2 — Generations

Links: The Bob Harris Story 1

– Generations

Ned Harris with sons Billy, Bud, & Bobby —1918 Bob and Dol belong to what Tom Brokaw recently dubbed “the Greatest Generation” and what others have called “the Builders” or “the GI Generation” or “the We Generation”— Americans born in the first quarter of the Twentieth Century who together came of age during the Great Depression and World War II, surmounted those calamities, and helped build peace and prosperity in the aftermath. Labels abound for the generations that preceded and followed them. Chronologically if not in spirit, their parents were part of what historians refer to as “the Lost Generation”—those born in the last decades of the Nineteenth Century. Doreen, Nancy, and Rob are “Baby Boomers” or “Rock-and-Rollers,” Alison a “Generation X-er” or “Bridger” or “Baby Buster,” Jayme and Lyndsay and Becky “Generation Y-ers” or “Millenials” or “Net Gen-ers.” And, for recent additions to the Harris clan, names have abeen coined for those born between 1995 and 2009—”Generation Z”—and those born since 2010— “Generation Alpha.” Such labels are fine for demographers to debate over and humorists to joke about and advertisers to descend upon, but there is more to these terms than that. They represent a succession of flesh-and-blood individuals with aspirations and achievements, histories and legacies, whose stories offer insights into generations past, present, and future. The French Existentialist Jean-Paul Sarte once said that “the recapitulation, the reliving of one’s ideas and experiences are of interest because they are similar to those of many others, and so help us to reconstruct the evolution of a larger group, a class, a whole generation.” Taken on any level, Bob and Dol’s stories—their ideas and experiences—are a worthy subject. For present and future offspring of Bob and Dol Harris, taking up these pages will bring to life their links to these grand representatives of “the Greatest Generation.”

“Iwas named after my father’s father,” Bob reveals as he sits perched on a chair with Dol at his side, where she has been for 56 years through good times and bad. “Robert Mowe Harris, that was his name. And I’m Robert Mowe Harris the Second. Or at least I was.

But I changed that. Now I’m Robert M. Harris Senior, and Rob is Robert M. Harris Junior.”

Bob isn’t sure where the “Mowe” came from. No one ever said. Surely there was an ancestor with the surname of “Mowe.” The name is of English origin, and there were at least two

Mowes in New England—brothers Samuel and Ephraim in Rye, Rockingham County, New

Hampshire—during Revolutionary War times. While “Mowe” is not a common name—there is only one listed in the current Seattle phone book—families bearing that moniker can be

traced to locales throughout New England: Franklin and Berkshire in Massachusetts, New Haven and Fairfield in Connecticut, Rockingham in Vermont, and Bennington in New Hampshire. But are any of these families related to the Harris clan? And, if so, how? These questions remain for now, and may remain forever, unsolved mysteries.

Bob and Dol have more to tell us about some of their other ancestors, although both express regret that they did not do more in times past to investigate their roots, especially on their golfing trips to England. “My mother’s maiden name was Anderton,” Bob advises, adding “That’s with a t, not an s.”

“I was a twin, born second,” he continues. “My brother Bill was 15 minutes older than I. And all my life he threw those 15 minutes at me. He was named after my mother’s father, William Anderton. So he was William Anderton Harris. We were different—fraternal twins, not identical twins. Bill had light hair and fair skin; I had dark hair and a dark complexion. I always told him ‘You’re an Anderton, I’m a Harris!” Dol nods her head vigorously at these words, so it must have been so.

The Harris twins made their first appearance on this earth in Melrose, Massachusetts on 24 August 1916—a Thursday. Thus, Bob Harris is a Thursday’s Child. According to the well-known verse, “Thursday’s child has far to go.” Just how far Bob has gone through the years can be measured by the breadth of the story being told in these pages.

Bob was the fifth-born, Bill the fourth-born of seven children. The August of their birth marked the second anniversary of the conflagration today known as World War I, then called “the Great War.” Trench warfare scarred the face of Europe, while German U-boats spread terror on the high seas. From Flanders’ fields to the Dardanelles to the sands of Arabia, an entire generation of young men was being savaged. In the United States, isolationist sentiment initially was strong, Above: Bill & Bobby Harris —1918

Below: Their birth announcement —1918

Edwin Andrews “Ned” Harris —circa 1938 and President Woodrow Wilson managed to delay America’s entry in the war. Only in 1917 did the nation at last fully commit its resources and youth to battle. Fortunately, as the sole provider for a large family, Bob’s father was granted a deferral by his draft board, though he would otherwise willingly have served “over there” for a country suddenly awash with a surfeit of patriotism. Like his twin sons, Edwin Andrews Harris—“Ned” to his friends—was also born in Melrose, Massachusetts (in 1886). Melrose, a small city in Middlesex County seven miles north of Boston, is famous today for its handsome Nineteenth Century Victorian homes featuring cut shingles, gingerbread trim, dormers, porches, turrets, high ceilings, large windows, intricate woodwork, and more. Over a dozen ponds laid within the Melrose city limits, and trees lined the city’s parks and streets. Dol remembers especially Ell Pond, not far from her family’s home, where she and her siblings learned to swim and skate. (When they were courting, Bob and Dol ice skated on Ell Pond.) By 1900, when Melrose was incorporated as a city, the population had grown to 12,600 residents. Back then, and to a lesser extent today, open spaces abounded. In all, Melrose, Mass. was a good place to be born and raised.

Ed Harris took advantage of the space around him and became an outstanding sportsman, matriculating at Dartmouth College in 1905 with an athletic scholarship to play hockey, football, and baseball. His dream was to follow in his older brother Joe’s footsteps.

Joe’s choice of career was pitching, and he worked his way through Boston’s minor league system until he was called up by the major league club in 1905. The team was known then as the Boston Pilgrims. Only in 1907 did club owner John Taylor, heir to the Boston Globe fortune, change the name from Pilgrims to Red Sox. At the club’s Huntington Avenue Grounds, Joe joined a pitching staff that included the immortal Cy Young. In September a year later, he

dueled star Philadelphia Athletics pitcher Jack Coombs in a 24-inning marathon, finally suffering a 4–1 loss. For 14 years, he and Coombs shared the record for the longest game in major league history without a pitching change, a bit of fame Joe enjoyed immensely following his early retirement from the sport.

Also in 1906, he suffered a distinction still unsurpassed in baseball history: over the course of the season, Joe’s Pilgrim teammates—by any measure the worst team in the American League that year—supported him with a measly 1.67 runs per game. His record in 1906 was an unimaginable 2–21, yet his era was a respectable 3.52, a better mark than what most American League pitchers post today. A few years ago, cnn and Sports Illustrated, tongues collectively planted in cheek, created the Joe Harris Award to recognize the major league pitcher who receives the least run support per game from his team in a season.

“Uncle Joe was a great big guy,” Bob recalls. “He was a fireman for a while in Melrose. After that, he drove a taxi.” One night, following Joe’s retirement from fire-fighting, his house burned down, bringing to mind the adage “If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any.”

