Doug

At the New England Horse Show in 1956. At the bottom left is my mother, Berenese. Center bottom is Richard Strawbridge. Bottom right is “Big” Cille Kennedy. Behind her is my father, Frank. Next to Frank is Dorothy Strawbridge, and next to her Is Douglass Kennedy.

When I was about 7 years old, the Kennedy’s moved in next door. Their family consisted of three girls. “Little Cille” was one grade ahead of me in school and was called “Little Cille” because she was named after her mother, Lucille, who was universally called “Big Cille”. Triska, whose real name was Patricia, was a year or so younger than me. Caroline, who was nicknamed Kebbie was the baby in the family. It is interesting that, after all these years, the sisters still retain their nicknames amongst their families and friends. Well, perhaps not Cille, because her mother passed away, and it is no longer necessary to call her “Little” Cille. As I mentioned, their mother was Lucille, or Big Cille, and their father, the subject of this little writing, was Douglass.

Little Cille, Kebbie, and Triska Kennedy

Now, the three sisters and I were very close friends when we were young. My first date was taking Little Cille to the Easter Drag, which only Holyoker’s will understand as a general ambling about with family, friends and sweethearts along Northampton Street between Nick’s Nest and the Yankee Peddler on Easter afternoon. Little Cille and I had many more dates before we entered puberty and started taking dating more seriously. Kebbie was more my sister’s age. As the fates would have it, I fell madly in love with Triska, the proverbial “middle child” during my graduate school days, but it was not to be – she only saw me as the chubby kid next door and never returned my romantic feelings. Rather typically, Triska called me to the phone one day and said “Bobby, I have asked every boy I know to go to the Cotillion Ball with me, but they all have other dates, so will you take me?” That about sums up my “romance” with Triska.

Here I am dressed up and on a “date” with Little Cille

When the Kennedy’s first moved in, my father and Doug became close friends. One day, Doug talked my father into going in halves with him on the purchase of an old, wooden cabin cruiser boat, which they agreed to fix up. The boat was hauled to the edge of the Kennedy’s property, where it stayed, slowly rotting away for years. We kids had a ball playing on the old boat, but it never saw a single nickel of repairs. I think the whole thing was the product of a few too many drinks one night. Every Christmas Eve, Doug and Big Cille would come by our house after we kids were sent to bed to wait for Santa Clause, and my parents and Doug and Big Cille would exchange presents. I remember one year Doug gave my folks a bottle of Goldwasser, a German liquor with real gold leaf floating in it. He also thoughtfully gave them a small sieve to be kept in the bathroom to retrieve the gold leaf in an interesting twist to “panning”. Waste not want not, I suppose. One Christmas, Doug somehow managed to punch reindeer footprints into their seldom used front porch floor and a spot on the wall where Rudolf’s red nose had singed the shingles. These “artifacts” kept the Kennedy girls believing in Santa Clause well into their 20’s.

My father went on a business trip to Chicago one time. About 3 hours or so after his plane left Bradley field, the TV news announced a plane had crashed coming into O’Hare airport. My mother became near hysterical and tearfully called the Kennedy’s. Doug suggested that he and my mother should go immediately to Bradley Air Field to await news about the plane that had crashed. Doug kept telling my poor mother not to worry, that hundreds of planes fly into Chicago all the time, but my mother continued to be a nervous wreck. Doug steered her into the coffee shop to await news. My mother got more and more distraught, convinced that my father had been on the plane that went down. Suddenly, Doug slammed his hand down on the table with a thunderous THWACK. Everyone in the coffee shop stopped and looked up. Doug slowly turned up has hand and peered under it. “Don’t worry folks,” Doug announced in a loud voice. “It’s not a cockroach; it’s just a silver fish” he shouted. My mother started to laugh, and the whole episode calmed her down. Shortly came news that the plane that crashed had not come from Bradley after all. My mother always loved Doug for that night, and specifically that gesture. She told that story often, whenever the subject of the Kennedy’s came up.

