The Depression Years
Frank Bradbury rocked slowly back,
then forward, in the sturdy wooden chair that sat by the window in his small
kitchen. His right hand supported
the morning paper. His left gently
balanced a worn brown pipe in the corner of his mouth.
Generally, when in agreement with the words he read, only a thin trail of
smoke would drift skyward from the bowl of his pipe.
Today’s puffs, however, were far more pronounced as he scanned the
1929, inaugural address of Herbert Hoover.
“If we survey the situation of
our Nation at home and abroad, we find many satisfactions," stated the
president in his opening remarks. Frank
read on, finally issuing a giant cloud of smoke as the chief executive
concluded, “Ours is a land rich in resources:
happy homes; blessed with comfort and opportunity. In no nation are the
institutions of progress more advanced. In
no nation are the fruits of accomplishment more secure.”
The middle-aged father folded the paper onto his lap and watched for a
moment the comings and goings of his six young children.
Frank had supported Al Smith for the presidency, but it had not been
politics that had drained his home of much of its happiness.
It had been one year ago to the day, he reflected sadly, that his
15-year-old son had contracted diphtheria.
Within days his oldest child, Ralph, was dead.
Nothing had quite been the same since then.
His wife, Alta, had still not recovered, even with the recent birth of
Frank Jr.
Frank had been a police officer in Biddeford, Maine, when
he was offered the opportunity to become a foreman at Tyan’s Ideal Stain & Blacking
Company in Lynn, Mass. The chance
of making $35 a week was too good to pass by.
So, he moved his family away from its Maine roots.
That was only four years ago, and the house they had been able to rent
was certainly an improvement over their upstairs Biddeford apartment.
Still, he felt far less secure than the president’s words seemed to
indicate. He worried about the
nation’s future. Less than eight
months later that uneasiness turned to fear.
“Stock prices…swept downward with gigantic losses in the most
disastrous trading day in the stock market’s history,” declared the New York
Times. The Great Depression had
begun.
Shrinking wages forced Frank to move his
family to a less expensive neighborhood. When
this home proved to be beyond his budget, he moved them again, then again.
His dreams of a better life finally died when he too became one of the
thousands of unemployed. And though
he looked everywhere, there was not a job to be found.
The years that followed were difficult ones.
The lessons learned in this time of hardship were lasting and meaningful:
work hard, support your family and friends, avoid unreasonable debt and
find the joys that are available in life even in the humblest of circumstances.
It was Alta who somehow managed to hold the family together: making basic foodstuffs after meals, keeping overly worn
clothes mended, having the faith to always look forward, turning whatever house
they lived in into a home. Whenever
possible, she would take in laundry or do similar chores in order to earn a
little extra money. If an event
were being held nearby she would pop corn or make fudge for the children to
sell. Her gains were in pennies,
but that contribution represented survival.
The two oldest sons, Wilbur and
Milton, chipped in by establishing a paper route. Everyday after school they
would walk downtown to the paper office, lift a bundle of papers to their
shoulders, then walk the two miles to West Lynn where their route began.
They charged 15 cents a week for paper delivery; 12 cents was for the
paper and 3 cents was for the delivery.
Theirs was not an easy route. Many
winter nights were spent feeling their way up darkened tenement stairs to the
second, third, or fourth floors in order to leave the paper.
It was a tough and sometimes dangerous neighborhood.
At such times deliveries and collections were
undertaken in a cat and mouse fashion. All
too often, the gang would win. And
the two small boys, one 15 the other 10, would be forced to seek refuge at a
strangers door, frightened, asking for the police to help them get home.
It was a job that they feared more than wanted, but their sense of family
obligation kept them returning week after week.
Frank finally found some work two days a week building a city golf course
in exchange for food coupons. These
he cashed in at the local store to supplement the corn meal, rolled oats, flour
and other basics that were being provided by the government.
