I Tried Not To Cry. Michael Beattie
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Willimantic River which made it a suitable site for a mill location, as the water from the river could provide the needed power to operate the mill machinery, much the same as it did for their existing mill location approximately seven miles downstream from this site. The village that would form around and near the mill became known as Eagleville. Some say the name came in response of the large number of eagles that populated themselves along the river in the area. We may never truly know for sure.
In 1822, Eagle Manufacturing Company was incorporated in the village of Eagleville, where cotton cloth and linen was produced. In 1841, after the mill changed hands several times, “land with a cotton factory and other outbuildings named Eagle Factory” was sold to a Thomas Clark. Clark later sold the same land and buildings to the Eagle Manufacturing Company. In 1861, the Eagle Manufacturing Company was awarded a government contract to manufacture twenty-five thousand locks for compression rifle muskets of the Springfield type. The locks were manufactured in Eagleville and stamped with “US” and the date of manufacture. In 1863, Eagle Manufacturing was sold to the American Woolen Company of New York. Two years later, John L Ross of Providence, Rhode Island, purchased the mills and renamed them the Phoenix Manufacturing Company, retaining ownership until 1929.
The mill produced a variety of products including closely woven cotton that was used to cover the wings of aircraft during the 1918 war efforts. The mill and its buildings were sold at auction in 1931 and later were converted into a paper facility that produced shoe lasts, from a sort of cardboard material. Over time, the mill was abandoned and finally burned to the ground in 1955 by the local fire department after it became a danger to the community. My only recollection of the mill was that of a paper facility, the very one that my father and uncles worked at after their return home from World War II.
Prologue
It’s beginning to snow, and my hands were throbbing cold from the wind even with my wool mittens on. Clutching the handlebar grips on my bike as I moved along ever so slowly, the wind was burning my face. And now snow! I was forced to get off my bike in order to climb the hill in front of me as my balance in the snow was making it difficult to stay upright. I needed to hurry, or I’d never make it in time. The difficulty of pushing this load uphill in the snow was getting harder, but I couldn’t stop. I must continue as I needed the money. I had an obligation to finish, and what would I be thought of if I ever quit a failure?
Finally, I made it to my last stop. Removing my mittens revealing my red numb fingers, I reached for the last paper in my basket. I placed the paper inside the front enclosed porch area of Mrs. Dore’s home as I normally did. This was my last stop and the farthest away from my starting point of the little general store where I rode to get my bundle of morning newspapers to deliver each morning before school. Now I needed to ride as fast as I could downhill on the now snow-covered road back home so I could get ready to walk to the bus stop in order to get to school on time. I never knew this was going to be part of the deal when I agreed to deliver the morning and evening papers.
Some days can be tough on a newspaper boy in rural eastern Connecticut, especially at the age of twelve. Being the second oldest in a family of six living in a poor mill village left little extra for anyone, so I became an entrepreneur at an early age in order to provide myself with items I desired. Two paper routes, a weekly TV Guide route, selling Grit magazine and greeting cards door-to-door, working part-time at the local general store Champlions, and, of course, shoveling snow or raking leaves for money. The elder Mrs. Champlion (called Susie by the older folks in the village) at the general store told me that if I could work for her, I could get a job working for anyone, and would be able to complete any task given to me. At twelve years of age, I didn’t have any idea what she meant by that statement, which was instilled into me over and over again as I worked for her every weekend. But now I understand! Yes, Mrs. Champlion, I so very much, understand!
Chapter 1
The Promise
Upon my retirement from operating a small security business for forty-two years in the eastern Connecticut town of Willimantic, and at the age of sixty-five, I purchase a used camper and made a decision to travel across and around the USA for a year. This had been a dream of mine that I thought would never come true, as my ten years prior to retirement were filled with poor health and numerous surgeries, including three major spinal surgeries. The stress of operating my business in a then poor economic environment, coupled with my declining health during this period, lead up to my decision to retire.
As many people know, dealing with chronic pain, especially back pain, can put one on edge and miserable to the point of me being called Mr. Grumpy by both friends and relatives. “Watch out for mean old Uncle Mike,” my niece would say to her children, although mostly in fun. It hurt to think this was what others thought of me. My dealing with pain was relaying a message to others that I wasn’t a friendly or happy person. Sure, I was miserable at times, but didn’t think I was that bad, or was I? Yet, I refused to take any type of painkillers from my fear of becoming addicted to them, so I just suffer. I lost my two younger brothers at an early age to addictions, both alcohol and drugs, so I was worried about falling into the same trap. I was sort of skeptical of doctor’s advice and tried to avoid them. My philosophy was that my body would signal to me any problems, and a more holistic approach was then my option. Sometimes I was accused of being a health nut by my wife, but doctors were my last resort. When I thought of doctors, my mind immediately aligned them to drugs. My miserableness was starting to have an effect on my wife, who always had a bubbly personality. Soon after twenty-eight years, I found myself going through a divorce, which I didn’t want, from the love of my life and mother of my only son. Now I’m nearly devastated, as I found myself temporarily living in my parents’ mobile home, which is located in an over-fifty-five age community. Both of my parents winter in Florida, so I had use of their home until I could try to find another location to live that would be in close proximity to my business.
While at their home one morning, I wake with a sharp pain in my shoulder blade area that wouldn’t go away, no matter what I tried. At first, I thought I was just knotted up in that area as I occasionally would get when I was very active as a marathon canoe racer. Usually a good hard rubdown would eliminate the knot, and I’ll be fine afterward. This is approximately a week or so before my divorce will be final, and I think my soon-to-be ex-wife thought I was looking for attention or sympathy, as she still worked alongside me in our business. I went to see my chiropractor who had become a good friend of mine over the years, and he seemed to think that I had a pinched nerve in the C-7 area of the spine. He gave me an over-the-door traction-type device to use to try and relieve the pressure. I gave it a try, only to find that it seemed to make the pain increase. I returned to see him, and he immediately sent me to see a neurosurgeon in Hartford, Connecticut, who sent me first for an MRI. His first impression was the same as the chiropractor, a pinched nerve in the C-7 area of my neck. Upon returning to the neurosurgeon to have him read the MRI results, I was at the point where I was shaking uncontrollably. After examining the MRI images along with me in the exam room, he said, “Hmmm,” then stated that he wanted to go look at it under a better light in another room, and that he’d be right back. I didn’t like the sound of that, as I waited on edge for him to return. All kinds of thoughts crossed my mind as the short moments seemed like hours in the loneliness of that confined cold exam room. When the doctor returned to the exam room where I sat shaking, he again hung the photo over the wall chart light and tried to explain to me what he was seeing in that photo. Without any compassion or easing his way into a soft approach, he pointed to a huge mass that was very clear to see along my spine. “I’m pretty sure this is a tumor,” he stated, “and I don’t like the location it’s in, and if it’s cancerous, it could lead to a serious outcome. We need to act immediately.” I think my complexion turned white at this point, as I explained to him that I had just gone through a divorce the days prior. He recommended that I take care of any personal affairs prior to surgery. He made a call and has me booked for early Monday surgery, with this being a Friday. He told me he would take care of all the arrangements and I would be called with a surgery time, but to plan on being there early in the morning. I’m a mess! This meant I needed to get a will as well as a living will so that my only son would have both power of attorney and the rights to whatever I had left at this point.
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