Bob tells us that his father’s parents “didn’t want another professional athlete in the family. Back then, they weren’t considered to be much. They were bums in the eyes of most people, not like today when they put ’em on a pedestal, pay ’em millions of dollars and stuff. They didn’t do that back then. So, he wanted to be a professional athlete, but his parents told him ‘No!’ They wouldn’t permit it.”

While his father down in Melrose chafed at the prospect of having a second professional athlete in the family, Ed up in Hanover, New Hampshire found college life not much to his liking. As Dol was told years later by one of Bob’s sisters, in his sophomore year, Ed met Dora Anderton and soon announced to his father that he was going to get married. His father said okay, informing his son at the same time that, henceforth, his college days were over. It was time for Ed to return to Melrose, forget about a professional career in sports, find a real job, and start earning a living for himself and his family-to-be. Just then, Ned’s mother, Eloise Harris—née Andrews—passed away, delaying his marriage to Dora until the following year, 1908. Dorothy, Bob, Bill & Janet —1918

Old cl&p Office —circa 1920

Joe Harris, Fireman (third from left) —1915 Joe Harris, Fireman (seated in truck) —1915

Fourth of July parade, downtown Melrose —World War I era Carriage house on Melrose estate —pre-World War I

Ned Harris (seated far right) with teammates in the New England League —date unknownNed Harris (seated far right) with teammates in the New England League —date unknownNed Harris (seated far right) with teammates in the New England League —date unknown

Three glimpses of Ed Harris’s world: Three glimpses of Ed Harris’s world:

CL&P office, Norwich (top)cl&p office, Norwich (top) —1950 —1950 Water fall & small CL&P power station outside Norwich (top right) —1940 An early electric turbine at a CL&P power plant (bottom right) ‚—1910

Waterfall & small cl&p power station outside Norwich (top right) —1940 An early electric turbine at a cl&p power plant (lower right) —1910

The would-be professional athlete soon immersed himself in what would become his lifelong career: the electric utility industry. It was a world then filled with exciting possibilities, one of the leading sectors of the American economy as it moved toward becoming the greatest economic engine the world has known. The United States enjoyed ready access to vast supplies of natural resources—water, gas, coal, and oil— making it easy to produce and distribute electricity more cheaply than in any other country in the world. Acceptance of electric power and the accompanying general use of electric lighting and appliances and equipment was a process only just getting under way in the u.s., spurred on initially by the many inventions of Thomas Alva Edison (gramaphone, 1877; incandescent lamp, 1879), Alexander Graham Bell (telephone, 1876), and others. In the 1880s, George Westinghouse mastered the complexities of alternating current and devised an efficient system for transmitting ac current over power lines. Slowly, electric power became less expensive, grew more reliable, and incorporated better technologies, all leading to increased demand and helping to clear the way for decades of phenomenal expansion.

In 1907, Ed Harris entered what was thus a vibrant young industry at nearly the ground floor level. He started with the Malden Electric Company in Malden, Massachusetts, moved on to the Montpelier-Barre Electric Company in Montpelier, Vermont at the end of World War I, and a year or so later took the position of Secretary/ Treasurer with the Eastern Connecticut Power Company in Norwich, Connecticut. When ecpc merged with Connecticut Light & Power in 1928, Ned joined cl&p in Dora Anderton Harris —circa 1940

Trinity Episcopal Church, Melrose, Massachusetts

Trinity Episcopal Church, Melrose, Massachusetts Connecticut, where he rose through the ranks to the position of Division Manager with responsibility over company operations in southwestern Connecticut. His career advancements necessitated a series of family moves: from Malden to Montpelier, fromMontpelier to Norwich, and from Norwich to Norwalk. Ned’s work in Malden nearly cost him his life. In 1918, a large fire broke out at Malden Electric. Thick black smoke trapped him inside, making it impossible to breathe or see. He saved himself by lying flat on his stomach and breathing through large cracks in the wooden floor.

In 1938, Ned drew upon his business contacts to help secure a position for Bob with the Lamp Division of Westinghouse Electric, thereby launching his son’s career in another branch of the electric industry. For Ed in his time, being a part of the electrification of America was somewhat akin to someone today (2002) being a part of the internet revolution. If you liken that era’s deployment of a network of transmission lines across America to today’s creation of the worldwide web, you will not be far off in gauging the economic and social significance of the electric industry and the electrification of America.

In 1908, Ed Harris and Dora Anderton were married in Trinity Episcopal Church on West Emerson in Melrose— “The same church where Bob and I got married,” Dol informs us.

“My mother was a good singer,” Bob remark,. “an alto.”

“She had a beautiful voice!” Dol adds.

“She made singing her profession,” Bob continues. “Oh, gosh, we always went to the church where she was singing. She was in a choir with three other people—soprano, alto. tenor, and base. And that’s the reason why I became a Congregationalist.”

“And tell them what your mother’s favorite song was that she sang,” Dol pleads.

“‘Danny Boy,’” Bob answers. “A recording of her singing was once made,” he continues, “but the other members of the family took the stuff. I haven’t got it!” He resolves to talk to his sisters and see whether any of them knows where a copy can be found.

Dora Anderton was born in 1886 in Bedford, England, one of 13 children—a baker’s dozen—and came to the United States while still a child. “We were English,” Bob declares, “on both sides of the family. That’s what we were always told, anyway. Except sometimes Dad liked to tell us that he was of Indian blood and lived in a teepee. He had such dark features, you know. But I don’t think he was serious. Other times, he told us he came over to the New World with Oglethorpe as one of the prisoners. Really, he never told us a straight story.”

There were Harris and Anderton relatives aplenty for young Bob to meet. “Still, it was my mother who was always pushing us to her family. Dad didn’t push us to his family, although they lived in Melrose, too. And I knew them, liked them. But it was always the other side.”

There were Preeces aplenty in Melrose, too, thanks in large part to serendipity, scarlet fever, and a missed boat ride on a legendary White Star Line ship. Bob begins the story:

“It was back when her mother and three older brothers still lived in England. They were coming over to this country. The four of them were scheduled to sail in 1912 on the Titanic.”

Dol fills in the rest: “They had their tickets. The morning they were to leave, one of my brothers came down with scarlet fever and they all went into quarantine. And that was the end of the trip and the Titanic. They finally came over a year later.” The HMS Titanic on a test sail — 1912 “Good thing, too,” Bob says, “because otherwise there wouldn’t be any story!” (Or any Doreen or Nancy or Rob.)

Returning to the Harris family, the firstborn of Bob’s siblings was Dorothy (1911). While still a young child, she contracted infantile paralysis—polio—and was forced to wear a metal brace on her right leg for a number of years. After she discarded the brace as a teenager, she retained a limp for the rest of her life which she hid beautifully and which she didn’t allow to hinder her education and career. This was more than 40 years before Jonas Salk developed a polio vaccine, and the disease was greatly feared. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was its most famous victim. Like Dorothy, fdr did not allow his affliction to stand in the path of success.

Dorothy was the indisputable favorite of the seven Harris children and the academic star as well. Dol recalls Bob’s mother proudly telling her that Dorothy had been a straight-A student all the way through school. A graduate of

Above: Melrose High School —1940Above: Melrose High School —1940

Above: Melrose Public Library —1925Above: Melrose Public Library —1925 Above: Melrose City Hall —1935Above: Melrose City Hall —1935

Various Melrose scenes —1930s

Dorothy Harris —circa 1930 Wellesley College, she taught Latin, French, and English in high school in the Norwalk area. During World War II, Dorothy served in the Red Cross and married a young lieutenant in the Army, George Burr. Later, they had a daughter, Willow. In 1969, at age 58, Dodie fell victim to cancer, and a great shining light was extinguished.

