all over town for the last two days trying
to pick up someone from Newton but they haven't found
Proceeding towards Weston
Center we soon passed Uncle Charlie Fiske's house where we had our
Thanksgiving dinners and next to it the Unitarian
parsonage where Mr. Russell lived. I
used to be taken to church periodically but never understood what Mr.
Russell was talking about. Whether it was indistinct delivery or the use
of words which were too intellectual, I am
not sure; in any event I never got any spiritual uplift.
Mr. Russell's house once caught fire, completely demolishing
the third floor where he stored all his sermons in barrels. "Poor
Mr. Russell," my father sighed, as we drove past the charred
ruins, "what's he going to do now? Whenever he preaches a sermon he puts
it in one of those barrels and when the barrel's
full he turns it over and starts in again at the bottom."
The stone church, the library and the Jones house and barn
are all that remain of the Weston center of my childhood.
Several buildings were either moved away or demolished to
make room for the present town green — the harness shop, Cutting's
store, the old town hall, and the long row of carriage sheds that stood
across the street from the stone church.
The town fire engines were kept in the basement of the town
hall and the horses that drew them came from McAuliffe's
stable. It took so much time for the apparatus to get under way
that the chances of a building being saved depended on the ingenuity and
perseverance of the owners and their neighbors;
the firemen were on hand for finishing touches only.
My father was instrumental in organizing the fire department.