With the only family cash coming from the paper route, some clothing was
also obtained from a government agency. They
were warm and functional garments, but to a proud and independent family it was
also a badge of the poor, causing a determination in each of them to work their
way beyond their present condition. With six young and growing children, shoes were also a
problem. New ones, of course, were
out of the question. However,
replacement soles and heals could be purchased at the 5 & 10 cent store.
These were glued on and worked reasonably well until snow or rain
loosened them. Then they would
resound with an embarrassing flip, flop. There
were times when even these soles became unaffordable.
Then it was left up to pieces of cardboard to mend the hand-me-down
footwear.
Fortunately, Frank and Alta were not deeply in debt when the depression
struck. Nevertheless, they worried
about meeting their obligations for the bills they did owe.
Perhaps only the older children were aware of the sleepless nights that
were spent formulating a repayment plan.
In desperation, they finally borrowed money from a finance company.
It proved to be a terrible mistake, for despite their best efforts, they
could never seem to catch up with the higher and higher interest payments.
It took years of work and worry before the debt was retired. Out of it all came a pledge to never buy again what they
could not afford.
Despite the anxiety that hung like a cloud over everyday life, there were
still times of happiness to be found. As
a reward for selling papers, Saturday afternoons were spent at the silent
movies, listening to the piano, reading the captions, wondering what exciting
adventure Tom Mix or Hoot Gibson would run into.
Sometimes Florence, the oldest sister, would take the children for a walk
to the fire station or the park. And
there were times when they even got to stop at the bakery for a delicious little
cake, covered with strawberry filling and coated with coconut.
Holidays, birthday and special family occasions were always celebrated.
It didn’t take money to discover the meaning of Christmas.
Indeed, the harder the times, the more appreciated even the simplest gift
became.
Ultimately, for all of those who had been dealt a cruel blow, life went
on. They faced their new set of
circumstances with courage and determination, making the best out of what they
had been given.
As 1932 was drawing to a close, the depression maintained its grip
on Lynn and the nation. Jobs were
still unavailable and the struggle to keep afloat persisted.
It was then that Frank received the sad news that his father, Charles,
had died. Along with that letter
came the understanding that he had inherited his father’s home in Cape
Porpoise, Maine. A new chapter in
the family history was about to begin. Next,
the return to Maine.
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The Return to Maine
It was the hope for a brighter future that had prompted Frank Bradbury to
move his family from Maine to Massachusetts in the spring of 1925. But in the seven years that followed, that hope had largely
given way to despair. The pain
surrounding the death of his oldest son had not yet healed when he, and the
country, fell victim to the Great Depression.
With a wife, six children and no job, optimism was in short supply.
The letter from home, therefore, notifying him that he had inherited his
father’s house in Cape Porpoise, appeared to be a God-given answer to his
prayers. Nevertheless, there were
questions that had to be asked and answered.
As difficult as city life had been, it was still all that most of the
children could remember. Leaving
behind schools, friends and his wife Alta’s family would not be easy. In addition, they had no money; knew no one in that small
Maine town and had little chance of employment.
Somehow, even though on the surface it appeared as though there was
nothing to lose, such a move seemed risky.
One evening, Frank asked himself, as he had dozens of times before, “Should we
go?” The younger children looked
nervously form one to another. “No,” son Wilbur finally volunteered, “I
want to finish high school in Lynn!”
The father thought for a moment before suggesting, “Perhaps you could
stay with your Aunt Ida until graduation, and then join us in June.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to make new friends?” his young
daughter asked.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Frank replied confidently, “you’ll make plenty
of new friends.”
“Who’ll take over my paper route?” Milton wanted to know.
“Don’t worry,” his father laughed, “I’m sure they’ll find
somebody.”
Alta’s question was more direct. “Frank,”
she said in a serious tone that commanded attention, “how will we live?”
“Well,” answered her husband, “I’m no stranger to a farm. We’ll simply go back to farming and get our living from the
land. There are several acres of
woodland that go with the house, so we’ll be able to cut wood for heat.