Next Harris child to appear was Janet (1912), famous as a girl for the beautiful long hair that hung down her back. Bob remembers getting mad at her one time during his grade school years. He ran up behind her, grabbed her long hair, and hung from it! Not too long ago, he reminded her of the incident, but Janet refused to believe it. “You never did that! You were a good boy!” she responded.

After high school, Janet studied for two years at a secretarial school. Later, she worked for an insurance agency in Norwalk for two years before marrying Alexander Hamilton Emery III in 1938. A graduate of Virginia Military Institute, “Ham” served with the 2nd Armored Corps in Africa and Europe during World War II. Following the war, Janet and Ham together raised three children—Joan, Susan, and Bobby.

Bob also recalls the automobile sister Janet bought not long after she went to work. On numerous occasions, he borrowed her set of wheels so he could properly go a-dating and a-courting.

After retiring, Ham and Janet moved to Stuart, Florida and lived at Miles Grant Country Club. Following Ham’s death from cancer, Janet married Don Lee whom she had met at

Bud Harris —1940Bud Harris —1940Bud Harris —1940 Bill Harris & Betty Simmons —1946Bill Harris & Betty Simmons —1946Bill Harris & Betty Simmons —1940

Shorehaven, where Don had been President. Like Ham and Janet, Don retired to Shorehaven, where Don had been President. Like Ham and Janet, Don retired Miles Grant Country Club, where Don has also served as President. 1914 saw the to Miles Grant Country Club, where Don has also served as President. The year arrival of Ned’s and Dora’s first son, Edwin Andrews Harris—soon nicknamed 1914 saw the arrival of Ned’s and Dora’s first son, Edwin Andrews Harris—soon Bud. Like his father before him, Bud was a gifted athlete, and while a student at nicknamed Bud. Like his father before him, Bud was a gifted athlete and, while a Mount Hermon School for Boys he starred in baseball, basketball and football. student at Mount Hermon School for Boys, he starred in baseball, basketball, and Bud disliked Mount Hermon intensely, finding life there too strict and confining. football. Bud disliked Mount Hermon intensely, finding life there too strict and He often voiced his dislikes to his kid brother Bob. Bud went to work for Edwards confining. He often voiced his dislikes to his kid brother Bob. Bud went to work & Co., a Norwalk-area concern specializing in the production of switches andfor Edwards & Co., a Norwalk-area concern specializing in the production of other electrical accessories. He courted Mary McNabb, a graduate of New switches and other electrical accessories. He courted Mary McNabb, a graduate of Rochelle College from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Settling down in Norwalk, they New Rochelle College from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Settling down in Norwalk, raised a family of four: Duncan, Mark, Scott and Cameron. Like so many other they raised a family of four: Duncan, Mark, Scott, and Cameron. Like so many Harrises, Bud proved himself a gifted golfer, once winning the Presidents Cup at other Harrises, Bud proved himself a gifted golfer, once winning the Presidents Shorehaven Golf Club in Norwalk. Cup at Shorehaven Golf Club in Norwalk. In 1916 Ned and Dora Harris hit the jackpot with the birth of the In 1916, Ned and Dora Harris hit the jackpot with the birth of the aforementioned aforementioned twins, William Andrews Harris and Robert Mowe Harris. In twins, William Andrews Harris and Robert Mowe Harris. In 1934, while still 1934, while still in his teens, Bill—the eldest twin by 15 precious minutes and yet in his teens, Bill—the eldest twin by 15 precious minutes and yet another in a another in a succession of avid Harris golfers—won the Shorehaven Presidents succession of avid Harris golfers—won the Shorehaven Presidents Cup, defeating Cup, defeating a sixty-year-old man in a grueling 54-hole match completed all in a 60-year-old man in a grueling 54-hole match completed all in one day. The event one day. The event was handicapped, and thus when the score was tied after a was handicapped, and thus, when the score was tied after a round of 36 holes, they round of 36 holes, they had to play another 18. A sudden death playoff did not had to play another 18. A sudden death playoff did not apply here. There were no apply here. There were no golf carts used back then, and both players had to walk golf carts used back then, and both players had to walk the entire 54 holes. the entire 54 holes. Bill spent two years at Mount Hermon School in Massachusetts, after which Bill spent two years at Mount Hermon School in Massachusetts, after which he he joined Bob for two years of study at Oak Ridge Military Institute in North joined Bob for two years of study at Oak Ridge Military Institute in North Carolina. Following graduation from Oak Ridge, he went to work for a local Carolina. Following graduation from Oak Ridge, he went to work for a local electrical contractor who was a personal friend of his father’s. A pretty girl from electrical contractor who was a personal friend of his father’s. A pretty girl from Stamford—Betty Simmons—caught his eye, and a successful courtship ensued.

Stamford—Betty Simmons—caught his eye, and a successful courtship ensued. Eventually they moved away to the Chicago area where Bill worked for St. Regis Paper Company. The couple raised five children: Billy, Debbie, Bobby, Kimberly Eventually, they moved away to the Chicago area, where Bill worked for St. Regis Paper Company. The couple raised five children: Billy, Debbie, Bobby, Kimberly, Janet Harris Emery —circa 1940

Janet Harris Emery —circa 1940

Elaine Harris — circa 1940 and Andy. In Illinois, Bill continued to display his prowess on the links, winning his club’s championship numerous times and other local contests as well. In 1922, Elaine was born. She attended Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, just north of Chicago, and married William Buckley Woodward. It should come as no surprise by now that she, too, proved herself a champion golfer. Golf Digest once published an article recognizing her golfing achievements, in particular the 25 club championships she won over a 60-year span. The four Woodward children include Janet, William, Nancy, and Ned. Following Bill’s death from cancer in 1990, Elaine married Tony Setapen, a widower whom she had met at Shorehaven.

Paul—the seventh and last of the Harris children and, as such, the baby of the family—made his grand appearance in 1927, just before Ned Harris moved his brood from Norwich to Norwalk. A darling baby with a perpetual smile and curly blonde hair, he was the object of boundless adoration from his older brothers and sisters. But it never seemed to spoil him.

A University of Connecticut graduate, Paul acquired the Morse Moving Company in Stamford and married a local girl named Betty Ann Dorney. Their five children include Paul Jr., Joy, Susan, and twins Barbara and Rebecca.

Not to be outdone by his elders, in 1950, Paul won the Shorehaven Club Championship. Twenty-two years later, (1972) he won the Presidents Cup and, 17 years after that, (1989) he won the Shorehaven Senior Championship. Like his father, Paul once served as Shorehaven Club president (1972). Today, retired, he lives in Florida at the Harbour Ridge Golf Club in Palm City.

