Memories of the Hooper family I grew up in

My father went to work at the Atlantic Refining Company at the corner of Burnside Avenue and Bragg Street in the early 40s. (He always abbreviated it A.R. Co., when he had to sign anything there, and joked in later years that the company owed him a bundle in royalties for their eventual name change). Daddy was a man of about 25 at that point; no one ever said an exact age, and I never asked. The story was so sweet, that pinpointing the age was not important.

Daddy drove oil trucks, making home deliveries all around town. Sometimes, when he was jumping down from the truck in the late afternoons, he would notice “the prettiest girl I ever saw” in the next yard. He made a point of striking up a friendship with that pretty girl's younger brother, who happened to frequent the “station” as Daddy always called A.R. Co. (later the Atlantic Ritchfield Co. and finally ARCO) thinking it would lead to a proper introduction.

As usual, Daddy was right. A severe storm one night led my future uncle to ask his new friend if he would care to spend the night at his parents' place. He said they had a couch near the kitchen stove, and sleeping there would beat driving out to Hebron (where Daddy lived with his sister and brother-in-law, Winnie and Archie Bessette) on the proverbial “dark and stormy night.”

I like to imagine Daddy walking across the lawn of what would become his home one day, and entering my grandparents' dining room to see the girl of his dreams up close. He always said he barely slept that night, thinking of how he would ask Mary Jane to marry him...maybe he should start by just asking her on a date. 

As people always say, “the rest is history.” They dated for a year or so, and were married at St. Mary's Church on September 8, 1945. They drove to Albany, New York, for their honeymoon.

All I really know about my grandfather, John Francis Ghagan, was that he was the first captain at the Pumping Station on Pitkin Street in East Hartford (I think it functioned under the auspices of the water company, which is still known as the Metropolitan District Commission); that he was “good with his hands and could do mostly anything”; that he called my grandmother “girl”, and that he died on February 13, 1946, which was a scant 5 months after my parents' marriage. He never knew that he would have become a grandfather on November 7, 1946. My sister, Joanne Frances Hooper, was named in his honor.

On May 5, 1950 (the 8^th anniversary of Edith Hooper's death) my sister, Maureen Claire Hooper entered the world. In more recent years, I have wondered why she was not named in honor of Daddy's mother, but it was never a question I asked. I am sure it was for a very simple reason; my mother may not have liked the name. (Daddy's own parents had argued over his name, with his father wanting to name him Marshall, and his mother holding tight to the name William; finally the family doctor asked if he might have the honor of naming the new Hooper baby.)

In any case, my parents thought their family was complete. They did not know that the world was waiting for me. I like to think that when I arrived on January 20, 1955, my father's 36^th birthday, the world rejoiced.

Maureen did not rejoice, and I have been told by her that she did not want another sister; she wanted a brother. That is probably the reason she dragged my crib out of the bedroom. She wanted to get rid of me! In her defense, I will say that she played in the yard with me, once I was old enough. We liked to act out our favorite TV show, Bonanza. She was always Hoss. I think I must have been the guest star of the week, because I cannot recall always being the same character.

I remember Joanne telling me bedtime stories. She liked to make up stories about my stuffed lamb, brilliantly named “Little Ba.” In one story she told around Christmas time, she said Little Ba actually worked for Santa Claus. Naturally, I believed every word of it!

We lived at 50 Burnside Avenue until I was ten years old, and I want to put some of my recollections into print. Like Daddy's stories did for him, these memories give me great happiness.

My Amazing Social Life

I have an exceptional memory; unlike some people, though, I readily acknowledge that all childhood memories are based on a person's age-related impressions of events at the time. Some things may have happened for different reasons than I thought at the time, but I am being as truthful as I know how to be when I relate them here.

When I was 3 years old, the young woman who lived downstairs, Jane Tracy, married her boyfriend, Donald Ferry. Jane's parents, Scott and Grace Tracy, were close friends of my parents. For a reason that I do not know, we called Grace “Mrs. Tracy” while we simply called her husband “Scott.”