In the late 1950’s, Doug ran successfully for School Committeeman for Ward 7 and served two terms. Doug became convinced that the schools were merely passing on students who had not mastered the academic skills for their given class levels because it was easier than keeping them back to get those skills. The result was hundreds of “graduates” from high school who could hardly read and write and had no math or science skills at all. He convinced the other School Committeeman to insist on competency testing at the end of each school year for each class that would positively determine whether students should pass or not. In this, Doug was generations ahead of his time, as competency testing has become the national norm today. But in 1959, it was absolutely radical – and, as it turned out, totally unworkable. At the end of the first year of testing, a huge number of students would have to be held back to gain the skills they lacked. It was like trying to stop a train. Parents and teachers all became outraged, and the School Committee was forced to back down and give up on the idea of competency testing. I have always thought it was too bad they didn’t have the guts to stick with it. While it certainly caused difficulties, I think it could have made a tremendous difference in hundreds of lives. Instead, hundreds of kids simply moved mindlessly through the system, coming out as “graduates” with absolutely no educational skills at all.

Doug himself had attended Harvard University, majoring in English Literature. Somehow, in his last year, he was asked to leave Harvard and never graduated. His father, Patrick J. Kennedy, universally called “PJ” was outraged. He demanded that Doug take a job in PJ’s business, PJ Kennedy Construction Co. For years, Doug soldiered on, as he studied civil and mechanical engineering on his own. Doug would eventually sit for the Massachusetts’s Engineer’s License exam, which he passed with flying colors, becoming one of the only licensed engineers in Massachusetts history who didn’t have an engineering bachelor of science degree. Quite the accomplishment for a guy who’s love was English literature.

During his hay day, PJ was one of Holyoke’s premier builders. Many of the industrial buildings in Holyoke were built by PJ Construction. Doug told me that when PJ graduated from M.I.T., the Country was experiencing a recession. There was almost no work for engineers, so PJ took a job as a “Sand Hog” on the Holland Tunnel in NYC. By the time the tunnel was finished, PJ was the head engineer on the project, and thereby made both his reputation and wealth enough to start his own construction company in Holyoke. When I knew PJ, he was an elegant but very old man, always formally dressed. PJ’s home is now the Delaney House in Smith’s Ferry.

According to Doug, PJ’s forte was in the use of explosives, learned on the Holland Tunnel project. In fact, PJ became an explosives artist. For example, one company in Holyoke had a 6 story building, but wanted a 5 story building. So PJ “detached the upper floor from the roof and the 5th floor, and he detonated explosives which pulverized the entire 6th floor. He then lowered the roof back on top of the 5th floor, and voila – a 5 story building! Hard to believe, really, but Doug insisted it was true.

As PJ become old and retired, Doug took over the company, but for years and years, PJ would head off to the office every day. Over the years, the company became more and more, well “decrepit” I suppose would be the word, just like old PJ himself. PJ simply refused any attempt to re-invest in the company and modernize it. All these years, the old man simply drained the company revenues into his own pocket and kept Doug working for slave wages. But Doug soldiered on and on. An English major trapped in the wrong job. I got to see this company up close and personal because Doug hired me as his assistant for the nine months between my graduating college and my entering graduate school in 1967 – 1968. Prior to that time, Doug was, for me, the parent of my friends, the Kennedy sisters, and one of my parent’s best friends. During my employment with PJ Construction, Doug became one of MY best friends!

When I spent my time at PJ Construction, the company was in dire straits. It consisted of a crew of true characters and equipment that could hardly be believed. For example, the crane we used was built in 1918 and had a wooden boom. One of the crew was named Johnny Augustine. Johnny was our jack hammer guy. Years of planting the handles of a jack hammer under his stomach had had a deleterious effect on Johnny’s bowels. Johnny would be hammering away at some pavement when he would suddenly drop his jack hammer and dash off to a bathroom, often with only moments to spare. There was a story about Johnny that one day he paddled a boat to the pier of a local bar (he lived on the Connecticut River). After a few beers, Johnny suddenly ran to the bathroom, only to find the door locked. Desperate, Johnny scampered to the pier and jumped into his boat, sending his feet clear through the bottom of the boat. As he slowly sank into the River, he quietly soiled himself. But the River took care of everything, I suppose.