Perhaps we can plant some vegetables.
And I know there are all the free clams we need in the harbor.”
Frank lifted himself from his chair and walked to a nearby window.
He pulled back the curtain and stared out upon the streets where he had
searched in vain for the chance to support those who were now gathered around
him. “At least,” he concluded
after a few moments of private reflection, “we won’t starve.”
Alta joined her husband, put her hand in his and echoed the family
sentiment, “Let’s go!”
Maine was only a hundred miles away, but in February of 1933 they were
long and hard miles. A month or
more had been spent organizing the trip. Some
items had been packed and others sold. And
Alta’s brother, Ralph, had already made one journey to Cape Porpoise, hauling
a load of furniture in the back of his aging truck.
Details had been attended to. Good-byes
had been said. Then, finally, the
moving day arrived.
Alta’s older brother, Wilbur, showed up early on the day of the move,
He brought with him an important present for his nieces and nephews, a
prize-milking cow. It might very
well have represented the difference between success and failure.
A good milking cow gave several quarts of milk a day.
Some could be used to drink or to cook with, the rest could be sold for
“real” money; money which could buy salt pork, molasses, corn meal, flour
and other essentials that would keep the family from going hungry.
“And there’s this,” he said as he unloaded two crates of chickens
and placed them near the rear of the truck, “these will help you to start up
your farm.” Alta gave her brother
a loving hug, recognizing just how meaningful such a gift would be. When the embrace ended she admonished her husband to drive
carefully, herded her children into a waiting car and, after a final look at the
neighborhood, began her return to Maine.
Once his family was safely on the road, Frank and his brother-in-law
hurried to finish the loading of the truck.
The first chore was to get Bettsie, the cow, onto the vehicle and tied to
the cab; something that the poor cow did not want to do. In due time this feat was accomplished, and the animal was
able to look nervously about as chairs, boxes, bags and miscellaneous pieces of
furniture were stacked around her.
Finally, when all had been placed safely aboard, onto the Ford went the
two crates of squawking hens. The
tailgate was closed. A new life was
about to begin.
Buttonwood, that stretch of road between Kennebunkport village and Cape
Porpoise, was narrow and tree-lined 60 years ago.
The branches from these trees formed a canopy over the road which, at
night, blocked off nearly all the light from the moon and stars.
It seemed a dark and spooky area at times.
But, to Frank and Wilbur, after several flat tires and a 14-hour trip, it
represented the last mile to home.
It had been a long day. The
men were tired. The cow was tired.
The chickens were still loud. It
became that much more discouraging therefore when, in the middle of these woods,
they suffered yet another blowout. Exhausted
and angry, the two men climbed once more out of the cab, jacked up the loaded
truck and repaired the tire. The
trip had been a struggle, but in the early hours of the morning, while the rest
of the town was deep in sleep, the move to Cape Porpoise was finally completed.
Next – A New Home.
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A New Home
Most of the
family considered it for the best to have arrived in Cape Porpoise in the middle
of the night. The picture of a frightened cow standing on the back of an
aging Ford truck, surrounded by boxes, bags, pieces of used furniture and crates
of squawking hens was not the first impression that they wanted to present.
Beginning life in a new town would be difficult enough, and people were already
overheard talking about the “city folk” who had moved into the old Proctor
place. Imagine then the stories
that could have been told if someone had witnessed the actual arrival!
It was hard at first to adjust the family to country living, to establish
new chores and routines, and to acquaint themselves with the people and places
within the community. However, from
day one it was clear that the decision to return to Maine had been a wise one.
For with the work came a sense of purpose and self-satisfaction a feeling
of accomplishment which soon erased the attitude of helplessness and despair
which had been so much a part of their life in the city.
The spring and summer of 1933 were devoted to rebuilding the farm.
A stall was repaired in the corner of the barn for “Bettsie,” the
cow. And outside, a falling-down
henhouse was fixed, cleaned and reclaimed for the chickens.
