I get nostalgic for my hometown of Fairhaven, Mass., when I read Chris Richards’ posts on Substack in his series Long Ago & Close By. Fairhaven is located in Buzzards Bay and across the Acushnet River from New Bedford. It has a rich history, including the first man to sail solo around the world, whaling, the first Japanese person to live in the U.S., generous gifts by a local who got rich from oil, and much more.
But I am writing about North Fairhaven where I grew up, and to be specific, Jesse Street, a modestly sized road that links Main Street with Alden Road. Like this part of town, Jesse Street was a bit of a melting pot with Polish, French Canadian, and Portuguese families, many of them immigrants like my grandparents — and mostly, Catholic. My neighbors’ last names were Potkay, Bissonette, Tenczar, Lyonaise, Fauteux, Beaumont, Correia, and Silveira.
None still live there, but I remember which houses used to be theirs. There were five older ones, all with front porches. During my childhood and afterward, homes, mostly affordable ranches, were constructed in the spaces between them, including the land my grandfather once farmed. Their yards were always well-kept.
But let me back up. My family’s name is Medeiros. My grandparents, Manuel and Maria Medeiros, emigrated from the Azores Islands in the early part of the 20th century, part of the large influx from those islands and Madeira to the New Bedford area. Their land, which extended to Main Street, was large enough to have barns filled with chickens, grapevines, and fields to grow corn and other vegetables, strawberries, and gladiolas my grandfather sold in his farmstand.
They had many children, including my father, Antone. I lived with them for the first few years of my life before my parents built their own home on a piece of my grandparents’ land. An aunt did the same next door.
My dad told us he paid a kid who went to the local vocational school $20 a week to help him build the house. My mother, Algerina was proud she laid the floors herself. That’s Mom holding onto me while I stand on a stack of lumber. The cinderblocks they used for the cellar are in a pile.
Over the years, they made improvements like finishing the attic and building stone walls on two borders. Like his father, my father kept a large garden. Here they raised their family of three daughters and one son.
(My father, known locally as “Hawk,” was heavily involved in local sports. My mother was always on the sidelines. They were involved in town events and performed in St. Mary’s benefit shows.)
I loved visiting my grandmother, who always seemed to have a rosary in one hand. After school, she served me tea with milk and lots of sugar. Sometimes my aunts sewed clothes for my dolls. Dad’s siblings and their families gathered on weekends. The cousins played in the backyard and under the grape vine’s trellis.
The grounds for the Our Lady of Angels Feast, which is held on Labor Day weekend, is located at the bottom of Jesse Street. On the third day, a hand-carved statue of Mary — brought to this country by immigrants from the Azores who were grateful they had made it here safely — is carried in a parade along Main Street by a team of men. My father did it, and now, my brother, Tony does. The statue is kept at St. Mary’s Church, located opposite the end of Jesse Street. I look forward to a post by Chris about the transformation of that church’s building, which was initially a basement.
The feast grounds were lit up with lights strung on long wooden poles, painted blue and white that were installed weeks before. I recall standing in line at the feast to buy malassadas, a fry bread rolled in sugar. A group of women, mostly dressed in black, kept guard as the dough rose in a vat. We kids attended the auction because there was the chance someone would win the bid for a large sweet bread and announce, “Cut it up for the children.” The feast had band music and games of chance. My father worked in the beer stand, and at night, we kids sat on the cases in the back. When we were older, my sister and I volunteered in the concession stand.
Then there was the Holy Ghost Feast, where people were treated to free sopa or soup in the hall’s basement. The best part was the chunks of bread you could dip in the broth.
The rest of the time, Jesse Street was a quiet spot. In the warmer months, we rode our bikes. My sisters and I played whiffleball in the yard — a ball hit over the fence was an out — and other games like croquet, jump rope, and hop scotch. We ate pears and butternuts from trees on the street.
In the winter, we slid on the snowy surface of Jesse Street, which had enough of a hill to make it a decent ride. My father stretched out on his belly on the sled and we kids would do the same in a stack on top of him. Our names were painted on its wooden slats. I smile thinking of that.
Here’s one memory: a neighbor across the street used to play drums in a strip club. When I was a teenager, I recall walking home to hear him practice with a recording of that oh-so-familiar ‘ti-da-da-da, ti-da-da-da” through the open windows of his house. It was a bit embarrassing.
I remember wishing as a child my family would move to the southern part of town, where the houses and buildings are grander. But, of course, that didn’t happen. That’s okay. Jesse Street was a good place for this girl to grow up.
A final note: I want to thank all the new subscribers who have come via Chris Richards’ recommendation. I post about a variety of topics, including my experiences and the books I write.
