“Recollections of a Pittsfield Kid” is a series of vignettes exploring the author’s youthful days in the Osceola Park neighborhood of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, during the 1950s and early 1960s. At the time of these adventures, the author was between the ages of seven and 12.
Do you remember one of the biggest electrical power failures in history, which occurred November 9, 1965, when most of the northeastern United States was plunged into total darkness? Among other things, people got stuck in elevators, street lights didn’t shine, frozen foods liquefied and refrigerated foods were in danger of spoiling. But, let’s circle back to this later. I’ll take you now to Osceola Park in Pittsfield during the summer of 1961.
I grew up at Osceola Park in the late 1950s and early 1960s, when we had arts and crafts sessions, carrom and checker tournaments, costume days, and even archery classes. We had big elm trees to provide shade, and a water fountain to drink from. On any given day, there would be 30–40 neighborhood kids spending much of their day there. Fun and frivolity were always in vogue.
Getting called and cajoled to journey home for a meal was viewed as an annoying interruption that we reluctantly tended to. We gobbled down our food and drink faster than Clark Kent could change into his Superman costume and quickly returned to the Park.
We did submit to enjoying a certain type of food at the Park, though. This concession commenced when we heard a familiar jingle emanating from an ice cream truck at nearby Essex Street.
Everyday around 2 p.m., we would hear “Pop Goes the Weasel” or “Little Brown Jug” or “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.” We knew that the next stop would be Osceola Park. In the blink of an eye, several kids immediately scampered home to raid their piggy banks.
Our mom usually kept extra money in a Blessed Mother statue over the old clock near our cellar door for such important needs. Our hands grasped the various silver coins with great anticipation.
The Good Humor ice cream truck driver would park by the picnic table and soon be in the midst of a clamoring crowd of kids and neighbors. The colorful, vibrant names and pictures of his delectable offerings were plastered all over the outside of his truck. We could choose from: Orange Cream bars, Klondike bars, Push Ups, Banana Fudgsicles, Drum Sticks, Snow Cones, Buried Treasure sherbet, Sky Blue Pink popsicles, ice cream sandwiches, milk shakes, sundaes, and so on.
The demeanor of the “popsicle man” would transform from cheerful to exasperated because one kid might take too long to select his frozen delight or another kid wouldn’t ultimately have sufficient funds. Some kids would run home to get additional money and ask the driver to wait.
The driver never achieved the level of patience that Job exhibited during his biblical trials and tribulations. This chaotic scene would last for at least 60 minutes and then the disheveled and rather humorless man would pack up his truck and move on to the next park. He probably wondered if he should consider a different career path.
Let me now tell you about an unusual episode involving this man. One day in July, he arrived at Osceola Park when it was particularly hot. Something was amiss though and even Mother Natures’ creatures sensed it: the crows stopped crowing and the grasshoppers stopped hopping. The Park air held a taut feeling of trouble and even the ice cream truck’s merry music seemed muted.
The popsicle man seemed quite irritated and perplexed, and with a forced, drawn-out smile, he made a sudden and surprising announcement. “All of my products will be free of charge today. Come and get it,” he wanly blurted out.
This news seemed too good to be true, but we didn’t need to be asked twice. I can’t remember anyone not getting in line for the allotted two tasty delights per person (with an option to get back in line for any leftovers.) Even the neighborhood dogs and cats drew near, hoping for a treat, too. We promptly emptied his truck and salvaged everything with great fervor. Sheer joy enveloped the Park; this was akin to receiving manna from heaven.
Unfortunately, his electrical power generator had failed that July day. He asked us to help him out before he had a massive, melted, mess inside his freezers and the truck itself. This freak electrical failure may have portended what would happen on a huge scale four years later, but with a notable reversal in outcomes.
On November 9, 1965, the greater Northeast did endure a power loss, but in our 1961 calamity, Osceolians were instead niftily “empowered” by this real life “zero-sum” situation. What a delicious day it was for all of us.