Life in Connecticut (images by Josef Scaylea):

Fishing fleet in harbor (top left) —1935

Typical Norwich House (top right) —1940

Norwich Town Hall (bottom left) —circa 1950

Fisherman on the Connecticutt River (bottom right) —1935

Miscellaneous scenes of Norwich, Connecticut area —circa 1930 Miscellaneous scenes of Norwich, Connecticut area — circa 1930

Blessed with a colorful assortment of siblings, Bob enjoyed a rich and varied family life. He carries with him happy childhood memories from his growing-up years in Norwich and Norwalk. In an age without television and video games, the Harris children together with the kids in the neighborhood found a variety of ways to amuse themselves.

“When I was 10, we used to gather wooden barrels together and build a big bonfire for Thanksgiving Day,” Bob says. “We stacked them high so we could have a big fire that night. We spent a lot of time collecting barrels—and occasionally stealing them. One time, the Norwich Fire Chief who lived down the block told us if we didn’t steal his barrels, he’d give us five. It was a big deal for us. We’d build a pile 15 or 20 feet high and maybe 30 feet around. We used lots of barrels.”

“We did the same thing in Melrose,” Dol adds. “Only, we did ours on the Fourth of July, not Thanksgiving Day. I remember everyone took part in it—it was a big deal for us, too.”

Asked where they built their bonfires, Bob answers, “Usually in some farmer’s field. There was lots of room nearby, open spaces everywhere, not like today.”

“We lived in three different places in Norwich,” Bob goes on. “I still remember the addresses: 49 Otis Street when we first moved from Vermont, then 52 Williams Street. After that, we moved across the street to 55 Williams Street when Dad bought the Lippett House. It was a big house—big yard, big Paul Harris — circa 1920

Left to right: Bud, Billy, Dorothy, Bobby, & Janet Harris — circa 1920 garden, lots of flowers. We even raised chickens.” The mention of chickens brings to mind a childhood nemesis, their nextdoor neighbor, Old Lady Buckley. “She smoked cigarettes,” Bob recalls. “She chewed and spat tobacco. She’d lean over the fence and yell at us, and we’d get mad. So we’d get eggs from the chicken coop and throw them at her house.”

The Lippett House had 12 rooms, a sound system made up of brass tubes, and a telephone system at a time when many homes had no phones at all. “And there was a cupola over the front stoop with convenient columns. I could shimmy down them without opening the front door and escape to the countryside without my parents knowing.”

“When I was a kid, we used to plan a play with the other guys,” Bob goes on. “We’d put on a production for the neighborhood and sell tickets. But, of course, the only people who would buy them were our parents—and our sisters and brothers. We’d set up a stage in Henry Jerome Pasnick’s garage. He had a two-story garage. So we used the upstairs and downstairs. We could drop things down to make it sound like things were happening.”

Asked what the plays were about, Bob answers “I don’t remember. It was usually something dumb.” When further queried about whether he and his cohorts wrote the scripts themselves, he replies “Oh, sure!” and allows that they were all natural-born hams. Clearly, Bob Harris grew up in the company of aspiring actors and playwrights and musicians. Indeed, that same Henry Pasnick later won fame as a bigband leader using the stage name Henry Jerome. Some of his

Surviving Revolutionary War–era homes & structures such as these shone here could be found all across Connecticutt & Massaschusetts during the 1930s. (photos by Josef Scaylea —circa 1935)

Vibrant autumn colors, abundant pumpkin fields, & invitinng apple cider mills added color & joy to New England fall seasons. (photos by Josef Scaylea —circa 1935)

[Noted Seattle photographer Josef Scaylea—a native of Connecticutt—visited Rob Harris’ home in Magnolia in the late ’90s, leaving vehiind a lasting impression with his distinctive personality & images.]

schoolmates—and Bob’s former childhood friends—played in the band. Among the songs Jerome made popular were “Night Is Gone” and “Nice People.”

Today, the newest generation of Harris progeny are carrying on Bob’s thespian tradition. “Our grandchildren love it when we’re all together,” Dol reveals, “and they go off and practice and practice.”

“And they come back,” Bob interjects.

“And the plays, and the shows, and the dance steps, and the singing,” Dol continues. “They love to put on shows for us.”

Like many boys, Bob had a paper route, delivering The Norwich Bulletin on foot (he didn’t have a bicycle yet). He would fold the papers in thirds, tuck the pages together and create “scalers” which he could easily throw from the sidewalk to the front doors of his customers.

On special holidays when parades were called for, like Armistice Day (November 11)—today’s Veterans Day—and Independence Day (July 4), the Harris children turned entrepreneurs, selling Cracker Jacks, candy bars, and gum to the watching crowds at a nickel apiece. “My mother used to buy things in quantity and then we’d charge full list. I can remember, we had a big safe at 55 Williams Street, and Mother put everything in that safe so the kids wouldn’t take it all before the sale. When the holidays came, we went out and worked the crowd, baskets under our arms. I think even my sisters did it,” Bob recalls. “I don’t remember getting paid for that, though. I don’t think we were. I think my mother got all the money.”

“We never locked our doors,” he informs us. “But I remember the day we were moving from Norwich to Norwalk. My mother said to my father, ‘Did you lock the doors when we left?’ And he said, ‘Where are the keys?’ And she said, “I don’t A teenage Bob practicing his golf swing in the spacious backyard of the Harris home in Norwalk, Connecticut (notice the garden and fruit trees in the background—both important factors in the family’s survival during the Great Depression) — circa 1934

know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the keys!’ We never locked our house. We never had keys. With so many kids coming and going, we couldn’t lock our house. We didn’t need to. There was always someone around.”

Bob lived an idyllic childhood in Norwich, astride the banks of the Thames River. His years there coincided with the Roaring Twenties/the Jazz Age/Prohibition. It was a time when America had recovered from a postwar recession and was enjoying unparalleled prosperity and unbridled optimism. In government circles, a hands-off, laissez-faire attitude prevailed. President Calvin Coolidge, a cautious New Englander with Vermont and Massachusetts roots, declared at his 1924 Inaugural that the country had achieved “a state of contentment seldom before seen,” and pledged himself to maintain the status quo. His motto was, most often, “Let well enough alone.” When asked what he liked to do, he once answered “Sit alone in the woods and cogitate.” The 1920s also saw the dawn of the Golden Age of radio, and the Harrises and millions of other families gathered around their Atwater Kents and Philcos to listen to their favorite shows. Bob remembers especially Amos and Andy and The Shadow. In the 1930s, his family had a big Philco radio bar in their front room that 16-year-old Billy won in a contest at a local movie theater. Another standard fixture in many American homes was the hand-cranked record player with a large speaker horn. Dol’s family kept theirs in the parlor, their radio in the living room. “We had a handcranked Victrola that played 78 rpm records,” she says. “You’d wind it up and it would play for 10 minutes. Then it would start to slow down, so you’d get up and give it another wind.” For the Harrises and many other Americans, life in the 1920s felt beautiful.

In 1928, just as the twins were finishing 6th grade, father Ned took a position with Connecticut Light & Power, and the family moved to Norwalk, on the shore of Long Island Sound. In Norwalk, Bob got his first bike: “I didn’t have a bike until I got to Norwalk and earned enough to buy it. I remember the name of the bike I bought. I was so thrilled with it. It was an Ivar Johnson. I got my bike at about 13 or 14—I took it everywhere, until it was stolen—I didn’t have a lock for it. I didn’t think people would do that.”

