Straddling The Centuries

My first encounter with Union Station was in November. As a freshman still learning the ropes, I was exploring all of my transportation options to get home to the greater Boston area. For Thanksgiving break, I took the MBTA Commuter Rail, which conveniently leaves Worcester from Union Station.

Leaving from Holy Cross in a SGA shuttle, I headed up Southbridge Street and passed through the typical knitty-gritty industrial areas of South Worcester: old factories, train tracks, sand and coal deposits, and auto supply warehouses. After a sharp right turn and a pass around a tight rotary, I arrived at the Union Station driveway. I shuffled out of the SGA van, nearly colliding with an oncoming taxi. I caught a whiff of city smoke, which was a mix of wood, oil, and chemicals, on a late November evening. The station’s two domes stood tall: the left side held an American flag, and on the right side flew a Massachusetts state flag.

I stepped inside to a large rectangular room that was completely empty of people and furniture, sporting only a few benches along the sides. A restaurant sat on one end of the hall, with restrooms on the other. The black moldings on the windows and doors clashed with the white walls to create the feel of a refurbished old style. The domed ceiling alternated between stained glass windows and multi-light chandeliers. Intricate molding lined the walls above the doors and windows, culminating in stalky pillars to hang simple light fixtures. The hollowness produced no sound; only a high pitch rang through my ears. Despite how worn-down the soles of my sneakers were, I squeaked as I traversed the spotless tile floor.

I continued into the next room, which is a smaller version of the grand entryway. A line of ticket windows sat off to the left, and stairs leading to the train terminal lay straight ahead. I purchased my ticket from a smiling woman with a “T” on her polo shirt, and trudged up the stairs. As I waited for the train, a mix of students headed home for the holiday, young professionals, middle-aged travelers, and children with parents surrounded me. It was dark by the time the train departed; all I saw out the train windows was the blur of city lights whizzing by my stationary window.

I returned to Union Station this month to get a closer look and to snap some pictures. Within seconds of my flash going off inside the station, a security guard approached me to warn that cameras aren’t allowed inside the station. I quickly snapped a few more before he escorted me out, giving a short rundown on the building’s history. Between 1975 and 2000, the station was abandoned and not in use. It was redeveloped twelve years ago as a much needed train and bus port. Nonetheless, Union Station’s history stretches much further back: the original was built in 1875 in the beginning of the railroad boom. In 1911, a new station, the one whose foundation exists to this day, was built to accommodate the growing masses of immigrants traveling out from Boston. I was particularly interested to learn that the main room, which formerly served as the terminal, is now used for weddings and other functions.

Once I reached the outside, I took a step back to appreciate the station’s history. While much of Worcester seems to be caught between modern times and industrial times, as the clash between the sparse skyscrapers and the abandoned factories shows, Union Station represents a harmony between the two eras. It serves as a useful and attractive transportation hub, while maintaining the style of the old Worcester. I was proud to see a living and breathing piece of the city’s history.

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Cracking Country on Chandler Street

After brief visits to the DCU Center and the Hanover Theatre, we were at a loss as to where to go next. Teddie pointed the car down Main Street and we continued on. Because she was a native of Worcester, we leaned on her for advice: “where should we go next?” I asked. We were stopped at a red light, and Teddie noticed the street sign. “Oh, Chandler Street!” she exclaimed; we took a quick right and began our journey.

Teddie informed us that the area around Chandler Street is not one of Worcester’s safest, so we came to the conclusion that we should roll down the windows and blast country music on the radio. While the music attracted no more than just wry stares of passersby, it opened us up to the outside environment.

Mixed buildings lined the street. A perfectly preserved five story brick building, straight out of the late twentieth century and complete with a mix of red, green and yellow facets, stood alongside run-down and abandoned storefronts. Polished BMWs pulled out of parking lots into traffic of old Toyota Corollas and Honda Civics, showing the neighborhood’s diversity. An ambulance blared by us, not even waiting for cars to pull over; the vehicle’s siren stung my ears like a child bawling at the top of his lungs.