Jane, who had been confined to a wheelchair since childhood, wore a simple white suit and hat. After being out in the back hall with my father and some of the other wedding guests (I seem to recall Scott, Jane's brother-in-law, Charles, and Pop Colby, our third floor neighbor, being out there), I dashed across the Tracy's kitchen, and climbed into Jane's lap to go on my daily wheelchair ride around the apartment. Naturally, Jane obliged, and we took a pleasant spin through the rooms. I stood, as always, on the foot rests, with my elbows on her knees. I faced forward, so I could “steer” her. She was like another mother to me, and I loved her dearly.

After that, I remember bits and pieces of things...family picnics, birthday parties, having tea with older family members and car rides on Sunday, for example...but I would have to say that my actual memory for things started when I was 4 years old. I was a friendly, well-behaved little girl (my mother made sure her daughters knew how to behave in public and had good manners), and I liked to visit our neighbors.

I clearly recall walking out our kitchen door, with Ma telling me “Don't go out of the yard”, and beginning my daily calls on my friends, all of whom were more like treasured family members. I was sure then that they enjoyed my company, and I still feel that way today.

My morning circuit, despite my mother's warning about leaving the yard, always started in the house. “50” as we referred to the Burnside Avenue house, was a three-family dwelling (we lived on the second floor), with a huge backyard (all fenced in by neighboring properties) and front porches that wrapped around the east side of the house. We spent many an evening sitting out there, drinking glasses of milk, and watching the cars go by. God, I loved that place, and I miss it still...but I digress.

I always started upstairs with Pop Colby (to my parents, he was also Pop, but his name was Harold). Nana Colby (again, Nana to my parents most of the time, although Ma did sometimes call her Rose) was still working then, but that was not a problem; I would catch her later in the day.

Pop and I would watch some cartoons, and, eventually Ma would come upstairs for a cup of coffee with him. I visited with both of them for a little while, then left them to their coffee while I went down to the first floor to visit with the Tracys (Scott would not live too many more years, sadly, so I am glad I visited every day).

After making sure that Jane was hard at work in the living room, where she had a small desk near the window (she and Donald lived with her parents, until work was completed on their new house), I would continue my morning rounds.

To the west of us was a tailor shop (Mr. Clean, known to the rest of the neighborhood as Mr. Bridge, ran things there), with a small apartment upstairs. Mrs. Hickey and Andy lived there (we had the same name arrangement with them that we had with the Tracys; Josie Hickey was always “Mrs. Hickey”, while Andy remained Andy) with their dog, Sandra Virginia.

As with Nana Colby, I would always pay an afternoon call at the Hickey home, so that I could see Andy when he got off work for the day. While he ate supper, we used to watch The Edge of Night on TV, and he would caution me on the dangers of the small, rotating fan they had there. “Never put your fingers in there, Sue, or you'll get hurt” he would tell me.

After gracing Mrs. Hickey with my presence every morning, I would head east across the yard, and stand by the fence there, waiting for my final friend of the morning to come out.

His name was Bill Kaminka (Minkie to my sisters and I), and his wife was Helen (Mrs. Minkie). From him, I actually picked up a love for flowers, since he grew many varieties of roses for his wife's pleasure. I “helped” him in the rose garden, and then we would sit in the shade together drinking lemonade, and eating peanuts. A resident squirrel always got a few of the peanuts as well; Minkie said we had to be kind to everyone and everything.

I liked Mrs. Minkie (she supplied me with a very impressive shoe, evening gown and costume jewelry cache for playing dress-up). She was not around during the day (I suppose she worked), so I usually visited her sometime after supper. No effort was too great for me to visit my friends.

It was safe back then, so I even have memories of visiting neighbors after dark to help them watch television. It is very sad to me that, in today's world, little kids can no longer have the sort of social life I had. I learned so many good things from my older friends.

Our neighbors on Burnside Avenue were among the kindest, most loving people I have ever known. They all liked my parents so much that not one of them ever objected to having me around. The Hickeys even took me to visit her niece one night, and I can also remember visiting with Nana and Pop Colby at the shore. It was comforting, somehow, to have people think I was spending a day with my real grandfather and grandmother. My mother's mother was the only grandparent I actually had, and I guess really missed not having two full sets of those wonderful people to share my childhood with me.

Memories of hard work and good food

The garden Daddy planted was the size of the Colby's and Tracy's gardens put together. In addition to radishes, lettuce, beans, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, corn and potatoes, my father grew peanuts and pumpkins. We also had a pear tree, a cherry tree, an apple tree, a mulberry tree, wild blackberries and a grapevine.

