities growing up in the Great Depression. Such quirks are common for people my age. Depression idiosyncrasies are not contagious. They don’t contaminate the next generation, so my children need not worry. You must live in the havoc of hard times to be so afflicted. I suspect future generations might be vulnerable, given the uncertainities of economic pendulum swings.
Mom kept the household money in a “safe place”, an antique teapot tucked way up in the corner of the dining room cupboard. Here the family fortune was cached. From it was dispersed the funds for daily living — nuturing of the body, so to speak.
I don’t ever recall seeing my mother’s trophy cup ever being empty or full. I’ve come to realize that she had another holding vessel, one she kept close to her heart. There she stored her dreams, desires and wishes. She had the innate ability to gauge the contents of her trophy cup and match them to the most important inner desires. The connection between those holding vessels was always synchronized. Their ebbs and flows were part of our daily life. A worthy wish fueled the filling of the cup. Our early happy times were generated by mom’s balancing act, family rhythms intimately tied to the trophy cup’s pendulum swings she so carefully managed.
On many occasions I’ve spent wisely to gain experiences for me and my family; a vacation in England, the Bruce Springsteen concert, sharing a mountain ridge with my son, a drive back to a childhood home. Such investments have touched the inner me. The memory of these occasions is engraved there, always available for recall.
I, Patricia Charlotte Hill Peters, am three years older than David. My early memories of David are as a laughing baby – he was my mother’s favorite. His mouth was always wide open in laughing glee.
This same year, at seven years old, he got both scarlet fever and diptheria and went to the contagious hospital. I was in the ward – 3rd floor. David hovered in danger for a week-long recovery. Our older sister Marge (16) had to go on street care with the the full blown case of chicken pox as mom had taken to bed with a migraine. What a happy reunion!
We did have some neat outings on days off. Romping through the Weston woods, fishing at Norembega and games in the yard, many that were made up. Rollerskating – Camp Day – Welfare – fear of the social worker making unexpected calls and us having to go a foster home if we weren’t good.
I missed Dave’s high school years which I heard were good. He started working, gained weight and found a stage presence and starred in musicals. He won regents scores, typing also with only college typing course. I heard he had the highest Regents School of his class. The superintendant’s son got the prize that he earned – politics. Somehow David got inspired by a representative from Cortland, Alfred to go to school for engineering.
His first job was at Argonne National Laboratory in Argonne, IL. He then worked at Western Electric in North Andover, MA; then Myerson Tooth Co. in Cambridge, MA; then Fenwal Electronics in Framingham, MA; followed by Texas Instruments in Attleboro, MA; and Charles Draper Labs in Cambridge, MA. He opened two of his own companies Omni Materials and MLC (Multi Layer Capacitors) Technologies in Attleboro, MA and Warwick, RI. He finally went back to Texas Instruments before getting sick with kidney cancer of which he died three months after the diagnosis.
Two wonderful trips to England – one with children, the other the two of us celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. Several west coast trips to beautiful California. Camping experiences – Disney World in Florida after the storm of ’78 and the last one to Horseneck Beach with our dog Ernie in the pup tent on the beach. That was our last one.
dcHILLworks 
You must be logged in to post a comment.