There were other characters. In fact, they were all characters as I recall. The foreman was a French Canadian named Emile. As well as being foreman, Emile ran the crane. Once, Emile was using the crane to get a new pulp beater into the Parson’s Paper Co. and the beater flipped around in mid air and came crashing to the ground. For a moment, there was a hail of French cursing. Then Emile quickly looked about, saw that nobody from Parson’s was looking, and quickly went about re-attaching the beater to the crane boom. Just like nothing had happened, indeed. The chief carpenter and all about construction genius was a guy named Jackie Roberts. Jackie was also a Holyoke Fireman until he injured his back trying to rescue some poor soul from a burning building. From then on, Jackie worked full time for PJ Construction, but he had to be discrete about it, as he was out of the Fire Department on full physical disability. There was very little in the way of construction that Jackie couldn’t do. There was a day laborer named Richard Cote. He hated me at first, seeing me as a rich college guy taking the job of one of “his kind”. But we wound up being good friends. I went to Richard’s wedding which was called a “joint” party. This meant that all the invited guests had to purchase a ticket to cover the expenses because the bride’s parents couldn’t afford to spring for the affair. A ticket got you a kielbasa feast and a band for dancing. Drinks were available at a cash bar. I apparently brought too much cash because I had way too much to drink. For months after words, complete strangers would come up to me on the streets of Holyoke and start talking about what a great time we all had. I suppose we did at that, but I didn’t remember much, truth be told. One of Doug’s top carpenters was a guy named Danny Krug. Danny lived in West Hampton and had about a 1 hour commute to work into Holyoke. Danny and I became great friends for many years. When PJ Construction eventually went under, Danny “retired” to his maple sugar business. For years and years, I always bought my maple syrup from Danny and his wife. I wound up seeing Danny as a kind of cracker barrel philosopher. Whenever I went out to his house to pick up some maple syrup, he would generally start talking about his journeys (he and his wife Bess took many trips about the Country) and his observations in general. I was constantly amazed at his perceptions about life and all. Danny actually became one of the driving forces in the creation of the Massachusetts Maple Syrup Association.

And there was Lester Lavallie. I actually urged Doug to hire Lester, as my father’s company, Hampden Papers had fired him for being generally too, ah -- well too stupid to work in industry. When Lester was discharged, his wife came down to Hampden and pleaded with my Uncle, to no avail. I felt bad for Lester and his family and convinced Doug to give him a chance. I can remember that on his first day with PJ Construction, I drove Lester to a location and told him to dig a hole. When I came back 4 hours later, I had to get a ladder to get him out of the hole he dug. The perfect day laborer in Construction! Once, Lester invited me up to his 4th floor apartment in the “flats” of Holyoke to meet his family. As he opened the door, there was a sudden whack as a fist hit him square on the jaw which sent him reeling backwards down the stairs. Lester’s wife, a very short and fat women came out on the landing, saw me standing there with my mouth opened, and quietly invited me in for a beer. Lester soon came in, a large bruise on his jaw, and joined us for a beer. Nothing was said about the punch. You think I am making this up, but it’s all true. After PJ Construction failed, Lester got a job working for O’Connell and Sons in Holyoke. They made the incredulous move of making him a bulldozer operator. Lester was not bulldozer operator material, and on his first day, he managed to roll his bulldozer over himself. He actually survived that and wound up on permanent disability. I bumped into him shortly after his bulldozer accident. His jaw was wired shut, and he could only murmur. Nevertheless, we went off to a bar together, and Lester managed to drink by turning his head sidewise and “spilling” the beer onto his slightly opened lips. A more determined beer drinker I never encountered! One day, I was walking down a Holyoke street and happened to look up an ally. There was Lester and a prostitute standing together; both were completely dressed, but she had her dress pulled up, and they were in some degree of coitus. Well, a more determined fornicator I never encountered either. What a romantic!

