The three-story (if you counted the attic) house at 21 School St. in Bridgewater, in eastern Massachusetts, was a large Victorian. Long windows flanked an impressive front door. The walkway from the street led to a wraparound porch. But, to get to my rented room, you had to walk around the back. Here was a very small wooden two-story building that, if you didn’t know any better, appeared to be just glued to the back wall of the larger house. At one time, were these servant quarters?

I was 17 when I moved there, and being 17, I had no interest at all in knowing the history of this house. History, to me then, was the last year when I graduated from my high school in western Massachusetts. Now, at age 70, I would undoubtedly delve into a huge research project. Such would be my curiosity at this older age.

***

The door at street level was always locked — after all, three young women lived here alone on the second floor. A visitor had to ring an outside bell and then a buzzer would go off in my room. I had the room that overlooked the stoop. Teri had the middle room and Robin had the back room. So, when the buzzer sounded, you had to go into my room, kneel on my bed, and look down below through my window.

We had one shared bathroom and a small kitchenette with a full-size refrigerator, a few shelves that held plates, cups and glasses, and one counter with a hot plate and a coffee percolator.

No cabinets, no drawers. There weren’t coffeemakers or microwaves then. A small round table with three mismatched chairs sat in the center of this space. All three of us had a meal ticket for the school cafeteria just down the hill. All three of us were promised dormitory space for the next semester. Through no fault of our own — we had all been accepted early — the college had run out of rooms.

The walls of our three bedrooms and this area were covered in very old, faded and peeling wallpaper. The floors throughout this entire level were chipped linoleum. The ceiling was not a ceiling, just exposed wooden rafters. On the first floor were two large doors on hinges that swung open. This was just basically a large shed for tools and groundskeeping equipment.

***

Autumn 1972, late afternoon, and I am in my room studying. I can smell the earthy, musty, slightly sweet aroma of the fallen leaves. I can hear feet crunching these leaves as people walk down the hill to the college campus. I hear a car. I hear the buzzer ring and when I kneel on my bed and look down through my open window, I see my Uncle David, who is wearing his National Guard uniform.

He looks up and waves and I say, “Uncle David, what are you doing here?” But, before he can answer, I jump off my bed and run down the stairs and unlock the street-level door. The entrance is so tight that I need to back up onto the stairs for my uncle to be able to come in and follow me up these narrow wooden steps that creak at every footfall.

At the top of the stairs, he looks around before sitting at one of those kitchen chairs and before he says anything else, he barks out, “What the hell, this is a firetrap.” I grimace and shrug my shoulders. Then he says, “I can’t believe my baby niece lives here. Come on, let’s get out of here, I’m taking you to dinner.”

At the restaurant they serve each party, no matter what you order, your own individual homemade loaf of bread on a wooden cutting board. I am 17 years old; he is 34 years old.

“Uncle David, what are you doing here?” I had asked him and find out that he had just finished some weekend maneuvers at a nearby eastern Massachusetts Army base. After this dinner, he will be returning back home to western Massachusetts.

He repeats, “I cannot believe that my little niece is living in that firetrap.”

“Oh, Uncle David,” I said. “It won’t be forever.”

My uncle died on Christmas Day 2024, at 4 in the afternoon.

Barbara A. Rouillard of Springfield is an award-winning writer with over 85 publishing credits. A public high school teacher for over 31 years, she retired in 2015. Ms. Rouillard is fluent in French and a politically active member of her community.