Alta and the girls saw to it that a garden was established in the
backyard. Soon, the first small
crop was planted. In the meantime,
Frank and they boys worked the wood lot, cutting, hauling, splitting and
stacking wood in preparation for the coming winter.
When the time was right, they also cut hay in nearby fields, which was
dried, then stored in the hayloft.
It didn’t take long to learn of the best clamming and fishing areas in
town. Of equal significance was the
discovery of when the fishing boats returned to port, for a little help
unloading the catch often resulted in a free fish for the evening meal.
By fall, there was no question that life had taken a turn for the better.
Donald Campbell, the local road commissioner, had been kind enough to
give Frank a job. In addition, a
few good neighbors were starting to buy the extra milk and eggs that were being
produced by the animals. This
money, in turn, was used to purchase the meat, cheese, molasses, the kerosene
that fueled evening lamps, or the many other items required by a growing family. Being able to run over to Arthur Nunan’s country store on
the Langsford Road with a small list and real cash in hand was a treat that the
children would long remember.
Best of all, in just a few short months they had been able to rid
themselves of the ever-present tension that had been so much a part of their
lives. No longer did sons Wilbur
and Milton have to start each day in fear that their paper route would bring
them in contact with a gang. No
longer did the parents have to worry about the safety of their children or share
the guilt of being forced to send them into such a dangerous situation.
No longer were there questions about where the next meal would come from,
or if there would be one at all. Hard
work, fresh air and sunshine were having their desired effect. Throughout the country the Depression lingered, but for Frank and his
family the desperation caused by it were in the past.
In fact, for the first time in years Frank was beginning to look ahead.
The children were back in school, preparations had been made for winter,
life seemed to be again on track. He
had always counted on others for employment, with less than satisfying results.
Perhaps the time had come to employ himself. He began to dream of owning his own business, one that would
sell that most important of commodities – food.
How wonderful it would be, he imagined, to own an entire building filled
with those items that had been so difficult for him to provide for his family.
Never again did he want to return to the life he had known.
He wanted to own a grocery store. Next,
The Market.
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The Market
In the spring of 1934, Frank Bradbury turned in the family insurance policies,
sold a hundred hens and from the barn and with the proceeds purchased a load of
lumber. The first smalls step
toward owning his own business had been taken.
An area was leveled to the right of his driveway in Cape Porpoise Square,
and there over a series of days-off and weekends, he constructed a tiny
building. When his work was
completed on the white-shingled, 8-by-10 foot structure, he proudly hung by the
front window a hand-painted sign reading “Bradbury’s Grocery.”
It was a modest beginning. The
family sold milk and eggs from their own farm.
And Alta, Frank’s wife, cooked hot dogs and hamburgers over a
three-burner gas stove in a big iron fry pan. Whenever a profit was made it was
used to buy additional inventory for the store.
The first priority was to choose items that would complement Alta’s
home cooking: snack foods like potato chips and ice cream, or bottles of
Coca-Cola. Later, the line slowly
expanded to include bread, a few canned goods and cigarettes.
For most of the day business was slow, but in the evenings, just after
suppertime, a regular crowd would gather. From
then until closing a lively political debate ensued with Frank, probably
unwisely, representing the Democratic viewpoint in a town where nearly everyone
was a registered Republican.
Whenever such discussions began to fade, there were always the
differences of opinion concerning fishing and town affairs to fill the void. Such gathering went on for many years, until the
Fishermen’s Club was formed down the street in the old Cluff Store.
Politics played another role in the little store.
At some point Frank decided that his patrons would enjoy playing with a
nickel slot machine. The stakes
were small but there were those who objected, most notably the state, which
considered it illegal. Second was
Alta, who considered it immoral. Together
they represented a formidable twosome. Nevertheless,
extra cash was needed so, far a while, the machine stayed.
Actually, there were two slot machines in Cape Porpoise.
