Bela and Stella

I have fond memories of visiting Bela and Stella's home at Locust Lawn. Inside a small run-down barn, they had created a cozy and beautiful home, and they welcomed us --little girls from down the hill-- cheerfully. Bela was Hungarian; his wife was German.

I wish now that I knew more about how they came to Danvers and what their lives were like as they became American citizens and moved on to raise a family elsewhere. My role in their story was short-term, yet significant, said Stella, who credited me with helping her learn English. I do know that they were D.P.s (Displaced Persons) sponsored by my grandfather after World War II. Today I found this webpage that provides some context: Displaced Person Transports: Cargo of Hope (American Merchant Marine at War, www.usmm.org).

[Note added 12/09: see my December column, New inhabitants in an old barn, about my experience visiting Stella and Bela.]

Granddaddy's yard

I now attend a weekly writing class called "Fun with Writing" at the local Senior Center. Recently we chose to write about childhood games we remember. I wrote about Kick-the-Can, an active game played in summer evenings with my family. We always played it in the yard next door, where my grandparents lived. Granddaddy Nichols was a good sport and often joined the game. How lucky I was to have Granddaddy next door! Visualizing those games of Kick-the-Can helped me visualize his house, driveway, and garage, and the little playhouse he built for us. For this month's column, I wrote about playing at Granddaddy's: "Playing at Granddaddy's was great." 

Here's the version I read at writing class:  

Playing at Granddaddy's

By Sandy Nichols Ward

What fun it was to have Granddaddy Nichols living right next door! When Jean and I were young, he built a playhouse in his backyard just for us. It had one window looking out on the hayfield beyond his yard. There was room inside for a small table and two little chairs. The side walls each had a hinged section of boards we could prop open, adding "window" space and allowing breezes to flow through. We spent many hours in and around that playhouse. Sometimes it was a doll house, sometimes a fort as we fought off imaginary invaders; sometimes it was a clubhouse with our neighborhood friends. The playhouse was also a handy hiding place during games of Kick-the-Can.

On summer evenings after supper, adults and children would gather at Granddaddy's for the popular game of Kick-the-Can, a variant of hide-and-seek. An old tin can was placed in the center of a chalked circle on the driveway. The person who was "It" tried to guard the can while also running around looking for hidden players and calling out the names of people who were spotted. "Sandy, I see you!" Oops… I'd have to come out of hiding and stand as a captive in the central area -- at least until someone rushed out of hiding to kick that can and release me and any other captives. While the It was busy retrieving the kicked can, we'd all have a chance to hide again. This was serious fun, with much running and team work. Captives would try to signal to friends when it was safe to come kick the can. The It would of course try to spot (and call out to capture) anyone who approached the can.

There were many ideal hiding places from which we could peek out and see the central area. The overgrown evergreens along the sunporch provided a dark narrow space where several friends could hide at once. The hedge along the garden was another one, though that vegetation wasn't quite thick enough to conceal us entirely. The big buildings --the house and garage-- were also in the game, as you could run all the way around the back of each, though it was hard to keep track of what was happening at the can if you got so far away.

Everyone could play Kick-the-Can. We usually had three generations actively involved: Granddaddy, my mother and father, and my sister and I, as well as neighborhood friends such as Ray, Gordon and Janet. Sometimes cousin Bill or other relatives joined in. We'd play until the daylight dimmed or the mosquitoes bothered us. Good fun for all ages.

Another outdoor game was croquet.This was played primarily by the older generations --my great aunts and grandparents and their friends-- on the front yard. I didn't think it was as much fun as Kick-the-Can, perhaps because I lacked the skill to hit a croquet ball accurately and powerfully enough to get through each wicket on the first try.

My parents loved active outdoor games. They believed we should play outside on sunny days. If Jean and I were indoors engrossed in one of our favorite card games such as Go Fish, Mommy would shoo us out of the house. "Go outside and play!" We'd stuff the cards in our pockets and run over to Granddaddy's, where we could resume our card game undisturbed in his big garage! We enjoyed the cool expanse of concrete on which we could spread out our cards or other games, shaded from the sun. I don't know if Mommy ever figured this out. She knew we were safe next door, so she never needed to come check on us. She'd ring a bell when it was time for us to come home for a meal.

