The New England Spirit

To The Larchmont Times:

If one is prone to criticize the frailties of human nature, let him go to a fire in a small town and he will a return a booster instead of a knocker. Some years ago, after a sojourn of many years in Brazil, I returned to my country and settled in a small town in Connecticut. Born and raised in the Middle West, I found the New England reserve not much to my liking and wrote my friends in South America that a newcomer here had to produce just so many leaves on his family tree before he was accepted, and that people were cold and standoffish.

About that time a fire broke out in the home of a friend of mine on the Boston Post Road one morning. The alarm had hardly ceased to sound the location when I had grabbed a sweater and was off down the Post Road hailing a passing car which I boarded on the run in a reckless manner that would have sent shivers down my grandmother's back.

As we approached the “scene of the disaster” and saw flames pouring from the roof of that dear old New England house that the family had owned for umpteen years, my heart sank.

"They'll never save it in the world!" my companion exclaimed, as we jumped out of the car and rushed in to help remove the furniture.

But they did save it - and do you know why?

Because the village volunteer firemen worked like mad, with no blunders or time-wasting hesitation. They went up into that dense smoke, into the blazing attic, came out with hair and eyebrows scorched, but still grinning cheerfully, with encouraging words to the dazed owners.

Because not a motor car passing, but stopped, letting out people who ran in and started to carry out furniture, bedding and curtains and the numerous little gifts that filled the parlor which the owner had turned into a gift shop.

Because the prosperous looking owners of expensive cars, 11 of them parked in front of the house, just complete strangers, were passing water buckets in a line from the well to the kitchen, before the fire boys arrived. A Catholic priest called out to the distracted householder, "Where is the water in this house?" and she yelled over her shoulder, “There isn't any - go out to the well!"

The astonished man raised his eyes heavenward and exclaimed, "I live in New York; do you mean to say there's no water in this house?" and the lady again called out, "Go out to the well!” - and he went!

One beautifully gowned woman stepped out of her car and, swiftly entering the house, stepped up to the owner who was looking distractedly about, in momentary confusion as to whether she should try to save the canary or the feather bed.

"Lady,” she said, “Have you any important papers or money, valuables or clothes you put away? One sometimes forgets these things until it is too late.”

And lastly- because of the women – God bless them!

How they worked, in their gingham dresses and aprons, flying in and out of the house, arms full and faces earnest and intent. And all the while a jest and a smile on the white lips of the man and wife who had lived in that house for more than 50 years, working valiantly to save what was so dear to them. No hysteria, no breakdown, no giving away to despair; cheerful and uncomplaining as though a fire in the house was not great calamity. My hat was off to them!

Then, after the fire was out and practically everything saved, how the neighbors crowded around with offers to keep them overnight and to sore their damaged furniture. People brought in food during the afternoon and evening, enough to last a week. Can you imagine it, oh city dwellers? Homemade cakes and pies an gingerbread, and one frail little woman trotted down the road with a steaming plate of hot fish balls. How kind they were, how kind and thoughtful!

I have lived but a shot time in New England and I had written to my friends in Brazil that I found New Englanders cold and reserved; but that was before I had been to a small town fire. I came way with a glow in my heart and a feeling of oneness with these people.

Now I talk of the “New England Spirit” and it has become forever associated in my heart and mind with the “Christian Spirit!”

Florence Roberts
20 Oak Avenue,
Larchmont

May 6, 1954