John “Gilly” Gilbertson

           I was born on September 28, 1921. My father’s family had come from Sweden in 1892, but I was
    born in this country. My uncle owned a sailing ship and he’d bring goods and immigrants over here.
    Some would come for a year and if things didn’t work out, would return with him on his next trip. They
    might go back under the name of someone who had come over on the most recent trip. The ship’s
    crew would often be relatives who would work their way over. Some who stayed would go to Minnesota
    and farm. When my family first got here, they lived in Jamaica Plain. Eventually they moved to Milford,
    where they lived in the Bear Hill section.

           At first, though, my father operated his own cabinet shop in Hartford, where he made picture
    frames. One of his brothers died not too long after the war, (World War I) as a result of mustard gas
    that had been used in the war. Two of his sisters went to college and they married well. During the flu
    epidemic in 1919, my father closed up his shop and came back to Milford to help care for the family,
    who were all sick. Central Street was the “main drag” for immigrants at that time. There were stores
    operated by people from all the nationalities who had settled in Milford. One day when my father was
    walking along there, he was stopped by a man who asked him if he could work for him a few hours a
    day, helping to set up a shop he was opening. He took the job, but when the family had all recovered
    form the flu, he intended to go back to Hartford. The man who had hired him asked him how much he
    could make a year at his frame shop. When my father told him, the man offered him $1,000 more if
    he'd stay. He took the offer and stayed in Milford. He had gone to a vocational school. He put radiators
    in the shop and did other such work. The company eventually became Archer Rubber. After a while, my
    father became a boss there, although he was a worker as well. There was a lot to think about on his
    job, and even when he was home he was thinking and planning for the next day’s work. He had to
    learn how to run the machines, (sewing machines, etc.) and also to teach new workers how to use
    them. The main product of the company in those years was raincoats. Back then, raincoats weren’t the
    fashionable clothing they often are now. They were made to be worn by workers who might be out in
    the rain all day. They made a lot of them for firemen and policemen. As World War II began in Europe,
    they did a lot of work for the military.

           One of my earliest memories is picking blueberries. When we’d go, we’d take fishing lures, a tin
    of worms and a jackknife. It seems everything you did then, you made with a jackknife. I’d carry a
    bucket and bring whatever I’d find home. Sometimes I’d find little turtles, which I’d sell to Wendell
    Williams for the fishpond by his house on Claflin Hill. (The house is still there.) His brother, Judge
    Williams, lived at the bottom of the hill. Paul Williams lived at the Reynolds estate. He had been born
    without arms or legs, but in the early thirties, he ran an insurance office out of the Reynolds place.
    George Sears was his chauffeur. He’d carry Paul wherever he wanted to go. Paul was a big fan of
    Legion baseball, so George would often put him on his shoulder and carry him to a game. He’d also
    bring Paul to the theater, put him in a seat, and return for him two hours later.

           Another person I remember from those days was Harold Cole. He was the president of a
    company, but he’d milk his two cows every morning before going to work. People often did things like
    that then that you wouldn’t imagine people doing now. Many lived hand to mouth. They shared and
    many had farms or some connection to people with farms.

         When I was nine or ten, I went to the Grant Street School. I used to walk there with my friend,
    Hughie. Hughie’s grandmother lived on the top floor of the Thom Building on Main Street. It’s often
    called the flatiron building. We’d sometimes stop in to see her on the way to school, but more often on
    the way home. Hughie knew we’d get a root beer anytime we’d go there in the afternoon. There was a
    bar in the cellar, and you could get sandwiches and such, too. A few bums would be hanging out there
    in the afternoon. There’d also be salesmen (I recognized some, such as one who would sell silk
    stockings to my mother) sitting and reading the paper with their suitcases nearby. There was a
    dumbwaiter in the building. When we’d visit Hughie’s grandmother, she’d sometimes yell down the
    dumbwaiter, “Joe, I have two important gentlemen here. Send up a couple of sandwiches.” About ten
    minutes later, Joe would yell up, “Sandwiches are ready. Do you want a couple of beers with them?”
    Grandma would say, “No, these are kids I have here. Root beers.” I remember that there would be
    plates of chocolates around and a couple of women dressed in gowns like they were going to the
    junior prom. The women were probably around thirty five or forty, and they weren’t particularly attractive.
    Hughie’s grandmother, who must have been eighty or close to it, would be wearing a gown also. You
    could tell that she was the one who was in charge of the place. When I’d go home and tell my mother
    what I’d seen, she’d say I must be making that up. Women wouldn’t be dressed like that at three in the
    afternoon. Of course at that age I didn’t know what was going on and I don’t think my mother did either,
    at first, but I’m sure after a while she figured it out. I think it was about four years before it dawned on
    me what the story was.