As we stopped at another red light, cigarette smoke drifted into the car. Latino music blared over Craig Morgan’s voice, mixed with the shouts of men arguing on the street and a woman scolding her children. Car horns shrieked as near accidents were avoided: a white Chevy Lumnia with no hubcaps skidded into the middle of the intersection, nearly blowing through the red light and colliding with incoming traffic. A young woman strung her guitar on a street corner, and I winced as each chord was like the purring of a dying cat.

Ken Jones’ Tire Supply, Worcester House of Pizza, and Kirsch Liquors were some of the drag’s main attractions. Taking advantage of the unseasonably warm temperatures, an old man sat outside the Liquor store on a beach chair, arms folded across his chest as he observed. A woman pushed a shopping cart, full of cereal boxes, blankets, and newspapers; she leaned on the handle as her life support.

As we approached Park Street, where we would turn off to our next destination, I realized that Chandler Street is the epitome of a diverse city like Worcester. One could not imagine the collection of people and what they are doing at any second. While country music might not be a first choice of music for many of the neighborhood’s residents, we fit right in as Blake Shelton screamed his final notes out our windows.

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Bramble-ing and Entering

“Lift it up, c’mon before the police see us,” I said as we drove our Ford Focus under a private property sign that blocked (was intended to block) a long driveway. “Are you sure this is the right place? What if it’s not the mansion?” I asked afraid that we were travelling up someone’s actual driveway. If I were a cartoon character, I would be Chicken Little. We continued up the winding driveway past fallen trees and ruptured bags of trash, until we reached a sheet of solid snow. We decided to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way up the hill. Sperrys weren’t exactly the best choice of shoes for a short trek through the snow, but I continued up the hill until we finally reached a clearing.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the mammoth structure on the left. Overgrown shrubs covered most of thefirst floor, so we moved closer, crunching fallen twigs. From a closer vantage point we not only noticed the deplorable condition of the mansion, but also the many security cameras that festooned its side. I turned to my right and noticed more structures: a carriage house, shed, and guesthouse. All of these structures were modeled after the main house and were in the same state of disrepair. After a couple of minutes of roaming around trying to avoid looking up at the security cameras, we decided it would be best to leave. I figured that a conviction for trespassing would be an inauspicious start to my college career. On our walk back, we noticed a black bag filled with empty beer cans.

Deciding that we might as well have a little fun while we were breaking the law, we slid down the snow back to the car and reversed our way down the driveway, under the private property sign and back onto the street…The sign in front read “Bramble Hill,” and after some research I learned that this mansion once belonged to Milton and Alice Higgins who were monumental in the educational and cultural life of Worcester. The property, which was once one of Worcester’s greatest estates was purchased by a private company and has been vacant since 2007. The property is for sale, but due to the difficult real estate market, there is a fear that the property could be destroyed. The compound is listed on Preservation Worcester’s “Endangered Structures List” in hopes that the community will be able to preserve this important peace of Worcester’s history.


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Ban-THE-WEED-croft Tower

As it turns out, no, the Bancroft Tower was not a 500-year-old forgotten remnant of a beautiful, enchanted castle, but rather the Bancroft Tower was erected in 1900 in memory of the “worcestonian” George Bancroft. As my foot slid over the oh so sophisticated plaque made for good old George, I could just feel the history, can’t you?

As the four of us spilled out of the car, we joked and chatted (as rowdy college freshman) do until we stood a mere 10 feet away from the structure. The all too familiar gust of hilltop wind poured over us as we raised our chins to the sky and observed the gothic, 56 foot tower hovering above us. Wow. No really, wow. I pushed through the bullying air until I could reach my arm out and touch it. I cupped my hand around the dry stone and felt the cracks and bumps sandpaper my hand, like a piece of Dad’s old wood. The weathered stone left small bits of sand about my palm and I brushed it off against my pant leg. As the wind gusted again, the surrounding trees giggled at us. I looked up again. Goose-bumps sprinted up my back and down my arms and legs. It was hard to tell if the goose bumps came from the wind, or the intimidation of a relatively creepy looking 56-foot tower standing over me. It was like I was thrown into some gothic novel; I was Jane Eyre standing outside Mr. Rochester’s mansion.

