By Linda Ibbitson Hurd
Special to the Express
When I was eight years old, a new family moved to Hanson at the very end of Elm Street where it turns onto Hudson Street. They were from Hingham and moved into a big two story post and beam colonial house that had been owned by a doctor at one time.
I boarded the school bus one morning and noticed a new girl sitting with two of my friends. They were smiling at me when I sat in the seat behind them and I wondered why, when one of them turned to me, pointing to the new girl, and said, “Linda, meet Linda”. I realized then why they were grinning. Linda and I exchanged grins and hellos. As time went on, we got to know each other and became not only fast friends but life long ones.
Linda was the youngest of six. Two sisters still lived at home, the other two and her brother were married with families. Her mother, Minnie, was a registered nurse. Her father was Lou Brouillard, one of the first professional fighters to win both the welterweight and middleweight World titles and was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame. The local boys tried to date or make friends with the sisters so they could meet their father. I felt honored to meet him myself; he was a quiet, modest man with a good sense of humor.
The first time I was invited to Linda’s, I was impressed. The circular driveway went from the red brick walk that led to the front door, to a two story barn on the far right with a field beyond. There was a kennel for boarding dogs between the house and the barn with a gate that led to the backyard. Their dogs of choice were golden retrievers; I met and loved theirs right away.Her name was Molly.
When Linda and her sister Judy had friends over for the first time, they held an initiation. They brought me upstairs, blindfolded me and directed me to crawl around in what felt like storage space in the eaves. I was told to keep moving and to not touch the blindfold. Suddenly I felt fur underneath me. I kept going until I felt what I thought was a head and I screamed and ripped off the blindfold. I was on a big black bear rug and beside it was a white one, also with a head. We were laughing as I looked around at a very nice room with knotty pine walls and a long cushioned window seat.
Before I left that first day, I met Linda’s grandfather, Joe. He was her mother’s dad and they were from England. He had a workshop on the top floor of the barn where he made beautiful things out of wrought iron. He had also helped her father in his boxing career. I remember him as a good-natured man who almost always had a smile on his face and in his eyes.
During the next few years Linda and I had many good times. One winter during February vacation, we had gone ice skating. Grampa Joe met us as we came in the back door to hang up our coats and skates, telling us he had hotdogs, beans and cocoa warming in the dutch oven in the living room fireplace and a fire going so we could warm ourselves. He sat in his chair entertaining us with stories about growing up in England while we sat on a warm braided rug on the floor beside him. Eventually he fell asleep. Linda’s parents weren’t home and neither were her sisters. She looked at me and gestured for me to follow her.
She led me into one of the front rooms that was a spare bedroom and quietly shut the door. She asked me if I remembered asking her what a post and beam house was and that one day she’d show me. I nodded yes. She opened the closet door, reached for the four-foot ladder inside, climbed up and pushed a board at the top of the closet away. I realized I was looking up at the inner structure of the house. “Be quieter than quiet”, she whispered, as up she went and I followed.
I found it hard to keep quiet as we climbed. I likened it to a huge jungle gym with it’s vertical timbers and horizontal hand-hewn beams. Linda was on one side of the structure, I on the other as we kept climbing and exploring, until we heard a voice. “You both come down here, slowly!” “Okay Gramp”, Linda shouted down.
He was waiting for us at the closet door. He didn’t raise his voice but was very stern when he looked at us, saying, “This won’t happen again and we’ll never speak of it, agreed?” In unison, we said yes. He looked weary as he said goodnight and that he’d see us in the morning.
The next morning when we came downstairs for breakfast, Linda’s parents and sisters were up and Grampa Joe had just finished eating. He smiled when he saw us and said, “Sometimes all a body needs is a little sleep.” When he got up to leave he gave us each a nod on the way out. Everything was back to normal.
When summer came that year, we explored the woods near Linda’s house looking for an Indian burial ground that our sixth grade history teacher told us was supposed to be in that area. One hot, humid day we were walking across the driveway and as we passed by the corner of the barn, I noticed rocks that looked like they had been part of a building. Linda said when the house and barn were built there had been a carriage house there. I noticed a door that was slightly opened and pointed it out. “Oh my gosh, the tunnel, I forgot all about the tunnel, follow me.” When she opened the door I realized it was the cellar underneath the barn. “This is usually locked”, she said, “No one is supposed to be in here, it’s dad and Gramp’s workshop.” When we went in, there were stationary drill presses, lathes and saws. We walked past them until we came to a dark opening. It was a tunnel.
We rushed to the house to look for a flashlight, to no avail, grabbed a book of matches, ran back to the tunnel and started walking. The dirt floor was solid and we were surprised there was no trash or clutter other than an occasional stick, some paper, a few mouse remains and no graffiti. We were determined to find the end to see where it came out. There were places we felt fear, even danger. We had no doubt this had been a tunnel to hide and help keep slaves and possibly others, safe. It got darker in the tunnel and we both lit matches. They went out. We lit two more. They went out again. We realized we were were running out of oxygen. We turned around and headed back, dying of thirst.
We knew we were getting closer to the entrance of the tunnel when it became easier to breathe. We heard someone yelling, “I can see them, they’re okay!” Linda’s sister Joan helped us the rest of the way out.
Linda’s mother gave us water, telling us to take small sips. When we were back in the house Linda’s mother looked at us, “I was just about ready to call the fire department when Joan saw you in the tunnel. What do you have to say for yourselves?”
Linda and I looked at one another. I could see her thinking.“I’m glad we did this, we could feel a little bit what it felt like for those people and I’m proud of our house and the owner during the Civil War who helped people.” Linda’s mother said with a smile, “you’re saved by depth of thought. Can you both guarantee me a stress-free rest of the summer? ”
Everyone laughed when we said yes.