“We trusted people in those days,” Dol declares.

“Yes, we did,” Bob agrees.

Bob enrolled at Roger Ludlow Junior High in East Norwalk, offering classes in the 7th through 9th grades. Those were three

Snow & cold were constant companions of Bob & Dol during their winter months in New England. (photos by Josef Scaylea —circa 1935)

Above: Home of Nathan Hale Below: Hartford, Conecticutt Miscellaneous images of 1930s Connecticutt (images by Josef Scaylea —circa 1935)

Above: Ferry across Connecticutt River Below: University of Connecticutt Above: Rowing on the Connecticutt River Below: Maple syrup time

great years,” he reminisces. “I LOVED those years.” It was also a time for learning hard lessons, one of them involving broken windows and mischievous boys. Bob’s account, reproduced here word-for-word, best tells the story: “There was a school, a grade school, that was right next to the junior high school. And an OLD one, oh, a dilapidated thing. There was a fire one night, and it burned the grade school down, made a real mess out of it. Gutted it. So, there were some—a lot of—windows still standing in this burned-out school. So we just gathered stones from the yard and threw them and broke all the windows. And I remember after that, that the principal came around to each classroom and said ‘I want you to tell me how many windows you broke.’ And it was the first time I remember anyone lying to me. And he said—there was no logic to it (I didn’t demand any logic from him)— ‘But tell me how many windows you broke, and there’ll be no repercussions.’ So we all began to exaggerate. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Well, he came around later and charged us all a dollar for every window we broke. I remember that so well. And I thought, This is awful! I , This iThe Harris twins’ 9th grade graduating class at Roger Ludlow Junior High School in Norwalk (can you pick them out?) — June 1931 remember saying to my father, ‘He said he wouldn’t do that!’ And my father said, ‘Well, you’ve learned a lesson—that not everybody is truthful.’ So I paid the penalty. Why would anybody say they broke more windows anyway? Why? But we did! If I broke four windows, I probably told him eight.”

While in junior high, Bob played Good Samaritan to two elderly ladies who had trouble getting around. He cleaned house and shopped for them, took care of

chores and odd jobs. I can remember that little old gal taking out her purse with change in it,” he recounts, “taking out a dime, and she’d put it in my hand, put it right in my hand like this. And she’d say, ‘Now this will buy the butter.’ Everything was a dime—I got paid, I think, ten cents a week!” He recalls that it was always fish on Fridays, usually weakfish, a small whitefish popular at the time.

“Probably they knew the fish was fresh,” Dol comments, with Bob adding “Yeah, my mother always used to buy her fish on Thursday when all this fresh fish had just come in. We always had fish on Thursdays.”

After three years of helping them, Bob finally told the women that he would have to give up the work to concentrate on school. They cried and asked him to help find a replacement, which he gladly did.

Bob’s years at Ludlow jhs coincided with the onset of the Great Depression, an economic malaise precipitated by the Wall Street crash of October 1929, when the speculative bubble of the Roaring Twenties finally burst and shares on the stock market plummeted in value. The crisis brought ruin to many companies and individuals and provoked a flurry of suicides. Thousands of banks closed their doors, wiping out the savings of their depositors. In New York, newspapers warned pedestrians to watch for jumping bankers. Overnight, the golden days of Coolidge prosperity ended. Cool Cal’s successor, Herbert Hoover, flailed helplessly as he struggled to deal with the chaos that had descended upon the nation. Traditional policies and measures proved woefully inadequate, and Seattle’s “Hooverville” —1937 conditions continued to spiral downward, out of control. Repercussions were severe and long-lasting. By 1932, nearly 25 percent of America’s work force was idled, the Gross Domestic Product had fallen 30 percent, and prospects were unremittingly bleak for anyone seeking employment. Bread lines and soup kitchens were ubiquitous. Bob remembers beggars coming to the door, and his mother always giving them food. Ramshackle shanty-town “Hoovervilles” filled with the homeless and dispossessed sprang up in cities across the country, including in Seattle near the present-day site of T-Mobile Park. On foot and in rundown jalopies, Okies en masse abandoned their homes and farms in the Dust Bowl of the Great Plains and set out for California in pursuit of a new life—a movement immortalized by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath.

In November 1932, Franklin Delano Roosevelt led the Democratic Party to a sweeping victory over Hoover and the Republicans. Unlike today, when America inaugurates its presidents in late January, our presidents then had to wait until March to take office. Thus, it was March 1933 when fdr delivered his Inaugural Address—one of the most famous speeches in American history. Roosevelt told his listeners “This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself— nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days.”

Roosevelt, guided by the advice of a coterie of academics and visionaries popularly known as the Brain Trust, immediately launched the New Deal, the first systematic attempt by the American government to direct social and economic life by government fiat. Seemingly overnight, American confidence rebounded. The new president, working in concert with a solidly Democratic Congress, pushed through a massive array of reforms during his first 100 days in office. Among the most famous were the Work Progress Administration (wpa), the Civilian Conservation Corps (ccc) and the National Recovery Act (nra)—the latter called the Blue Eagle because of its logo. Tens of thousands of Americans were put to work laying roads, constructing buildings, cleaning up the land. Bob winning a foot race at Camp Mohawk — 1930

Bob’s older brother Bud worked for a summer in a ccc camp. A host of programs we take for granted today, including Social Security, the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (fdic) and the Federal Housing Administration (fha) were New Deal creations. Loved by many, viewed as the Antichrist by others, Roosevelt left an indelible mark on American life. Offshoots of the New Deal legacy endure today. Only with the advent of Reaganomics in the 1980s did the federal government seriously attempt to undo some of what fdr and his minions wrought. The struggle and debate continue today, enduring legacies, for better or worse, of the 1930s. To his family’s good fortune, Ed Harris succeeded in holding his position with cl&p despite the hard times surrounding them. “I don’t remember many of the specific events,” Bob tells us, “but I do remember the hardships. My dad bought

stocks on margin and when the market fell he was very badly hurt. He kept his mouth shut, he hid it from my mother. I only found out about it many years later, and I was shocked about how much he lost. He had to make up for all those losses out of his income. Mother and Father were always talking about the problems, but we were just kids; we didn’t know any better. We did without, or we made do with what we had. For a lot of us kids, those years were a happy time.”

Bob is not alone with such feelings. Many people his and Dol’s age share similar rose-hued memories of that time. The Great Depression had a way of dramatically simplifying life’s options. At its best, it was an age when families, forced to come together and share in order to survive, found love and support and fellowship. Having ample room in their backyard for a garden to grow their own food helped the Harrises. Not everyone was as fortunate as they were.

“People today couldn’t put up with those kind of things,” Bob declares. “They shouldn’t have to!”

After graduating from junior high, Bob and Bill moved on to Norwalk High School on West Avenue, two-and-ahalf long miles from home. “It was a bad high school,” Bob says, “Terrible! And it was a small high school. It wasn’t big enough for the population of students. So they had to run double sessions. They would go from 8 to 12: 30 and then from 1 to 5. It interfered with sports, it interfered with everything. But they wouldn’t build a new high school, wouldn’t spend the money. Of course, this was during the Depression. They set up Quonset huts [so named for the A cartoon featuring Ned Harris that appeared in one of the Norwalk newspapers in 1930

town where they were first manufactured—Quonset, Rhode Island] to serve as extra classrooms.”