Daddy truly had a green thumb, and I was a child who followed directions happily. If he told me we were going to turn over the soil and pull weeds, I was thrilled to help (either I loved using a big garden shovel, or I was weird). My sisters were out there, too, but I am positive I was the most help!

To sidetrack myself for just a second, I also liked to help when Daddy stoked the old coal-burning furnace in the cellar, always being sure to climb right into the coal bin, so I could fill the coal shuttle for him.

Getting back to the garden, at summer's end we would gather up all the fruits and vegetables remaining in the yard, and Ma would be kept even busier than usual “putting up” things. We had delicious, home-grown fruits and vegetables all year (in addition to some store-bought staples). I had no idea then that we were not a wealthy family. We had everything, as far as I could tell. Ma and Daddy loved us; the food was delicious and healthy; the house was warm; our beds were comfortable, and I had quite the social circle. What else could a kid need?

It was somewhere around then that I received a present from my mother's sisters, Alice and Betty, to keep me warm in the coming winter months. I will grant that their intentions were good, but that knitted hat with a face stitched on the back of it, made me feel foolish. Trying to make me feel better about it, Daddy began to call the face “Nasus Repooh”, which was Susan Hooper spelled backwards.

Because of that, I felt the need to bestow yet another nickname on him, something that would sound like a common word said backwards. I chose “Bummernut” but I have no memory of what word I was trying to pronounce backwards. In any case, I also bestowed the name “Old Mother Hubbard” on Ma. I guess the logic behind that was something along the line of “Make me wear an ugly hat, Ma, and I'll call you old.”

Ma was a great cook, and I remember her lasagna, fried chicken, beef stew, pork chops and wonderful desserts with fondness. No one else that I knew of had a mother who could cook even half as well. Once I reached school age, and had friends to invite over for supper now and again, I was never surprised when they said they did not eat that way at home. If she were alive today, she could easily host her own cooking show.

Short holiday memories

I will go through the holidays in the order I liked them the best; the calendar has no bearing of this section.

My favorite holiday was Halloween, and it remains so today. I love ghosts, witches, skeletons, pumpkins and black cats, and there was something about going out after dark, dressed up in a scary costume, that was even more thrilling than coming back with a pillowcase full of candy, pennies and apples.

The earliest Halloween costume memory I have is being dressed as a white rabbit, and going next door with my sisters. Mrs. Hickey and Andy had plenty of candy for us, but the thing I remember the clearest is that it was the one and only time I entered their apartment by the front door. I was strictly a backdoor visitor at all other times, and it felt very strange going through the front door.

Christmas was next up; obviously the toys played a huge part. The years when I believed in Santa Claus were magical, of course, but an equally big part of it was just the way it felt.

I still smile remembering how neighborhood teenagers used to enter the front hallway, and sing carols. Families from all three floors at “50” would open their front doors just to listen; it was, as Daddy always said, “Just the nicest thing.”

Ma always took us to see Santa Claus at G. Fox & Co. in Hartford, and I remember how carefully she explained that we might see other people dressed as Santa in other places, but they were just helpers. She said Santa Claus could not keep up with all his personal appearances without some assistance. If Ma told me the sky was green, pigs could fly and I was the best little girl in East Hartford, I believed it without question. I adored her then, and I guess I still do, despite her passing away in 1996.

On the 4^th of July, we always joined the extended family of cousins, aunts and uncles for a cookout at the home of Ma's cousin, Jane Clark and her family. The holiday always ended with fireworks at the park.

Thanksgiving was next in line, and I'll make no bones about this; it was strictly a day of gluttony. By that point in the year, my sisters and I had all helped with the spring and fall cleaning, gardening and whatever other chores we had, for just long enough. We were ready to enjoy that food as though turkey, stuffing, potatoes, corn, relishes, cranberry sauce, olives and even fruit cakes were the most magnificent foods known to mankind.

Easter was good for as long as I believed in the Easter Bunny; once that miracle ended, it was just another day to dress up and go to church.

