The House No One
Lived In
by
Tom Sheehan
They
considered themselves
midnight adventurers,
coming off the
hill they so lovingly
called Henshit
Mountain, to cross
the pond in the
dead of winter
with sleds to
“borrow”
lumber from Artie
Donolan who had
”borrowed”
it from Breakheart
Reservation, a
state park. The
park, at its deepest
end, bordered
on land that the
Donolans had worked
for years, including
timber they ripped
out of the state
park as long as
a few eyes stayed
closed. To the
boys from Henshit
Mountain, the
Donolan rape was
not unknown, not
to these teenagers,
who were only
enacting their
own form of justice,
borrowing enough
lumber to build
themselves a clubhouse
at the thickly-treed
section of the
mountain. With
various spurts
of energy, even
in summer when
they floated rafts
of lumber across
the same pond
from the same
lumberyard, rooms
were added to
the clubhouse.
The building rose
majestically,
they all agreed,
they who had to
a man become proficient
carpenters and
finish men.
Over
a number of years,
as they grew toward
a global war surfacing
on both oceans,
meetings were
held, elections
concluded, designs
and improvements
of all genres
initiated, trysts
enamored, hope
burst continually
from that domicile
in which no one
lived, not as
a home site.
When
the town, through
the office of
the chief of police,
demanded taxes
be paid on the
property, thus
quickly abandoned
by the clubmen
to the town, to
the weather, to
the times. They
relocated their
activities to
another phantom
house they’d
build on land
without a road,
deeper in the
tall pines, stray
apple trees feeding
off the ground
since the Civil
War days, and
tyrant oaks that
held their territory.
The
membership included
Frank Parkinson,
Eddie Oljay, Bud
Petitteau, Homer
Barnard, Allie
Devine, Clete
Weavering, Asa
Parnell, Poker
Symonds, Nial
O’Hara,
Chuck Grabowski,
and others, by
adoption or temporary
association, whose
names will only
resurface as the
story progresses.
Some girls, of
course, toward
that quick run
at war building
in Europe, had
honorary admission
at all hours of
day or night after
a code of secrecy
had been imposed.
Not one of those
girls, from what
I have heard over
the long years,
ever broke that
code.
Even
as the members
pillaged materials
in small doses
from ready sources
on Route One,
begged and borrowed
in addition to
the stealing,
the noises on
the far side of
two oceans began
to sift into their
meetings.
“Hey,
guys,” Poker
Symonds said one
night as the moon
sifted down through
the trees, “I
just heard today
Buzz Marchowski
joined the Canadian
Air Force and
is already in
Moncton or Shediac
or St. Something
somewhere. Eddie
Smiledge down
The Rathole told
me. Says Buzz’s
all pissed off
about the Germans
screwing up Poland
where his grandparents
are living on
the family farm.”
Symonds,
his name changed
from hard–to-pronounce
beginnings like
Sczy and whatever,
kept shaking his
head as if he
wondered why his
name had been
hidden behind
soft edges. As
it turned out,
he was the first
to leave the clubhouse
one night, never
to come back.
Under the moon
that night and
light of kerosene
lamps, others
knew what was
cooking in him;
his eyes told
the deep unrest
so recently kicked
free.
Each
knew his turn
was coming, that
he was bound elsewhere
on the globe’s
face. If it touched
Saugus in any
manner at all,
all swore an oath
they’d be
in the first line
of recruits.
Germany
was making too
much noise, stepping
on too many toes,
bustling and bragging
of their great
inroads on small
nations guarded
by token armies,
and Japan, like
a lecher, was
stretching its
imperial hands
across the rich
skin and into
too many orifices
of the tasty Orient.
In a matter of
a week the balled
fist of war came
at them; one classmate,
flying for the
RCAF, was shot
down over the
English Channel;
another enlistee,
a neighbor of
Parkinson’s,
was missing from
an RAF flight
over France; an
uncle of Clete
Weavering was
stomped to death
on the China coast
as he tried to
sneak out to sea
to board a submarine
after secret service
on the mainland,
and Oljay’s
distant cousin
was shot in front
of a firing squad
at the edge of
a ghetto in Poland.
War,
in its demand
for enlistment,
called them, young
and exuberant
in their outlook
and it was in
the next week
they gathered
in the clubhouse,
the house nobody
lived in, and
made their plans
to help save the
world.
Frank
Parkinson said,
“We don’t
go as a group.