           I hated school. I was at the bottom of my class. I couldn’t talk when I was in the lower grades. I
    was tongue-tied. Everybody would laugh when I tried to talk. A few years ago I had a tooth pulled. When
    the dentist looked into my mouth, he told me that he was amazed that I could talk. I hated having to
    stand and try to talk, so I didn’t try. By high school I could talk better, but it still didn’t sound right.
    Everything I learned in life, I learned on my own. I enjoy reading and I read a lot of history.

           There was a gentleman in town who some people thought was a child molester. He had taught
    Sunday school in most of the churches. He’d be at one and someone would accuse him of being a
    child molester, so they’d kick him out. He’d move on to another, and this would keep happening. He
    went to all the churches and asked for them to give him groups of boys so he could teach them about
    government. He ended up with about eight classes of about ten boys each. They were all in the
    seventh or eighth grade. I was in one of the groups, and later when I was a couple of years older, I
    continued to help him. I never saw anything that made me believe he was a child molester. We
    probably wouldn’t have been interested in joining this activity except that the man, Alan was his name,
    would take us on trips. He had a very big car – a big Duesenberg, and he could take a whole group at
    a time. He’d take us to the Cape in the summer and Mount Monadnock in the fall. I went through his
    class. I always like him. As I got older, I’d go with him and help. At the Cape, we’d pitch the tents on the
    dunes, and at Monadnock, we’d pitch them near a lake.

           The land at the Cape where we’d stay belonged to a man named Bridgeham. I usually refer to him
    as the beachcomber. He had gone to several major colleges in Europe and he knew some prominent
    people. Before the crash in 1929, he had been a millionaire. He had 137 acres of land in what was
    called Calhoun Hollow. It was near the Coast Guard Station in Wellfleet. (The old Coast Guard Station
    is now a bar.) The Coast Guard commander told us it was okay to camp there, but he didn’t want any
    funny business. The beachcomber had an old World War I tent. He’d go south to the islands in the
    winter. Sometimes I’d go to Provincetown with him. He seemed to know everyone there. We’d pick up
    things that washed into the beach at Wellfleet, like deck chairs that washed off of ships, and sell them
    in Provincetown. We could also get jobs such as washing dishes there.

           Bridgeham wrote novels and poetry. He also built a house that’s still there. The ocean kept eating
    away at the dunes, and Marconi Station was starting to fall over the edge. Bricks would fall down from
    it. We’d load up Bridgeham’s car with as many as it could carry. We’d bring them back with us, and he
    used them to build the house.

           Back in Milford, someone hearing my stories from the Cape asked me to look up a certain name
    the next time I was there. I didn’t for a while, but the next year he asked again, and that time I did. I went
    by boat to Provincetown and Bridgeham met me. I asked him about the man. He had two FBI friends.
    There were stories of spies back then. (It was 1939.) Bridgeham wanted to know where I had heard of
    this guy. I knew the guy was harmless, but I told him. He told his FBI friends. They came over to talk to
    me. A few weeks later they showed up at our house on Purchase Street to ask my father about him.
    The guy was from Ireland. (I think some people had convinced him to do this, on the idea that the
    Drapers were of English descent and it would be an anti-English thing to do.) The reason the FBI was
    interested in him is because sometime before, someone had set off an explosion in the power plant
    at Drapers and they suspected him. It was probably about the size of a package of cigarettes and
    maybe closed down the plant for an hour and a half or something like that. The guy never went to jail. It
    couldn’t have amounted to much, because none of the people I know who worked there ever heard
    about it.

           In my senior year of high school, I quit and joined the merchant marine. Mostly, we went down to
    Cuba for sugar. The crews were a pretty rough bunch. These were guys who couldn’t get a job
    anywhere else, but they could get hired to work on the ships. I got along with them pretty well. Lots of
    them couldn’t read or write, so I’d read letters they’d received and write letters for them.

           After Pearl Harbor I tried to sign up for the Navy, but they weren’t taking anyone for a while,
    because they didn’t have enough ships for them. They’d lost much of the Pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor,
    and they had been giving other ships to England for a couple of years. Most of what we did have had
    been built before World War I. They could only make about five or six knots. I went into the Coast Guard.

           For most of my three years and four months in the Coast Guard, I was on a 73-foot schooner. It
    was brand new when we took possession at Oyster Bay, Long Island. The Germans had subs
    offshore sinking our ships and we went out to rescue survivors. The sailboats were mostly ones that
    had been donated to the Coast Guard by millionaires. They were built for the summer months, but we
    were out on the Atlantic all though the year. At first we had a crew of eight or nine, but eventually that
    changed to five or six. Early in the war we’d go out for ten days at a time, but later on we’d go for shorter
    periods. We’d heard there were about 200 subs out there. After the war, we learned there had been far
    fewer than that. The cities along the coast wouldn’t turn out their lights. From the subs, they could see
    ships silhouetted against the lights. Most of the action there was in the first couple of years of the war.
    After that there wasn’t much going on.