There is one special Easter memory I must share, though, and it involves one of the greatest shots I have ever seen. Daddy always sat at the head of the table, and, on this day, my aunt, Evelyn (who was nearly always called “Ellie”) was seated at the opposite end, directly in front of a bowl of jelly beans. When Daddy said, “Hey, Ellie...toss me a jelly bean”, my aunt found her place in the history of family Easter gatherings. The little, red jelly bean soared down the length of the table and went right into my father's open mouth.

Elementary school days

Although I turned out to be a fairly decent student, elementary school, or grammar school as we called it then, was not fun most of the time. To say that I hated it, would probably not be much of an overstatement.

I was beginning to feel the effects of the as-yet-to-be-diagnosed epilepsy I was born with, and the various tremors and twitches I was developing made me a target for schoolyard bullies; they were also causing my parents much concern. After our family doctor assured them that he could find nothing wrong, though, they felt much better, and I learned to live with it. Grammar school would not go on forever, and I reasoned that high school would be better; I was always an optimist.

In any case, I hold no grudge against either my parents or the doctor. Times were different then, and I try not to judge then by now; it is not fair to do so, in my opinion. I understand that my parents wanted there to be nothing wrong with me, and I have never felt anyone dropped the ball, so to speak.

Family vacations at Lake Hayward

Although I have nothing more than fleeting memories of my earliest family vacations at Lake Hayward, I am pretty good with what happened from my fourth or fifth summer onward.

The cottage was owned by Ma's cousin, Ray Ghagan, and was better than Disneyland; I was sure of it. There was a huge, stone fireplace with a deer's head mounted above it in the large living room, and I used to take the head down and play with it, as though it was a stuffed toy. As I mentioned earlier, I may have been weird.

We swam in the lake every day, ate supper outside every night, played a card game called “Michigan” after supper and fell asleep to the sound of crickets at night. Sunday mornings, Ma went into the bakery in town and picked up hot, fresh cinnamon buns; they were absolute heaven!

I spent a total of 11 weeks of my life at the cottage, but those few weeks held more happiness and excitement than anything else ever has, except for my vacations with Daddy in Disney World many years later. I think I cried for days when Ray died, and the cottage was sold; like the Burnside Avenue house, I miss it to this day.

I must include one more cottage memory, and that is of our piano singalongs. The old piano stood in the living room, right next to the fireplace, and Daddy would sit down at night, and play You Are My Sunshine. Everyone from Nana, my aunts and my uncle to Ma, my sisters and I, would gather around to sing the words. It was wonderful; Daddy played very well, and I was always so proud of him when he “performed” for us.

Whenever I hear that song today (it turns up in one frequently televised commercial) I feel sure that my father is reaching out to tell me everything will be fine. Okay, so we now know I am a weird, optimistic sap; everyone has to be something.

Moving to Bragg Street

We moved from Burnside Avenue, because our landlord had died, and the property went up for sale. With all that land, a three-family house and a tailor shop with a comfortable second floor apartment, there was no way my parents could afford to buy it, even though they wanted to do just that.

In the meantime, my grandmother and aunts had also lost their landlord and landlady within one month's time. Getting the Bragg Street house was, in my parents' eyes, the opportunity of a lifetime. Not only would their family have a home, Ma would never have to worry again about her mother and sisters losing their home.

I have many happy memories of the second floor of the Bragg Street house (Nana and my aunts had always lived on the first floor, and there was no reason for that to change), but I am the first person to admit that watching my beloved mother battle cancer there, put a lot of them into hiding. I will touch on some things in later sections herein, because there are places where they will fit nicely. I do not want to feel like I am simply reciting the details of my life.

High school years

I was a very good student in high school, making the honor roll in all but two marking periods during my four years there. Even so, I remember being surprised when we got our class rankings at the very beginning of senior year. At that point, I was 24^th in a class of nearly 500 students; not bad, considering that my still not diagnosed epilepsy made reading comprehension and math a real struggle. I realize now that I scored so high because I was able to remember nearly every word I heard in class.

Although a good student, a/k/a a geek, myself, I never felt totally comfortable with the other geeks; if I had, I could have been their leader, I suppose. My friends tended to be the freaks. I did not do drugs myself, but I was so spacey some days (remember, the epilepsy still had not been diagnosed) that most of the freaks thought I was as high as they were anyway! In a way so strange that I cannot adequately explain it, I finally felt that I had found my own kind at last. Again, I will admit that I am weird.

