Synopsis ""You're Probably from Holden, If...": Growing Up in A Vanishing New England"
From the Introduction: One evening not long ago I made the happy discovery of a Facebook page called: "You're Probably from Holden, If..." It is dedicated to reminiscences about Holden, Massachusetts, a small town just outside of Worcester, in the center of the state. When I was a boy, in the second half of the 1940's and the 1950's, much of Holden was rural, still close to farms and fields and woods; neighborly; grocery and hardware stores and everything else owned by people you knew; schools earnest and firmly in the grip of parents; and the work and play of kids in gardens and woods, ice-cream parlors, and farm stands. Looking back, I realize that what I am today, at 69, having spent my adult life in New York City, is what I became in Holden. To recall Holden, as it was, then, is to ponder who and what I am -and why. I began to post nightly, some posts were 10 pages or more. The secret enchantment of our vast empty barn with all its "inhabitants," how my father raised 3000 chickens during WWII food rationing, forgotten childhood books at the first library I used, the yearnings and heartbreaks of falling in love with those desirable Holden girls, my experience in the legendary Worcester tornado of 1953, teachers who became almost co-authors of my life: The memories rushed out. The response of readers-their amazing commentary, filling in unexpected details-became exhilarating. I realized that I was writing the book you now hold. I could not conceive of publishing it without the hundreds of comments that popped up like lights blinking on in places my posts had left dim or dark. I have included virtually all of them, just as they were written. As I continued my posts--and soon discovered a closely related site, "You're Probably from Worcester, If..."--and read comments, I came to see clearly, even dramatically, what had been an impression: The Holden of my boyhood-and the early years of so many who commented-was vanishing. For my part, I feel that the Holden of my boyhood now exists, again, in words, in the fine texture of what I have written with all the particularity, imagery, anecdote, and sensuous evocation at my command. Perhaps others will share that feeling, for it is their Holden and Worcester as much as mine. What this book tries to capture is now occurring all over America: People are spontaneously coming together only to share their memories, renew acquaintance with people they never thought to see again, and ponder their roots. From all over the country and world where Americans live, come posts and comments every evening, people drawn to remembering. Just one of hundreds of comments by readers: 'Wow, your enchanting stories just keep coming! You make me want to pour myself a cold glass of Moxie and wax nostalgic right along with you!" And, of course, that is exactly what people are doing on pages like this all over the country.