But I digress. On my first day at PJ Construction, Doug was waiting for me. He told me that he and Big Cille were off for a well earned vacation, and I should hold down the shop. Yikes! This was my first day! As they were leaving, Doug turned and “mentioned” that it was just possible that someone from the IRS just might be dropping by. Doug took me out to the shop and pointed out a pile of cardboard boxes. “If the IRS guy shows up, show him these boxes and tell him the corporate records for the last several years are in them”. Well, on Monday morning, a guy from the IRS did indeed show up. So I took him out to the un-air-conditioned shop and pointed out the boxes. He was there all day Monday and all day Tuesday. That afternoon, Doug called asking me how things were going. I told him of the IRS guy working out in the shop. Doug told me he would call again. On Wednesday, I began to feel sorry for the IRS guy because it was un-godly hot out in the shop, so I told him he could bring in some of the boxes and work in the air-conditioned office. That afternoon, Doug called and seemed peeved that I had let the guy into the comfort of the office. Finally, on Friday, the IRS guy approached me, told me the records were hopeless. He went on to explain that he had to report one way or another on the Company. He said that if his report was incomplete, he would have to come back the following week. So, he said, “You and I are going to construct a construction business”. And that’s just what we did. We made up numbers for sales, costs, payroll, deductions, and such, making it out that the company didn’t owe any taxes. By Friday afternoon, our “fiction” was complete, and he left the completely fabricated tax return for Doug’s signature. On the following Monday, I explained to Doug what we had done. Doug found it extremely amusing, signed the returns, and invited me out to a bar as a reward for “conspicuous service” to the company. Shortly after that, I was promoted to “Office Manager”. Another cause for a celebration. In fact, just about every closing time, we had some reason to celebrate at a bar on the way home. In each “celebration”, Doug and I shared the most intimate secrets of our lives. I slowly began to see him more like a brother than a friend of my father and the father of my friends.

One great cause for celebration had to do with one of Doug’s brothers-in-law. Big Cille’s sister had married a guy named Dick Lidecker who was a top executive in an insurance company in New Jersey. On a trip up to Holyoke, Dick rather casually mentioned that he was looking to buy a printing company. His insurance company had come to realize that they were spending a fortune on printed forms and had decided to acquire a printing company capable of printing these forms for them. Dick told Doug that there would be something like a 2% finder’s fee for anyone who could locate a suitable company. Doug told me about this, so on a whim, I inquired with a guy named Dick Adams, the Vice President of sales for my father’s company if he knew of such a company. Dick indicated that his brother in law, I guy named Harold Moynahan actually worked for such a company. So I told Doug about Harold’s company and the possibility of a deal. And finally, a deal did indeed go down. 2% of the deal was a lot of money. Dick Adams got a few thousand dollars which came in handy. Harold Moynahan made something like $15,000, which was virtually a full years pay. This convinced Harold that it would be more profitable to find and sell companies than to look for another job (as his company was sold, he was promptly put out of a job). This was Harold’s undoing. He spent years looking to make another deal, while spending his ample spare time drinking. He died many years later having never stitched together another deal. He died of severe alcoholism. Doug made a pile of money, which allowed him to pay off all kinds of debts. I was at first promised “my share”, but as the three guys divided up the proceeds, it was decided that I didn’t need any, as I was still a student and had my whole life ahead of me to make money. But Doug did celebrate with me, in the usual way, I suppose. As a supreme irony, I would up buying Harold’s house, and my wife and I live there to this day.

One of my chief jobs as Office Manager was picking up old PJ at his home in Smith’s Ferry and driving him to the office which was on Pine Street in Holyoke. We would always stop at Lucines’ on Hampden Street for PJ’s copy of the Transcript Telegram. Once at the office, PJ would go immediately into his office, prop up the newspaper, and go quietly to sleep behind it. Sometime in the afternoon, PJ’s wife (universally called MeMa) would call with a shopping list. And PJ and I would dutifully drop by a market and fulfill her list. But first, we had to stop at a “location” where our crew was working. The old guy would inevitably get out of the car, look about for some detail like a tool lying about. He would then signal to some worker and say “Pick up that tool and put it away; otherwise, it will get lost”. The PJ crew was well accustomed to these visits from PJ. But there were times when we had no work and the crew was laid off. On those days, I would drive him about Holyoke searching for the DPW. Once I found a DPW crew at work, I would stop. Out of my car would pop PJ who would, as usual, scan about for some detail. He would then walk up to some completely startled DPW worker and say “Pick up that tool and put it away; otherwise, it will get lost.” I used to love the looks we would get!

