Trip the light fantastic

Yeah, yesterday's BIG old house move was as--Alan Root points out in this morning's crusty Gazette--probably the most photographed event in town history (although he failed to mention it was also the fastest dissemination of event photos via three local blogs). But over the course of the next three weeks, this modern house on Whippletree Lane will garner its share of shutter bugs. Kira loves it. And they donate money to a great cause: Shriners Childrens Hospital.

Mission (mostly) Accomplished

So by noon it was done. The house and garage sat like beached whales on the slope of the hill to their new home. Tomorrow they will slog their way up the hill and the old house will be set on its new foundation.

Turning the corner in town center was the fun part. They sat there for a bit, probably for dramatic effect, then chugged down Main Street. The truck is military surplus having served in the 1'st Gulf War pulling tanks out of sand dunes. Fortunately nobody told Amherst Town Meeting that before the move.

The Dickinson Homestead was the only structure to lose power and telephones, sending it temporarily back in time to when Miss Emily whiled away the hours in her upstairs room.

Selectman Kusner risks life and limb to get the shot.

A combined effort of Police, DPW, power and phone companies came together to make it happen (Yes, the developer covered those costs)

Developer Barry Roberts is also a proud grandfather.

Gentlemen, start your engines

The garage is on the road and the house is starting to move.

Let's make a deal

When it comes to horse-trading those Vermonters surpass us country bumpkins. Take the new five-year Payment in Lieu of Taxes deal just signed between Burlington and the University of Vermont, as compared to our miserly “strategic agreement” with Umass, Amherst.

This year the University of Vermont will pay host city Burlington $456,000; next year $600,000 and $912,000 in 2010 simply for fire protection. The agreement also calls for a closer working relationship between the police forces of the city and University that may result in joint patrols of neighborhoods bordering the University.

The pact also generates additional payments of $180,000 for public works impacts.

Thus, in 2010 the University of Vermont (9,000 undergrads, 1,350 grad students) will pay Burlington (population 39,000 with one-third of all property tax exempt) $1,100,000 over TWICE what the University of Massachusetts (20,000 undergrads, 5,000 grad students) will pay Amherst (population 34,000, with one-half of all property tax exempt).

Of course Burlington, although not much bigger than the People’s Republic of Amherst, is a city with a more efficient Mayor/Council form of government. And when it comes to negotiations, a Mayor makes all the difference.

A Million Here, A Million There.

So I go away for a day and look what happens. The crusty Gazette, finally, publishes the expose about how much superfluous money the Regional school had in last year’s $26 budget: ONE MILLION DOLLARS. Yikes! Naturally they hurriedly went Christmas shopping and spent half of it on “unanticipated spending.”

The highly paid director of finance Robert Detweiler gets the “duh!” award for his preemptive spin explaining that it doesn’t mean the schools are in any better shape going into this year’s budget season. Yeah, I guess you would say that whey your mantra mimics a five-year-old’s “gimme, gimme, gimme.”

Last May 1’st voters turned down 53% to 47% a $2.5 million Override where the diffident Finance Committee had come up with ‘The Amherst Plan’ (as opposed to the ‘Peoples Republic of China Plan’) that called for only $1 million used this fiscal year and the extra spread out over the next two years.

Thus, last year when town officials wanted taxpayers to dip into their savings accounts to give them an extra $2.5 million, the town municipal budget had $4 million in reserves, the Regional High School had $1.5 million and the Regional budget approved was $1 million too much. Hmmm...

And yet this year the Middle School Pool was closed to town folks because the town Manager did not want to pay the schools $40,000 upkeep.

If the Regional school alone (and the Regional AND Elementary schools are about 60% of Amherst’s total budget) had ONE MILLION DOLLARS left over in FY07 what does that say about the supposed extra one million they said we needed for the entire municipal/schools budget this fiscal year?

11/22: That other awful day

The ornate condolence certificate, autographed by the President, arrived two months after the sudden death of my father—a combat veteran who helped overthrow the Japanese in the Philippines but never discussed it with any of his four inquisitive children.

That letter brought radiance into our home on an otherwise dreary late November day.

So, suddenly transformed into a proud 8-year-old, I pestered my mother for the honor of bringing the document to school the following day. My pragmatic Irish mother denied the request--worried I could lose or damage the precious parchment.

Friday began as unremarkable as a hundred before: Morning prayers chanted effortlessly, the Pledge of Allegiance parroted as we stood with our right hands over our hearts facing an American flag.

I was having trouble concentrating on the curriculum, typical for a Friday when the weekend beckoned. But this time all I could think about was a letter that had arrived just yesterday from a revered man who could have met my father less than a generation ago.

With only an hour of captivity remaining, a high-school boy suddenly entered from the right door bearing a message. Snatching the note from his hand the nun appeared almost angry at the interruption. I could, however, see her face suddenly turn white—matching the mask-like habit all ‘Sisters of St. Joseph’ wore.

She crumpled the memo with one hand while reaching back to grab her desk with the other, slumping as though absorbing a blow from a heavyweight boxer. With a trembling voice she said, “Please stand.” Although puzzled, we responded immediately.

“Now extend your arms sideway, shoulder high, and hold them there,” she said still struggling to gain control. So there we stood, 26 of us, rooted near our desks like cemetery crosses wondering, as our shoulders started to ache, what could possible cause such a break in routine?