We don’t
get in one line
to any branch
of the service,
and end up in
one squad or one
flight or one
patrol, go down
with one bang.
We each go our
own way. If we
come back, or
those who do come
back, we’ll
meet here. No
Trafalgar Square
for us or even
under the clock
at The Ritz. We
will celebrate
here someday.
We ought to go
down to see the
Chief and tell
him our plans.
He might understand.
If not, we’ll
tell him not to
tell us.”
“Why
can’t we
go as a group,
the whole club
of us?”
Oljay said, seeing
the whole group
as a squad of
its own, firepower
from the start,
Robin Hoods or
Lone Rangers waging
battle.
Parkie
said, “No
matter if we walked
in and got consecutive
numbers, they’d
split us up. They
do things like
that so we don’t
clique it up.
Makes sense to
me, so we should
each go our way.
I’m going
in the army. When
I heard about
Big Red in Burma,
it said I’d
join the army.”
In
a day’s
time, it was all
decided, for each
of them, and all
services were
involved.
The
war to end all
wars bruised them
all, each one,
each in different
ways, some with
dread permanence.
Clete Weavering
was blown off
the deck of a
Navy supply vessel
in the Pacific,
never to be seen
again. A year
later an envelope
ended up at the
Legion Hall, from
Clete, simply
addressed to The
Boys of Henshit
Mountain, Saugus,
Massachusetts.
The Post Office,
having no proper
or known address,
delivered it to
the Legion Post,
#210, to hold
for any survivors
of the war who
might have been
The Boys of Henshit
Mountain. As it
was, one old WW
I vet said he
knew of them and
would deliver
it to the first
one who came home.
The Legion held
the letter for
almost two years.
Then
it was delivered
to Bud Petitteau
one evening at
the Meadowglen
Club as Bud had
come home from
two years in the
far Pacific and
hospital time,
one hand gone
from a nasty grenade.
The old Legionnaire
had heard Bud
was home, spending
time at The Meadowglen
with some guys
who had come home,
and made a trip
to deliver the
letter, which
was simple enough
in its message:
“Miss
you guys like
hell, but some
good guys here.
I just wanted
to see if this
gets through to
the clubhouse
or to any of you.
We have heard
stories about
miraculous deliveries
of real short
addresses. If
I don’t
get to see you
on the mountain,
I am sure that
we will catch
up to each other
sometime, someplace.
Your clubhouse
pal, Clete
PS:
Say hi to Mildred
Derning for me.
I got her last
letter about a
year ago and never
did answer it
for one reason
or another. She’s
a real cute kid
I’ve thought
about a few times.
(A
note here: It
was not revealed
until 1950 that
Mildred Derning
had an eight-year
old son she had
named John Cletus
Derning. She never
married as far
as I know and
died in 1981.
John Cletus Derning
took down his
physicians shingle
in 2002. I don’t
know if he ever
knew anything
about his father,
but I hope he
did. If this tells
him, it’s
about all I can
do.)
Homer
Barnard didn’t
come home from
the 2th Infantry
Division in the
Pacific, and the
31st Infantry
Regiment of the
7th Infantry Division
in Korea, until
1954 and after
he had served
in a POW camp
in North Korea
for two years.
One of his letters,
addressed to The
Clubhouse on Henshit
Mt, Saugus, Mass.,
was hung up in
a dead letter
box and a postal
center under construction
until it fell
from between the
cracks of time
in 1963. It was
delivered back
to Homer by a
personal friend,
an employee of
the USPS and an
army comrade from
basic days, who
had intercepted
it finally en
route to Saugus
and recognized
the sender’s
name. He drove
from New York
one day in the
fall to deliver
it and spent a
week in Saugus.
He even visited
the original clubhouse,
which by then
had been jacked
up and a cellar
placed under it,
three rooms added,
and a porch wrapped
half way and more
around the house
from where a huge
section of Rumney
Marsh was visible
as well as a great
chunk of the Atlantic
Ocean on a good
day. The two men
sat on the porch
a good part of
one afternoon
with the owner,
in Italy with
the 10th Mountain
Division with
a few other Saugus
boys, and the
beer was free.
They even went
to see the Patriots
play the Kansas
City Chiefs at
Fenway Park, which
ended up in a
tie game.