One day, MeMa took a fall, and it was decided that she had to enter a nursing home. Of course, PJ joined her there as he had never lived apart from her since he was a young man. Moving them into a nursing home was a trip. MeMa was combative during the entire move, constantly insisting that there was no need for her to move from her home. PJ was just confused and kept murmuring to himself. A long day for all. Towards the late afternoon, both Doug and I were anxious to get away and hit a bar for a well deserved drink or two or three. But as we were leaving, a list of necessities left at home appeared. So we hastily drove to PJ’s home. Once there, we split up the responsibilities and objects on the list. On my list was finding PJ’s favorite slippers. In his bedroom closet, I encountered a neat row of endless shoe boxes. Opened one box. Brown tie-ups. Another, Black tie-ups. Another, stock certificates! Stock certificates?? “Doug”, I shouted. “You might want to check this out”. Box after box. Wing tips, white bucks, original ATT certificates. Original ATT certificates! Gads! And so it was. A complete fortune in stock certificates tucked away in shoe boxes. The old guy simply didn’t trust banks, so he bought stock and kept the certificates in shoe boxes. And in his senility, he had forgotten all about them. Very suddenly, Doug was rich!

Not very long after words, my time at PJ Construction came to an end, and I went off to graduate school in NYC. By quietly selling these stock certificates, Doug paid off all his creditors and had a life of some ease for a while. He and Big Cille took quite a few trips, virtually going around the world. They spent a lot of time exploring the Caribbean Islands. Then, alas, Big Cille passed away. For a while, Doug was a lost soul, but then he married a women named May, and I think he was happy thereafter. I know he struggled with his drinking, and I believe with May’s help, he did manage to lick it.

Years later, Doug sought me out when I was home visiting my parents, and we went out for a sort of re-union. Doug told me the most extraordinary story. On one of the Caribbean Islands, Doug encountered an abandoned “ruin” of a Gothic style cathedral, mostly covered by the tropical jungle that existed there. And he uncovered the story of this structure. It seems that during the age of exploration, the Holy Roman Catholic Church sent out an expedition of exploration which found and claimed this Island for the Vatican. The Church then set out to build a great cathedral which was to be the seat of the Holy See in the New World. In the building of this vast church, however, the priests managed to work the natives to extinction, leaving the cathedral only partially complete. By the time the sorry saga drew to a close, the church fell into ruins and was reclaimed by the jungle while the native population was virtually wiped out. Doug told me that he considered this to be an allegory for the presence of the Roman Catholic Church in the New World. He said that it should be written as the definitive novel of the Church in the New World, but that he was too old to write it. He “charged” me with writing this great novel. He told me exactly which Island to find the ruins, where to look up the story, everything I need to write “his” great opus. But it was never to be. I had to finish graduate school, then time in New Mexico in the film business and such. I have always felt that I let him down by not writing this novel. And I still agree; it sounds like the perfect allegory for the development of American civilization. But now, I can’t even remember what Island this took place on.

By the time my life settled down, and I started working at Hampden, Doug was retired and living quietly with May. We saw very little of each other, especially since Doug had quit drinking, and I think May saw me as a potential “bad influence” for Doug, which, truth be told, was probably true.

One day, upon returning from a week on Martha’s Vineyard with friends, I learned that Doug had died and his funeral had come and gone. His daughters called me, just as I entered my home and suggested that I come over for a quick reunion. I was exhausted from a week of reverie with my friends, so I declined. I have always felt bad about that. I hadn’t seen the three girls in years, and I haven’t seen any of them since. But over the years, I realize that I have another regret, even more powerful. Somehow, I let Doug go to his great reward – and I never got to tell him just how much I loved him. Well, if there is a God in heaven, he knows. He knows.