She regained the commanding voice of authority to announce, “President Kennedy has just been shot” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she concluded, “He needs our prayers.”

At St. Michael’s school in the year of our Lord 1963, President John F. Kennedy was fourth on the list of most beloved: just under the Holy Trinity and tied with Pope John. And in my home he was tied for second with St. Patrick just under my recently deceased father.

The big yellow bus rumbled back to Amherst with an interior as quiet as a crypt. The astonishing event blurred short-term memory like one too many drinks. I began to question whether the letter from the now martyred leader was actually real, or did I simply imagine it?

Bursting thru the front door I quickly spied the prized possession lying on a cluttered kitchen table. With relief and reverence I held it aloft, taking in the brilliant gold calligraphy etched on a pure white background: “It is with deepest sympathy…”

A feeling the entire nation now shared.

A Thanksgiving Story

Only in Arlington would posing for the greatest illustrator in American history on assignment for media juggernaut The Saturday Evening Post pass for routine.

Richard (Dick) Hagelberg returned to the family dairy farm after surviving five years in the 9’th Army Air Corps, flying 65 treacherous daylight bombings missions over Europe, including D-Day.

One summer morning he sat beside his 51-year-old mother Saara (Finnish spelling) for an hour of modeling; and two generations later, the scene still resonates.

Rockwell desperately recruited the Hagelberg’s at deadline. Initially they refused, but acquiesced when he offered them each $15. After publication, as he often did with models, Rockwell offered to gift Dick the original painting. He respectfully refused.

Last year Rockwell’s ‘Homecoming Marine’ sold at auction for $9.2 million and ‘Breaking Home Ties’ (a farmer sitting on the running board of a pick up truck with his son dressed in Sunday best clothes heading off to college) brought an astonishing $15.4 million.

Rockwell’s 1943 ‘Freedom from Want’, an extended family gathering around a sumptuous turkey dinner, would prove more popular than the minimalist “Thanksgiving, 1945: A mother and son peeling potatoes.”

But the earlier Post cover had a distinct advantage.



Part of Rockwell’s public relations war effort, the epic series of illustrations based on FDR’s 1941 State of the Union speech, ‘The Four Freedoms’ heartened a battered America still reeling from Pearl Harbor’s infamy.

The US Government originally rebuffed Rockwell’s sponsorship proposal so he settled on his regular employer, The Saturday Evening Post. The blockbuster results appeared over four consecutive weekly covers from February 20 to March 13, 1943.

‘Freedom From Want” hit the stands on March 6, 1943, so unlike ‘A mother and son peeling potatoes’ that appeared on November 24’th, 1945, it was not simply a seasonal Thanksgiving tribute.

The Office of War Information printed and distributed millions of full-color reproductions of the ‘The Four Freedoms’ and sponsored the originals on a War Bond Tour of major cities that raised $130 million.

Americans adored ‘Freedom from want’; but with Europe in ruins our struggling and beaten allies didn’t want a reminder that America’s heartland escaped war’s devastation.

For his Thanksgiving, 1945 cover Rockwell journeyed to Maine for a change in scenery, starting work in mid-August--the day Japan surrendered.

Rockwell drafted a 16-year-old boy for the veteran and a friend’s wife acted as his mother. When the illustrator returned to his Arlington studio he couldn’t make it work—the young man didn’t exude the stress of war.

Rockwell recruited two more locals but once again didn’t like the results, considering it too staged. Fortuitously, Dick, recently returned from battle, arrived to deliver milk fresh from the nearby Hagelberg farm. The illustrator had his subjects.

Rockwell originally posed Dick in a wheelchair striking a pensive pose imitating Rodan’s ‘The Thinker’, but decided it was too sad. The selected scene is still slightly incongruous, as Dick is performing one of the military’s more despised chores—KP duty—yet he radiates contentment.

Saara Hagelberg’s loving expression—the look only a mother can give—to a son who survived the ravages of a conflict that had claimed so many sons, personifies Thanksgiving.

Rockwell rejoiced: this time the handsome young man had weathered the misery of war; this time his real mother sits by his side.

So why refuse to accept the original painting? Rockwell, as he often did with models, took liberties with Saara adding twenty pounds and twenty years to her appearance. In fact, Hallmark later used her Thanksgiving image for an “I love you Grandma” card.

The dutiful son knew his mother—although proud of the overall result—was mad.

Saara Hagelberg died of cancer only two years later, a few months before the birth of her first grandchild. By then a priest had purchased the painting and he donated it to an American Legion Post in Winchendon, Massachusetts.

A Rockwell Museum expert rediscovered Thanksgiving, 1945 in the late 1970’s; aghast it hung in a smoke filled building with no fire suppression. The Museum borrowed it, where it remains to this day.

In 1988 the Hagelberg family returned from Stockbridge, Massachusetts disappointed the painting was not on display.

In an apology letter curator Maureen Hart Hennessey explained, “The museum has almost 500 paintings in its collection and can only exhibit 40-50 at one time. We also rotate paintings for conservation reasons to help preserve them for future generations.”

A few weeks later the Hagelberg’s enjoyed a private showing.

In 1993 Dick Hagelberg, after helping build a home for his daughter Nancy high on a hill overlooking the family farm that he also built, succumbed to cancer. His wife Olga, a proud WW2 Marine veteran, still lives in that home in Arlington, Vermont.



And lately, even around Thanksgiving, she briefly struggles…but then vividly recalls—keeping alive those magnificent memories.