African guest

In August 1962 a young man from Africa arrived in Danvers as a guest of our family. He was on his way to Bowdoin College, but first he spent a month "homestay" with an American family (us) to get used to American customs. I've written about this special guest for this month's column: A guest from Africa becomes family. 

Onye and Jean, 1976

My sister Jean was the one who oriented Onye to Danvers. She had her drivers license and drove him around during the days while our parents worked. [At right see Onye and Jean years later, in 1976, standing in the sunken garden in Danvers.]

I was away the summer of 1962 working as a chambermaid at the Oceanic Hotel on Star Island, off the coast of Portsmouth, N.H. Onye made one boat trip out to Star to meet me. He was favorably impressed with the place and applied to work there the next summer. We worked there together in 1963.

This summer I returned to the Oceanic Hotel to attend a week-long conference, and I took a "behind-the-scenes" tour. One wall in the employee area is today covered with old photos of past summers --including a group shot from 1963, in which Onye and I appear!
Below is a more recent photo of us, taken in 2004:

Onye and Sandy, 2004

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Remembering Danvers

7/29/09  (published in Danvers Herald in August 2009)

A guest from Africa becomes family

by Sandy Nichols Ward

"Sun without heat!" exclaimed Onyeonoro Kamanu as he stood on our front lawn in Danvers, looking up at the August sky with a puzzled expression. Onye had just arrived from Lagos, Nigeria.   He was a young scholar about to attend an American college under the African Scholarship Program of American Universities (ASPAU). My parents had signed up with ASPAU to host a student for a "one-month home stay" designed to acquaint African students with American family life and customs.   

My mother was eager to share the bounty from her garden and to show Onye the plants from which our food came. This was a mistake in one instance.  Had she simply served the home-made rhubarb dessert, he might have enjoyed it, or at least tasted it.  But she made a point of showing him the large plant from which the rhubarb stalks came.  Onye then would not touch the dessert; his mother had taught him to avoid that poisonous plant!  Of course, both mothers were right: rhubarb leaves are poisonous, only the stalks are edible.

Onye thought our food was bland.  He often added hot pepper flakes from a jar he kept handy.  We were astonished that he added these to almost every dish.  My father tried to join him one day, adding a few of Onye's flakes to ice cream, figuring that ice cream was good under any circumstances.  But the hot pepper was too much for my father.

I'm sure Onye learned much from us, but we also learned much from him. My sister and I learned to dance to the Highlife records he had brought with him. Onye came from a large city and was in many ways more sophisticated and world-wise than we were. We lived a country lifestyle in north Danvers surrounded by woods and fields. He valued cities, while we valued nature. He dreamed of going to beautiful places in America, like Los Angeles! We tended to avoid cities, rarely going even to Boston. He wanted to go to a university he had heard of, but his ASPAU scholarship was for Bowdoin College, in Maine, of all places. He feared the winter cold and the isolation of such a place. I responded by knitting him a big green sweater that was thick and warm. He wore the sweater often, and graduated from Bowdoin in three years. He stayed in New England a few more years, earning a doctoral degree from the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University. Obviously he adapted to the world of sun without heat.   

We accepted Onye as part of our extended family. Our guest room became "Onye's room" as he came home to join us each holiday and vacation period for many years. One summer he and I worked together at Oceanic Hotel on the Isles of Shoals. When Onye married in 1966, my parents stood in the church with him as parents of the groom. (His original parents were no longer living.) My mother, the letter-writer in the family, maintained contact with Onye and Lillie for years. When my mother died in 1976, Onye returned to Danvers for her memorial service. Unfortunately, for the next 25 years, we lost track of each other as we each changed addresses and were busy raising children. In early 2001 a chance encounter with a Nigerian visitor at the college where I was working prompted me to speak of Onye and ask if this man had heard of him. Yes, he and his wife had recently had dinner with Onye and Lillie! Within hours Lillie responded to my email, saying that Onye would be sad to have missed me; he had just flown from Boston to Nigeria! A few months later Onye, Lillie and I arranged a joyful reunion and resolved not to lose contact again. In 2006 my sister and I traveled overseas for the wedding of their eldest daughter. Onye's family and friends welcomed us warmly. We, the "American sisters," were happy to be with our "African brother" again.