Under the arch of the tower, you could just barely sneak a look through the shadowed windows. The windows and doors of the tower were adorned with locks, doors, bars, rocks…. name a barricade, Worcester put it there. While leaning forward on my tiptoes over the windows sill, all of a sudden the faint scent of marijuana and beer crept up my nose. I was no longer standing outside the mansion of sir Mr. Rochester… I was standing by the keg at 138 College Street, the Holy Cross baseball house. The smell of college houses left the taste of cheap beer in my mouth. The taste triggered a memory of my high school visits to the Bancroft Tower. . As a high school student of Worcester, when you get your license the “cool” thing to do was to drive up to the Bancroft Tower at night. Bring a beer, bring you friends, bring pot, bring your crush. It was the spot where newly licensed 16 year olds had their first sip of beer, it was the party spot, the smoking spot, the make out spot, the spot teenagers lose their virginities, the drug dealing spot, the gay-sex meet up spot, the break up spot. By day, however, the tower was a place to walk your dog, to take a run, ride your bike, look over the city, have a picnic.  As I continued all the way through the arch and saw the inevitable beer cans scattered across the grass.

The Bancroft Tower, once built as a folly in the Salisbury Park for George Bancroft, is now owned by the locals of Worcester. It lies there waiting for the next biker, or pothead, or gay teenager in the closet.

Before we drove out, we decided to take a few funny shots.

Johnny climbed the tower!

I followed him, and we made it too the top!

Only kidding, there was another shorter seating area, which looked suspiciously identical to the top structure on the tower.

Gotcha didn’t I?

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The Not So Emergency Room

It was a quiet evening in Kimball dining hall when I noticed it was a little too quiet.  I couldn’t hear squat out of my left ear and I attributed it to water being lodged in my ear from my shower before dinner. The lack of hearing led me to attempt all the old tricks, jerking my head violently, jumping up and down on one foot with my head tilted, to no avail. My great sense of hearing had been taken for granted, and now that i was without it I was going nuts, and I had had enough. I plugged my nose, closed my mouth, and tried to use sheer pressure to get rid of the clog in my ear. ‘POP,’ I knew something had gone wrong as soon as it happened. Apparently your inner ear helps you maintain balance, and once my ear drum popped, I got vertigo and couldn’t see straight at all. I got light-headed and my ear started throbbing terribly. After a few hours and consulting my doctor back home, I found myself in a Public Safety car on my way to Umass Memorial Emergency Room. The awkwardness floating in that car was unbearable.  Not only could I barely hear what the lady officer was saying, but I could honestly care less at this point given my current physical state.  I arrived at the emergency room and scurried inside holding my ear for dear life because it felt like it was going to fall off. Each step was a challenge and my vision was skewed due to the ‘spinning’ effect, but I was determined to get through the ER doors to reach the holy grail of medical attention, so I thought.