One belonged to Frank, a Democrat, and the other to the owner of a local
hotel, a Republican. Keeping such
gambling out of the community was a job for the county sheriff, a political
position. Thus, as the two major
parties came and went, so too did the sheriff.
In a Democratic year it was Frank who would get the call, purely social
of course, informing him of an upcoming visit.
Off the counter the slot machine would come and into the barn it would
go, safely hidden under a mound of hay. Without
the benefit of such a warning, the owner of the guesthouse would usually be
caught. This would generally result
in a fine, even though he would protest about similar activities taking place just
down the street.
What’s fair is fair and no one party remained in office that long.
So after the next election, it would be the hotel that received the call.
Then Frank, despite his protests about the other guy, would be left
paying the fine.
In the end, no larger amounts of money were won or lost at these
machines. They simply provided a
little sport for the community, as well as a challenge for their owners as they
tried to outguess the sheriff.
After a few years, Frank found it necessary to add an addition to the
side of his small store. Not long
after, he added more space to the back. But
even as he expanded, he began to eye the large store, which had once flourished
across the street.
That business had been founded in 1893 by a gentleman named Luman
Fletcher, who ran it until his untimely death in 1920.
Fletcher’s success had been largely based on a brisk summer trade, for
the trolley cars were bringing ever-increasing numbers of visitors to Cape
Porpoise.
In addition to a few grocery items, he carried a wide selection of
souvenirs and novelties. And, as an
avid collector of postcards, he always saw to it that a number of local scenes
were in stock. Each year he would
personally bring a photographer to town to capture on film the most popular
views. These images would
ultimately be printed and made available for sale in the store.
Above all, however, Fletcher’s had been known for its homemade ice
cream. This could be enjoyed in the
quaint comfort of an ice cream parlor, which existed in the rear of the
building, complete with wrought-iron tables and chairs.
After Mr. Fletcher’s death it was left to his wife and daughters to run
the store, but times were changing. The
age of the trolley had ended. Slowly
the business faded. When, in 1939,
Richard Landry offered to buy the market, Mrs. Fletcher agreed.
Mr. Landry had owned the store, which he had renamed Bobby’s Variety,
for only three years when Frank approached him about selling it.
Much to Frank’s delight, the response was positive.
The two men talked about the selling price, about terms and conditions,
concluding in 1942, with the formal transfer of the property.
Bradbury’s Grocery had a much larger new home.
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The Community Store
In that last hour before dawn Louise Bradbury awoke reluctantly from a
sound sleep. A distant roll of
thunder echoed across Cape Porpoise harbor.
“I should probably get up and close the window,” she thought as she
turned onto her side and tried to focus on the nightstand clock.
But the comfort of her bed drew her back under the covers.
For some time she laid there, listening to the approaching storm, hoping that it
would bypass the village. That was not to be the case, however. The skies began to darken and the wind whipped nearby tress.
It had been three years since she, her husband, Wilbur, and daughter Ann
had moved in the tidy apartment over the old Fletcher Store.
Wilbur had been working for General Electric when his father Frank, had
called, asking him to become a partner in his new business.
Giving up a well paying job in the city for the life of a country
storekeeper had been a difficult decision.
Still, the market seemed to be working out, and the young family was
enjoying small-town living. Despite
the long hours and hard work, their choice had been the right one.
A bolt of lightening streaked across the morning sky and a crack of
thunder shook Louise from her thoughts. She
could hear the rain. It had started softly at first, but now it was pelting the
western wall of the building. Quickly
she rushed out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe that was hanging on a nearby chair
and ran to shut the windows.
As she entered the living room she was shaken by violent, thunderous
crash. “That was much too
close,” she thought, frightened by the nearness of the storm.
She pulled down the sash and then hurried into the kitchen.
Fear gripped her as she entered the room.
“Wilbur,” she cried out, “I smell smoke!”
Her husband leapt out of bed to join her.
From the small window that stood open above the kitchen sink he looked
down upon the ice-cream parlor wing of the country store.