One of my favorite high school memories had nothing to do with school, but everything to do with summer vacation. Uncle Johnny had died several years earlier, so Aunt Jerry was very excited when I asked if I could visit for a week at the lake.

We had wonderful times cooking on the little grill, going shopping in the mornings, and talking far into the night. She told a lot of the same stories that Daddy was always so happy to share, and added a few funny ones of her own; they were about my father and what a clumsy kid he had been. She said he fell as often as the rain, and his original childhood nickname was Billy Bumps (a cartoon character's name, I believe) and she also said Louie wanted to take him to ballet lessons to improve his coordination! For Daddy's sake, I am glad his coordination improved on its own.

I also fondly recall the day I walked down to Lake Hayward, and went swimming there for old times' sake. By the time I got home, I had a terrible sunburn; it was a long walk. My aunt met me at the front door with a jar of Noxema in one hand, and a bottle of grape soda in the other.

The haunted house in Hebron

During my high school years, my aunt and uncle, Winnie and Archie Bessette, told us they thought their house was haunted. My father, upon hearing this, expressed some skepticism. That went away quickly when I commented, “Daddy, the house makes me uncomfortable. It's weird and it's creepy. I mean, really, who ever heard of having a black house?” Everyone stared at me, but it was Daddy who said, “Sue, the house is yellow.”

Archie went on to report that he had to tie the attic door shut, because it kept opening during the night (I know for a fact that the room's floor actually slanted slightly away from the door, so it should not have opened on its own). My uncle also said he would often see the figure of a woman in white when he went into the cellar. He asked once, “Can I help you?” only to have her vanish before his eyes.

Winnie said she called an electrician to rewire the entire house, because the lights were working by themselves. It was no help, and she began to just take the light bulbs out at bedtime; it was easier, she said, than to keep getting up and shutting off lights that turned themselves right back on. Flashlights were a hot commodity for them.

My cousin, Kathy, told us about a strange experience she had once had, too. Her bedroom was directly off her parents' room, and there was a swinging door between the two rooms. One day when she tried to get out, the door would not open. Remember, we were both young teens at the time; I was scared when she told the story and she was terrified when it happened.

On another night, one that found Kathy and I in the second floor room leading to the attic (the family's pool table was there), we were both sure we heard voices. No one else was in the room, or in the hallway outside. She told me to look in the attic, to see if her father or mine was trying to play a joke on us; I went part way up the stairs, and could see no one.

We gave up our game and hurried downstairs to find all of our parents in the dining room having coffee and doughnuts. There was no way their voices could possibly have sounded like they were coming from the attic.

My mother, as we were leaving the house that night, glanced up at the attic window. In a surprisingly calm voice, she said, “Maybe I'm crazy, but I think someone's watching us.” With my aunt, uncle and cousin all waving goodnight to us from the back porch, it was obvious that none of them were watching from the attic.

The next time our two families got together, Archie told us that he finally accepted the fact that something had to be done. Toward that end, he had contacted Connecticut's well-known paranormal researchers, Ed and Lorraine Warren.

From this point, what I will relay came to me from Kathy. She did not attend the séance that was, eventually, conducted at their home by Lorraine Warren. Her mother said she was too young; she did give Kathy the details, though, and I believe every word.

Ed Warren had done a lot of research by this point, and had learned that a widower named Hiram Dingwell had lived at the house with his daughter, Jessica, in the mid-1860s. The property then, and at the time my extended family members lived there, consisted of farmland, two houses (the larger one being for the Dingwell family back in the day, and the smaller one being for the farmhands), a well behind the larger house and a big, red barn that stood between the two houses. It was impossible to see one house from the other, without walking around the barn.

From evidence found one morning, it was clear that a farmhand by the name of James, was murdered in the room leading to the attic in the larger house (the trail of his blood led up to the attic, where his body was found). Jessica's body, with her neck broken, was found at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Her father, Hiram, had committed suicide.

The other farmhands from the house on the opposite side of the barn found the bodies the next day; they went to the house to see what was keeping their boss from appearing near the field with their work orders for the day, and also to find James. One body they did not find, though, was the body of Jessica's infant son. It was later found in the well at the back from the house.

It was a tragic story, but in the midst of the Civil War, it was one that seemed to be forgotten in the course of time. All anyone ever said was that Hiram had lost his mind and killed a farmhand, his daughter and his grandson before hanging himself in the attic (it was a strong beam, one assumes, since he was found hanging not far away from James).