Bob did whatever he could to earn some extra cash. “I used to go to the Y which was near the high school. I would set up pins for the bowling duckpins they used. They weren’t automatic setups like they have now. You’d have to sit back there in the cage and physically mount those pins—I got paid, I don’t know, a nickel a string or something of that sort. I did it in the afternoons and Saturdays. I can remember doing it all day Saturday.”

Lifelong, Bob’s father prided himself for his athleticism. In time, he took up golf, and the game became a lifelong passion. He joined the Shorehaven Golf Club, playing left-handed—something unusual in those days when children naturally left-handed were commonly forced to switch and do everything right-handed.

Golf became a passion in the Harris household, as witnessed to byDol: “When I went to Bob’s house,” Dol says, “everyone used to gather together around the table, and I’d sit back as quiet as a mouse and listen while they talked about their golf game that day. They all played. Bob’s mother, father, brothers, and sisters. Most of the

In 1928–1929 Bob was a member of the Norwalk ymca’s Swastika Club. The swastika is an ornamental design of ancient origin, a mystic symbol commonly used by many religions for over two thousand years. When Adolf Hitler’s NaziParty took control of Germany in 1931, the swastika took on a new identity, becoming a modern symbol for evil and tyranny. conversation was about golf, and I’m glad I learned to play. I was a tennis player. I can remember Bob’s sister Dorothy saying one time, ‘If I hear another word about golf I’m going to scream!’”

Ned became president of Shorehaven Golf Club and devoted every spare moment to his duties. “Boy, he liked that club,” Bob remembers. “That was his recreation.”

“We always had Sunday dinner at noon or one,” Bob says. “After Mother finished singing at church she’d come home and cook dinner. And my father wasn’t there. Why? Because he was out at the club playing cards after his golf game. I would caddy for my father, so my mother said to me ‘It’s your responsibility to get your father home.’ I’d just stand over him when he was playing cards and say, ‘Come on, come on, we’ve got to go. We have to GO!’ Quiet. ‘We’ve got to go!’ On the way home in the car he’d say to me, ‘Now don’t tell your mother that it was my fault that we were late.’ But she knew. She knew.”

“Of course she knew!” Dol adds with emphasis.

Like father, like sons. Following their dad’s lead, Bob and Bill Harris learned to play golf themselves and became quite adept. In high school, Bob approached the principal and asked whether he could start a golf team at Norwalk High. “We’ll do good!” he promised, and the principal answered “Yes.” Bob won a spot on the team, serving as captain. On the side, he caddied at courses in the Norwalk area, which helped result in his first encounter with a sports celebrity.

During Bob’s senior year, a golf exhibition came to Norwalk featuring the reigning national amateur champion, George Van Elm, and one of golf ’s all-time great professionals, Gene Sarazen. During his career, Sarazen won seven major titles, including the British Open and US Open the year before. He needed a caddy for the tournament and, as captain of the local high school’s golf team, Bob was chosen for the honor. Bob’s own exact words again best tell the tale:

“Sarazen drove into this bunker which was a fairway bunker on the eighth hole. You couldn’t see it from the tee. It was

off to the right, and he didn’t know that it was there. When he came up and saw that his ball was in there, he really gave me the devil. ‘Caddy, (not Bob) why didn’t you tell me that that trap was there?’ And I said, ‘Sir, I didn’t think you were going to go off the fairway.’ But I should have told him. I should have told him what was out there that he couldn’t see, but I didn’t. When he went in that trap he said to me—after chastising me—he said, ‘Now, what club should I use, Caddy, for this shot to the green?’ Out of the bunker? It was obvious—I told him ‘Four iron. That’s your club.’ He turned around and said, ‘Give me the five,’ which made me kind of mad. I figured, If you’re not going to pay any attention to me, why did you ask? So he hit this great shot out of the bunker and came about 10 feet short of the green. If he’d used the four iron, he’d have been right by the pin. All the people there said ‘The kid was right! You should have used the four iron.’ That didn’t make a hit with him either. Afterwards, he didn’t pay me anything. NOTHING! I remember waiting outside when they went into the clubhouse. I couldn’t go in. My father came out and said, ‘Come on. Were going home.’ And I said, ‘I’m waiting for Mr. Sarazen. He hasn’t paid me yet.’ So he said, ‘He’s not going to pay you. Get in the car! That was an honor you and your golf team were given.’ I said to him back, ‘It may have been, but the others got paid. The other caddies did!’ Isn’t it funny? That that sticks with me?”

In May 1999, A few years ago Bob was leafing through a newly arrived issue of Golf World when he spied a vintage photograph of Gene Sarazen blasting out of a sand trap. There in the background, golf bag slung over his shoulder, stood Bob. It was Sarazen’s golf bag. This was their sand trap. He called out to Dol and said, “Hey, look. This is me!”

When Rob heard about it, he contacted Golf World, bought two prints of the photograph and had them framed for Bob and himself.

“I took college courses all the waythrough high school,” Bob says of his time at Norwalk High. “Two years of Latin. Three years of French. History. English. I liked history better than anything else. I enjoyed history. I don’t remember wanting to be one thing or another.”

Twins are twins, at once the same and resolutely different. Ned and Dora always kept this fact in mind. After some serious agonizing, they decided it would be best for Bill and Bob if they attended different schools. Minds made up, they packed Bill off to Mount Hermon Prep School in Northfield, Massachusetts for his junior

Gene Sarazen is remembered as one of the most accomplished golfers of the preWorld War II period. During the 1930s, he seemed to be more interested in making money rather than winning prestigious tournaments. He played exhibition matches all over the globe and indeed, became the highest paid sportsman in the world. Sarazen was a member of the American Ryder Cup team on six different occasions. He later regretted that he was never named as captain of the team. For whatever reasons, the authorities always preferred Walter Hagen instead. As the twilight fell on his career in later years, he became a radio commentator.

In the photograph pictured on the previous page (page 34), Bob is the slim, tall, dark-haired youth in the center background with a golf bag slung over his shoulder. He caddied for Gene Sarazen at the Shorehaven Golf Club in Norwalk, Connecticut where Bob and his family were members for years.

On the next page (page 36) are pictured some souvenirs Bob has kept from that memorable day.

and senior years. “It was a strict Episcopalian prep school, and he lost two years in the educational process,” Bob laments. “Bud had gone there, and he didn’t like it at all. I remember him telling how awful it was. Apparently, he never told Bill, or he wouldn’t have gone. Anyway, going to Mount Hermon set him back two years. When I was ready for college, Bill wasn’t.”

When Bob graduated from high school in 1934, a decision had to be made about the twins’ futures. “It was determined that we should go to a military academy together for two years,” Bob says. “They enrolled us in Oak Ridge Military Institute in Oak Ridge, North Carolina.”