A small ridge of flame was spreading across the roofline from which an
expanding cloud of smoke curled skyward. “We’ve
been hit by lightening,” Wilbur declared. “Hurry, get Ann.
We’ve got to get out!”
Wilbur pulled on some clothing and then ran to help his wife and daughter
down the stairs. Together they sped
across the street and pounded on Frank Bradbury’s door.
“Pa, Pa,” Wilbur yelled, “the store’s on fire!”
While the father and son returned to fight the blaze, someone called in
the alarm.
Many were amazed that the store survived the fire of 1945. Some said that it was the tin ceilings that had slowed the
flames long enough for firefighters to gain the upper hand. Other maintained that it was pure luck. Certainly the skill and dedication of the local volunteer
fireman had played the most significant role in saving the building.
Still the damage was great.
“Do you see that?” Frank
asked, kicking at a ruined bream, “the insurance adjusters says that if it’s
only 60 percent burned then he can only give me 60 percent of the price of a new
one! He said that if a supporting
timber is only 40 percent damaged then he can only give me a fraction of its
replacement cost!”
The storeowner walked from the ruined back end of the market to the
water-damaged front. “Look at
this,” he said, picking up a box of chocolate, “it’s filled with glass,
water-stained and smells like smoke. But
because it’s only half-melted my agent says he can only pay me 50 percent of
its value!” Franks threw the box
to the floor in disgust. He wanted
to say more, but anger and discouragement could only carry him so far.
Jumping over a pile of debris, he pushed his way through
the front door, crossed the road and climbed into cab of his truck.
“Where are you going?” Wilbur asked as he followed behind him.
“Portland,” came the reply, “We’ll get some new stock and sell it
out of this store until the other’s rebuilt.” He pointed to the tiny shed
that had been his beginning, put the truck into gear and drove away.
The store had suffered a setback, but the business would continue.
By the following year the store was rebuilt.
Its new life coincided with the renewed optimism and sense of purpose
that was sweeping the nation. The
war was over, and to those returning home our country did indeed appear to be
the land of opportunity. When
Charles Bradbury arrived in Cape Porpoise from a tour of duty in Africa, he too
rested his future with the family business, eventually buying out his father’s
shares. Together, he and his
brother Wilbur would run the market for the next 31 years.
In fact, all the family would, at one time or another, draw upon their
early experiences in the tiny Bradbury’s Grocery.
Daughter Florence married Earl Harvey.
Soon after they founded Harvey’s Market, now Cummings’s Market, in
West Kennebunk. Frank Bradbury Jr.
and his wife, Avis, became the owners of the Landing Store in Kennebunk, and
sister Edith helped her siblings in both businesses. Eleanor, Frank Bradbury’s
youngest daughter, wed Harrison Seavey. Upon
his return from Naval service in the Pacific, Harrison joined his
brothers-in-law at the store in Cape Porpoise.
He still can be found there, usually by the coffee pot, even to this day.
Half a century has now passed, and the store has moved into its third
generation of family ownership. It,
like the town it serves, has evolved over the years.
Frank Sr.’s handwritten invoices with message on the back; “If we
makes mistakes give us a chance to correct them. If we please you, tell your
neighbors. If not, tell us. Bills
paid in full keep every happy. You pay me, and I can others,” have given way to
computer generated billings.
Beside the 40-pound wheel of Vermont cheddar are now cheeses from around
the world. In a town once dry can be
found a wine selection featuring the finest vintages. New means of transportation
and modern coolers allow for a variety of inventory unimagined when Frank first
hand-painted his business sign and carefully hung it by the front window of his
building.
And yet, there remains a strong community force at the store, an
unequivocal appreciation for the beauty of the Kennebunks and the warmth of its
people. For many years ago when it
counted most, a poor family fallen victim to the depression was welcomed to the
town and given a second chance. That debt has not been forgotten. It remains as
a source of motivation, allowing the store to combine modern service with
traditional values, and hopefully helping to repay the village it proudly calls
home.
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