During the séance, Lorraine made contact with Jessica. The farmhand, James, was the father of her infant son. Hiram killed James in a fit of rage, upon learning that information, and then dragged his lifeless body up the stairs, hoisting him up onto a hook set into a low, overhead beam. Hiram must have been a strong man to begin with, and his rage multiplied that strength many times over.

Jessica went on to say that she knew her father was going to kill the baby, as soon as he snatched him out of her arms, and she ran down the stairs after him. I have always assumed Jessica went upstairs to try to save James, but no one ever said that; it was strictly an impression I had.

In any case, Hiram ran down the flight of stairs from the second floor to the first floor, and then continued on to the cellar door set into the wall directly under the flight of stairs he had just run down. Jessica ran after him, as fast as her legs would carry her.

Hiram raced to the cellar door that led to the backyard.  The door was at ground level; it was not a hatchway-style door. Leaving it hastily was easy. Opening the door and running through put him right out into the area behind the house. What he did not realize when he got outside was that Jessica was no longer behind him. She had fallen on the cellar stairs, and suffered a broken neck.

After throwing the helpless infant into the well, Hiram returned to the house, and found his daughter's body. That must have been when his murderous rage ended, and he realized what he had done. In what one can only assume was a state of despair, he went to the attic and hung himself.

Selecting a career

As the school year drew to a close, I found myself growing more and more anxious about what I would do with my life after graduation; neither of my sisters had gone to college, and I would not be heading there either. It was not in the family's budget. It was on to work for me, as it had been for my sisters.

With almost no interest in the law I, nevertheless, ended up in a law firm in 1973, and I remained there for 23 years. I did my job well, and can honestly say that I never put in a day's work that shamed me. I carried a tremendous workload, and did it with pride.

When I first started at the firm, I was a legal secretary; when I left, I was the paralegal responsible for all office management tasks, as well as all of the foreclosure committee paperwork. Understand that we were not the firm that obtained the judgments of foreclosure; we were the paper pushers who wrapped everything up when the dust settled down. I did the paperwork, and my immediate boss handled the foreclosure auctions.

Because my boss and I made a good team, not to mention the fact that we were steadily bringing money into the firm, I would never have guessed that we would lose our jobs two weeks before Christmas in 1996 (I was still coping with my mother's death in January of that year, so it was real blow).

Simply put, the most senior partner wanted to cut back on staff. I will not speak ill of him, that would be below my personal dignity. He may not have been a great administrator, but he was almost without peer as an attorney, and I will never deny that. I think it is sufficient to say that my boss and I took it on the chin, and both became stronger people in the years ahead.

Discovering the joy of Disney World

To back up a little bit, I want to talk about the years in between the start and the finish of my legal career.

My sister, Joanne, and her husband, Bob, adopted two beautiful children during the years when I was working. The office, which later moved its location from East Hartford to Glastonbury, was still in East Hartford then, and I ran all the way home (a distance of some 10 or 12 blocks) when Matthew was adopted. By the time Meredith came along three years later, the office was in Glastonbury; running home from there was out of the question.

Matthew was two when Maureen, then 25, and I, age 20, thought we would like to take him to Disney World. We approached Joanne and Bob with the offer to pay Matt's way, if they could pay their own way. My sister was willing, but my brother-in-law was not. I still do not fully understand what his problem was, I only know the plan was put aside for ten years.

I was 30, and Maureen was 35, when we finally entered the Magic Kingdom. By then, my epilepsy had been diagnosed and under control for about a dozen years, and I was feeling better than I ever had in my life; Disney World made me feel even better.

The rides were amazing, and the restaurants were all fantastic. I could not wait to get home to tell my parents about this wonderful world.

Daddy was very enthusiastic about a trip the following year, but Ma was always a homebody; Lake Hayward was wonderful, she said, but she just was not ready to get on a plane and travel 3,000 miles away from home. My father and I ended up making the trip by ourselves the following year; Maureen stayed at home with Ma, Wendy (my beloved Beagle/German Shepard dog) and Buffy (Maureen's cat).

If you are not a Disney lover, move along to the next section, because I plan to record everything I can remember. You have been warned!