As soon as I walked through the sliding doors, I saw a tacky ‘Welcome’ sign as if anyone working there was actually the least bit enthused to welcome yet another patient into their cramped emergency room.  I stumbled over to the triage while there was a loud ‘wooshing’ sound penetrating my ear as if I were holding a conch shell up to it.  I signed a few papers and then played the waiting game for 4 hours, yes, on a school night.  During those four hours I noticed the other patients getting increasingly irritated, most of whom had been there for longer than I had.  An elderly Spanish man writhed in pain gripping his leg as his frantic wife tried to calm him down.  A 25 year old guy sat quietly in the corner with his hood on and a large white towel wrapped around his hand.  An obese, old man tooled around in his wheelchair, truly pressing its limit as it squeaked and cried under the enormous weight of the man.  The weird, bald security guard sat at the front desk greeting and bidding farewells to incoming and outgoing nurses and doctors in the most annoyingly monotonous voice you could ever imagine.  These are the characters I watched closely for the whole visit more or less. There were no life-threatening cases so the emergency room staff was moseying around taking their sweet time.  One by one, the patients who stood out to me less were called in through the daunting double doors, and I soon enough I was left alone in the waiting room with baldy.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew it was 1 o’clock in the morning and the feminine male nurse was shouting my name from the double doors, and he sounded quite perturbed.  When I got up and walked over, the pain came back ten-fold and he had the nerve to ask me, “Did you not hear me calling your name?!” I replied, “Sorry I’ve been waiting here for 4 hours and I can’t hear shit.” We ended up laughing together and he apologized, quickly remembering I was the patient with the blown eardrum.  I sat in an examination room and a doctor hurried in as if I were the one to make his life so seemingly miserable.  He looked in my ear and told me I had perforated my tympanic membrane, (there was a hole ruptured in my eardrum).  I was told I could do nothing about it and I wouldn’t be able to hear much out of my left ear for at least a month.  Public safety picked me up and brought me back to campus, and unless I’m on the verge of death, you won’t find me going back to that emergency room any time soon.

'The end of the wait'

Take a number!

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yo yo mAHA

The smell of antiquated library books permeated the air and worked its way through my body. I resisted the urge to cover my generous sized nose. The dark red carpet below me traveled up the stairs and was lost in the dimly lit second floor. We cautiously walked (I can be clumsy) through the foyer past china cabinets filled with memorabilia from prior performances. “Welcome to Mechanics Hall” said a pudgy and quite humble looking man sporting a green sweater vest and khakis. He emerged from a back office and peered at the rag-tag four of us who were likely interrupting his day. “Hi,” I said, hesitating for a split second as I conjured up something clever to say to him. “We are from Holy Cross and we are writing a blog about Worcester. Is there any way we could take a look around and take some pictures,” I never do clever well. “Holy Cross, you say? I graduated in ’69,” he said. Pay dirt. My eyes lit up, as I contemplated how we could use this to our advantage. “Is there any chance that you can give us a tour of the building,” I asked, exuding Crusader pride. “Sure, why not,” he said and he motioned us up the stairs. Our ascent was short-lived, due to the elderly Crusader’s long-winded dissertation regarding what would be our first stop: Washburn Hall, which is located on the second floor. Washburn Hall was named after Ichabod Washburn who ran the world’s largest wire mill in the 1800s. This Hall is used for meetings and smaller functions that do not require a larger room.

We continued our ascent up yet another set of grand stairs to an ornate white door. I was standing there, waiting for my “AHA” moment (as Mutual of Omaha likes to call it) but to my surprise, I opened the door to a dark abyss. “Wait just one minute,” Mr. Kennedy fired off. After a quick walk to the back of the room, he flicked on the lights so we could revel in the halls beauty. The hall, grandiose in size, is layered with sumptuous paintings and decorative moldings. The rows of hundreds of red chairs led my eyes to the focal point of the room. The organ. The organ is a permanent fixture of the hall and has been used in recordings by many famous musicians, including Yo Yo Ma.

Just at the point that I thought the tour was over, Mr. Kennedy moved his hands together and clapped. “That is strange,” I thought to myself.. We all stood for a moment wondering if Mr. Kennedy had hit the bottle a little early that day, when it struck me. The sound of Mr. Kennedy’s single clap had reverberated throughout the Great Hall. “That is what is so special about this hall,” he said, “If only you could imagine a full orchestra performing.” “The hell with a full orchestra,” I thought to myself, “how about the Dave Matthews Band.” We all nodded in amazement. Just before I left the Great Hall, I thanked Mr. Kennedy, and took the opportunity to let loose one hellacious clap.

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