Parkie,
who admittedly
only wrote one
letter to the
guys, which has
not yet surfaced,
but about whom
much has been
written by me,
ended up on the
hot sands of the
Sahara and could
have been dead
a few times. Of
him it has been
said, him being
The Municipal
Subterranean in
a poem: He comes
up, goggled, out
of a manhole in
the middle of
a street in my
peaceful town,
sun the sole brazier,
like an old Saharan
veteran, Rommel-pointing
his tank across
the four-year
stretch of sand,
shell holes filling
up quick as death.
I think of Frank
Parkinson, Tanker,
Tiger of Tobruk,
now in his grass
roots, the acetylene
smile on his oil-dirty
face, the goggles
still high on
his high forehead,
his forever knowing
Egypt’s
two dark eyes.
Frank
told me his story
one evening as
we drank beer
by old Lily Pond.
It came around
as “Parkie,
Tanker, Tiger
of Tobruk,”
and many people
have read it elsewhere.
Asa
Parnell, it has
been said, wrote
dozens of letters
to the guys but
sent his via Harry
Clemson at The
Pythian Alleys
(The Rathole Poolroom
its other half),
who held them
until one of the
guys picked them
up in 1945, after
the big boom went
down. Parnell
had 25 missions
as a waist gunner
of a B-17 over
Europe, went to
school on the
GI Bill, ended
up with his PhD,
taught at two
Maine colleges
for more than
30 years before
he drowned in
a kayak ride on
the Allagash River
when he was over
70 years old.
He only came to
Saugus at the
Founders Day festivities,
out front of the
Town Hall in September
of the year when,
at times, 10-15
thousand people
might pass through
the center of
town during the
celebration, the
accompanying mini-marathon
race, and the
high school football
game every other
year. One year
I heard that he
found two other
guys and they
sat for four hours
on the steps of
the library hashing
over the old days,
and then he went
north again, for
his last ride
a few years later.
Every
so often, as if
I’m being
summoned by a
voice, a face,
the edge of a
shared incident,
I leave the vets
section of the
cemetery and visit
Henshit Mountain,
trying to find
any remnant of
a clubhouse, cellar
in place, second
floor added, perhaps
a porch and a
garage, a garden
for summer attendance.
Once an old fishing
buddy, who had
lived on the mountain
for many years,
pointed out two
or three places
that had strange
beginnings. “There
are no shortcuts
in those places.
They were built
well by guys who
knew their business.
They had OJT before
there was OJT.
Go down alongside
old Lily Pond
and more than
half the houses
down there were
summer camps before
the big war, and
when the boys
came back home
and were looking
for cheap quarters,
they bought a
camp erected on
cement blocks
and after a while
jacked it up,
put in a stone
or poured foundation,
got central heating,
raised a family,
added rooms, sold
it, bought or
built a new place,
all part of the
economy. Some
of the original
camps are now
so sprawling over
the landscape
you’d have
to get a pre-war
aerial map to
find the beginning
forms of them.
Parkie
carried on for
20 some torturous
years before he
hugged the earth
for the last time,
but not on Henshit
Mountain, home
away from home
for a long time
in his short life.
Every Memorial
Day I re-flag
his grave along
with a host of
people, and have
done so for more
than 25 years.
All
of them are gone
now, some here,
some elsewhere.
Four of the membership
share the same
plot with Parkie.
None of them ever
climbed to the
back end of Henshit
Mountain after
the war. The house
that no one lived
in really had
passed on in their
growth, even its
nostalgia, for
they had rushed
onto the real
estate of the
whole globe.
Now
and then, usually
close to Memorial
Day and again
at Veterans Day,
I drive up the
hill, for that’s
what it really
is, a rise of
about 500 feet
above sea level,
on a series of
paved roads. From
the road I can
see two houses,
now lived in for
more than half
a century, where
no one lived when
they were built.
I can visualize
the membership
crossing the pond
in winter on sleds
loaded with purloined
lumber and supplies,
or on rafts tied
together in the
dead of summer
nights. I know
where they kept
their beer in
underground coolers,
where it stayed
cool and was hidden
from the temptation
of potential thieves.
I know some of
the girls, still
here with us,
grandmothers time
and again, and
great-grandmothers,
who swore to the
secrecy code and
will carry it
away with them.
It’s
on a rare occasion
when I come face
to face with one
of those ladies
in the aisle of
a mall store,
or at the library
with a chosen
book, or in the
cemetery on a
special day, and
get a wink acknowledging
the deep and mostly
hidden years.
We understand
the past, the
pact, the passions.
We understand
what loyalty means,
and where things
have gone in this
short passage.
Copyright
2012 by Tom Sheehan
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