Their decision was based partly on the assumptions that the weather down south was warmer than the weather up north and that there was good golfing to be had as well. Once Bill and Bob arrived, they discovered they were wrong on all counts. Winter in the North Carolina hills could be nearly as cold as winter along Connecticut’s rivers and, perhaps worse, there was no golf course to be found at Oak Ridge.

Oak Ridge offered students the last two years of high school and the first two years of college. There Bob involved himself in athletics: “When I went to Oak Ridge, I became a swimmer and was on the swim team. I also went out for boxing. They had a boxing team. And I tried out. I’d never boxed before, and I remember one of the first times that we were out there, my friend Ollie Liebschner was boxing with me, and I had a pen in my pocket. And he hit the pen and broke it. Ink spilled all over the place. And it HURT! It stuck in me. So I said, I’m not doing this anymore!”

Bob remembers a time when Bill landed himself in hot water. The eldest twin found the Institute’s curriculum unchallenging, and his indifference won him disfavor with the authorities. Several times, Bill complained to Bob that he knew more about the subjects being taught than did his instructors. Bill even interrupted lecturers a few times to correct them—never a popular move with one’s teachers.

“Bill was called before the Board of Governors,” Bob tells us, “and they were going to expel him. I went to see the Commandant and said, ‘Please don’t do that! Because if he goes, my family will take me out, too.’ So they didn’t expel him, and he grew up to be a very responsible person.”

After two years of studying, marching, and drilling at Oak Ridge, Bob and Bill graduated and returned to Norwalk. Bob never seriously considered continuing his college studies. Two years and the equivalent of a junior college degree were enough for him. “Very few guys went to college back then, maybe 10 or 15 percent. It was too expensive. No one could afford it.” Bill and Bob Harris on graduation day at Oak Ridge Military Institute —June 1936

Oak Ridge Military Institute varsity swim team (Bob Harris, 5th from left, Bill Harris, 7th from left) —1936

Rather than continuing his college studies, Bob instead went to work for Firestone Tire & Rubber as a “clerk-repair guy” at their local wholesale-retail outlet in Norwalk. “I learned about the real world there,” Bob observes. “One of the items I handled was a radio antenna for cars. It was this big, long thing, six or seven feet long. We installed it under the running board. Not everyone had a car radio back then. It was still a luxury item.”

While working for Firestone, Bob reached a decision that would irrevocably change his life—and much for the better. Because of his position with cl&p, Ned Harris enjoyed extensive contacts throughout all areas of the electric industry. The utility not only sold power, it promoted appliances, light bulbs, anything and everything electric that would get people to use more electricity. Representatives from many different companies called on him, hawking their products. One of those firms was Westinghouse.

In 1938, after 18 months or so with Firestone, Bob decided to accept an offer from the Lamp Division at Westinghouse to sell a new type of light bulb they had just introduced—the “Sterilamp”—that purportedly killed germs. “It worked,” Bob claims, “but they never figured out how to sell it.” His new position required that Bob relocate to the Boston area. Needing a place to live, he accepted an offer to stay with an uncle—his mother’s brother, Pete Anderton—in Melrose, the city of his birth. He boarded with them for a year-anda-half. What is life without surprises? Life in Massachusetts soon presented Bob with two very big ones. Miss Dorothea May Preece —Winter 1940

A familiar sight to Bob and Dol: The famous marquee of the Boston Garden

On Bob’s first day working for Westinghouse, his boss told him, “Sorry, we don’t have that job for you anymore!” So, instead of becoming a Sterilamp salesman, Bob became a warehouseman with shipping and receiving duties at a small warehouse at 41 Alger Street in South Boston. “It had railroad tracks that went straight into the building. You could move a rail car into the building and close the doors if the weather was bad. One time, I had to unload an entire freight car by myself. Sometimes I worked so late, I’d sleep at the warehouse overnight, right on top of the boxes of 100watt bulbs. I had such a long commute by train. I reported to what they called an office manager, but he was just a glorified order taker. A year-and-a-half later, I took his job and moved into the office at 10 High Street in Boston.”

Not long after arriving in Melrose, Bob was introduced to the Preece family and its trio of attractive and available daughters by John Anderton, one of his cousins. Although some of the Harrises and Andertons had known some of the Preeces before then, Bob had not been one of the cognoscenti. This was a new adventure for him. Bob had visiting with him that day two friends from Norwalk who were interested in having dates that night. Bob himself wasn’t interested, as he was seeing someone else at the time. Two of the Preece sisters—Margie and Barbara—joined them for a night on the town, while the third—Dorothea, better known to her friends as Dolly or Dol—had a date with someone else.

“I used to see Dol’s sister Margie when I was going from Melrose into Boston to work, taking the [Boston & Maine] train in and then walking from North Station to our office which was right by the South Station. I used to see her sister Margie, sometimes, some mornings, walking with all the gang at these two stations, and I tried to make a date with her sister—with Margie—and Margie said, ‘Well, you should go see Dol. She’s the right one for you.’ We were more the same age. Margie was younger. So that’s when I started to date Dol.”

Their first date was an amateur hockey game at Boston Garden, opened in 1928 by President Calvin Coolidge using a ceremonial key made from nuggets of Yukon gold. At the Garden that night, Bob’s cousin Jack was playing in an amateur hockey game. “Hockey was a great thing in Boston back then—it still is,” Bob says. On their way back from the Garden, they stopped at a Howard Johnson’s for ice cream cones.

“For me, it was love at first sight,” Dol admits. Eyes sparkling, Bob just smiles and nods.

For their 50th wedding anniversary, Dol prepared her own written version of how she and Bob met. Daughter Nancy read the story on Dol’s behalf.

Ell Pond, Melrose —circa 1930 “Flying Yankee.” Boston & Maine Line, Melrose —circa 1940

Mt. Hood Country Club, Melrose —circa 1940 Franklin Street, Melrose —circa 1940

“It was February 1941. It had been snowing all day. When I arrived home from skiing, John Anderton’s car was in the driveway. I was happy to see John, and he introduced me to Bob Harris—his cousin—Art Graham, and Phil Wilbur. My sisters Barbara and Margie were there. My eye caught Bob’s eye, and we started to converse. My heart went pitterpat. It was love at first sight. I told my mother I met the guy I was going to marry. Bob was working in Boston for Westinghouse and was temporarily boarding with his aunt and uncle in my hometown of Melrose, Mass.

“We dated—movies, walks, dancing in the starlight in Lynfield, Norumbega Park and other outdoor dance palaces. We danced to the music of Glenn Miller, the Dorsey Brothers, Benny Goodman and other great bands of that era. Our favorite song was ‘Always.’”

While courting, they often took along Bob’s Aunt Barbara who, like his sister Dorothy, was a polio victim. “We used to take her to the Boston Pops on Friday evenings,” says Dol.

“And we took her to movies with us,” Bob adds. “We took Barbara along on a lot of our dates.”

Bob bought his first car while working at Westinghouse, a Ford Phaeton. “I bought it from Art Graham,” he recalls. “It had a top you could take down, and side curtains. It had a straight tail pipe—no muffler—and made quite a racket, until the police stopped me and gave me a ticket. I was a hotrodder! Dad had a Chandler, and later a Chrysler Imperial convertible he used to drive us to Oak Ridge.”

Miscellaneous scenes from Boston’s famous Metropolitan Transit Authority (mta) where Bob & Dol once rode—but not forever like Charlie in the famous Kingston Trio song.

What a time Bob and Dol chose to fall in love! In September 1939, Adolph Hitler sent his troops into Poland on trumpedup pretenses, igniting a new world war. The carnage and insanity of the Great War—barely 20 years ended—were

being revisited upon Europe and beyond, and on a far grander scale. On this side of the Atlantic, America’s greatest hero, aviator Charles “Lucky Lindy” Lindbergh, led the America First movement which sought to keep the United States out of the war. In Western Europe, following the fall of France, England stood alone against the Axis onslaught for well over a year, until Hitler invited disaster upon himself by opening a second front in the East against the Soviet Union in June 1941.

For over two years, a deeply divided America stayed out of the war; but a sense of foreboding prevailed. Everyone knew that war would come. The questions were, How? and When?

“I didn’t consider getting married with the war going on,” Bob tells us.

“No, we thought it was best to wait,” Dol adds.

“We missed out on allotments, though,” Bob comments. “If you were married, you got an allotment when you were in the service. And it was

A sign of things to come: Dol and Bob showing their stuff at Shorehaven Golf Club —1941 doubled when you were overseas. So, we missed that. But I thought our way was the best way, not knowing what was going to happen. We knew there was a chance I might never make it home.”

“We agreed to wait,” Dol concurs.

Dol showing off her new ring on engagement day —1942 Bob & Dol became engaged on Sunday, 21 June 1942

Bob points out another irony: “It’s odd. I was born in Melrose and moved away. I had family there, Dol had family there, but we never met, not until 20 years later when I went back and grabbed a gal—Dol Preece. I took a pearl. Maybe a peach!”

When Japan launched its surprise attack on the U.S. fleet anchored at Pearl Harbor on Sunday morning, 7 December 1941, America was dragged into the war, like it or not. That day, Bob and Dol were going to a movie and learned of the attack from a vendor selling papers outside the theater. “I said ‘Where’s Pearl Harbor?’” Bob recalls. “I didn’t know where Pearl Harbor was!”

A few weeks later, Bob tried to enlist in the Army Air Corps (there was no separate Air Force in those days), but they turned him down because of flat feet and bad eyesight. That left him exposed as a prime candidate for the draft, and Uncle Sam soon obliged.

“They’d already started the draft, and I had a number and such,” Bob says. “Everyone got drafted. It was just a question of how fast they could process the men. I got my draft notice in April, and, on a Thursday, I went in to get my physical exam. I told everyone, I’d be back on Friday, but I never went back. They just grabbed me. They were taking everybody. So I was interviewed, and they decided to put me in

ordnance. Why? Because I worked for Westinghouse, and Westinghouse was mechanical. After two or three days, they sent me to Aberdeen, Maryland.”

Dol recalls the series of events with some sadness: “You tried to call me on Friday, but couldn’t reach me. I wasn’t home. It was another two weeks before I heard from you.”

In June, Bob convinced Dol to take a train ride from Boston down to Norwalk to meet him there. Securing a weekend furlough for himself, he grabbed the train for Connecticut out of Baltimore. Once in Norwalk, he prevailed upon a jeweler to open his shop on a Sunday so that he could buy a diamond ring, whereupon, he popped the question and, without hesitation, Dol said “Yes!”

“I thought that was very romantic,” Bob says, grinning broadly, eyes twinkling.

Seeking to improve morale, the Armed Forces published innumerable newspapers, some with a narrow audience, others widely distributed. The most famous of them all was The Stars And Stripes, printed in separate editions for the various theaters of war and distributed to all the services. On a more modest scale, individual units and training centers sometimes churned out their own tabloid-style organs. Witness The Flaming Bomb, published “every Wednesday” by the Aberdeen Proving Ground with “the fundamental purpose of printing all the news of the Ordnance Training Center.” The issue pictured on the previous page (page 45) appeared on 8 July 1942 and featured a potpourri of chatty, upbeat local and domestic news items—but hardly a word about the war itself. After reading The Flaming Bomb, you would almost think that the APG was a summer camp or vacation retreat.

Tucked away on page six is an article titled “What A Hike That Was!” One must wonder at the identity of the piece’s mysterious hero:

“Pvt. Bob H*****, of Co. B., 8th Bn., had his wisdom tooth extracted Friday afternoon by the Army dentist. Bob made periodic visits all night to the fire escape ledge on the second floor of the barracks. At Saturday afternoon’s inspection, the major stopped short and gazed down at the bloodstained front steps.

“‘What happened here?’ he demanded. ‘Where did this come from?’

“The accompanying sergeant was sympathetic to the travails of the private. ‘One of the men washed his shoes out, sir,’ he answered.”

Bob adds his own embellishments to the story: “I had a wisdom tooth pulled, and was up all night spitting blood. Someone asked, ‘Who killed the pig?’”

In October 1942 Bob received orders to pack his bags. He and his fellow trainees were transported to the railroad station on base and taken directly by train to the docks at Hoboken, New Jersey. There before them stood the SS

The SS Mariposa Transport ship sending troops ashore in North Africa —1943 Mariposa, an erstwhile passenger liner hastily converted into a troop transport that not long before had plied the cruise trade between California and Hawaii. The Army had not warned Bob that he was about to be shipped overseas. “They tried to keep such troop movements as secret as possible in fear of spies. That was a lost feeling,” Bob recalls. “When I saw the big ship sitting there, I said ‘This is it!’ We had been alerted a lot of times before, but they had been false alarms. But this really was it. They tried to keep everything secret. A lot of ships were being sunk around then, and they didn’t know why. They thought it was all sabotage. We didn’t mind. We wanted protection. I couldn’t have escaped that day even had I tried. There were mps everywhere carrying guns. They would have shot me! We boarded ship around midnight. When I woke up at dawn the next morning, we were far out at sea, with water everywhere. It was a cruise ship, not a troop ship. We had staterooms. We didn’t have to hang from hammocks.” On this voyage, the Mariposa set course across the submarineinfested North Atlantic for England. Betting the lives of those on board that the ship’s superior speed would enable it to outrun German submarines, the army sent the Mariposa off without an escort. Happily, they won the bet, and Bob disembarked in the port of Liverpool, England, where two future Beatles—John Lennon and Ringo Starr (née Richard Starkey)—were one-year-old toddlers.

The newly-minted private arrived in Europe as what the army called a casual—a soldier unattached to a specific outfit and destined to take the place of a casualty in a unit already thrown into battle. The system was harsh, wasteful, impersonal, and universally despised. It treated men like cannon fodder which, sadly, is exactly what many casuals became. For the next two-and-a-half years, Bob’s only contact with home would be by mail, its contents censored to shroud the exact details of his whereabouts and activities. General Sherman was right. War IS hell—to civilians and soldiers alike, to those at home and those abroad.

Transport ship sending troops ashore in North Africa —1943

Miscellaneous Scenes:

Norwich, CT (top left)

Norwalk, CT (top right)

Malden, CT (bottom left)

Norwwich, CT (bottom right)

Dol’s mother — Lilly May Preece (née Platt) Dol’s father — John Henry Preece