           Our schooner had a diesel engine, which we used only to get in and out of port. It had two masts
    and three sails. We painted it gray and a furnace and coal bin were put in. A wheelhouse was added,
    since we’d be out year-round in all kinds of weather. We had four depth charges on the back. Sixty
    yachts were given to the Coast Guard by millionaires. The crews were mostly men who had
    participated in sail races before the war. After three years, there were only two of the boats left. They
    hadn’t been built for that kind of use. The best crews were made up of fishermen and rum-runners.
    They knew how to handle canvas, what the weather was going to do, and what to do about it, etc.

           There were also boats that had been used by rum-runners during Prohibition. They’d bring
    alcohol down from Canada. When they got near to where they planned to “deliver” it, they’d throw the
    barrels overboard. There would be men waiting nearby to wade into the water and bring them in.
    They'd also have trucks and school busses waiting to take it away.

           Sometimes we’d see a German sub. We’d wave to them and they’d wave back. They could have
    finished us off with their 20 mms before we could get our handkerchiefs out of our pockets, but they
    knew we weren’t going to attack anyone and it wouldn’t be right to sink us. By the last couple of years
    of the war, it was just the skipper and me. He was a fisherman before the war. He lived in Montauk,
    right near our base. He was an interesting guy. By that time, we weren’t going out on regular cruises.
    Sometimes we’d take officers and their girlfriends out for a ride. Other times we’d go out fishing.

           I had worked at Archer Rubber for a short while in the 1930s. My father wanted me to go into
    woodworking, but that wasn’t for me. My father had a friend who had a construction company that was
    doing work for Drapers, so after I got out of the Coast Guard, I started working for there. One of the jobs
    I did with that company was putting asbestos shingles on the houses in Bancroft Park. I also worked
    on the apartments over the drug store where the pizza place is now, and on the Draper building on
    Freedom Street where the water goes under the plant. I laid floors there and in the new wood room.
    Another job I did was working on an addition to the foundry. I had signed up with a government
    program (one of the veteran’s benefits programs after the war) to become a carpenter. It paid $40 a
    week. I only weighed 120 pounds and most of the work was outside. In the winter I got pneumonia. I
    went to a Boston hospital in the Kenmore area. Four doctors examined me and each sent a letter.
    They decided that I had overworked for my size and suggested I stop doing the kind of work I had been

           I knew Victor Pepper at Drapers, so I knew I could get into the company. He hired me right away.
    There were about 3,000 working there at that time. New hires were put to work in the shipping room.
    Drapers had about one hundred departments. When a new man was needed in a department
    someone would come to the shipping room, talk to a few of the men working there and pick who they
    wanted for their department. Some elderly gents came down and talked to me. One asked if I’d like to
    go to work in the plumbing department. I tried to discourage the idea, but in time that’s where I ended

           Nothing had been done with the Draper houses for years and they decided to start fixing them.
    Evidently they knew the place would be closing before too many years and the houses would be sold.
    My job started as a plumber’s assistant. Bill Honey drove the truck. He’d drop the men off at the house
    where you’d be working. I’d carry tools and go after parts. I enjoyed working with all the foremen. You
    couldn’t ask for a nicer place to work. We had a nine-hour day and we worked Saturdays. Drapers
    never laid off anyone. Even if you were 99, just sitting on a stool all day doing nothing. They’d decide
    within a year of hiring you if they were going to keep you.

           When the union came along I was pro-Draper. Once the union came in, I became the union
    workers’ comp representative. I did that for about fifteen years. I had to go to Boston about once a
    month the see a lawyer. Bruno Carnaroli was the union rep. I represented maintenance. I hadn’t
    known Bruno until after the union got in. He was a great person. At one point he said to me, “I don’t
    think I’m going to be here much longer.” He died not long after that.

           We had union Christmas parties on a boat in Boston Harbor.

           One thing we’d do a lot in the houses was taking the old cast iron set tubs out. I think they
    weighed about 475 pounds. There was nothing to get a hold of. I could be a mile away and they’d call
    me to help with a tub. Most of the houses had hot air furnaces. Up until about Christmas people would
    heat the house just a little using scrap wood from the Draper wood room. They’d use wood,
    cardboard, whatever. Then for the rest of the winter they’d use coal. The hot air furnaces were replaced
    with steam in some houses.

           Another job for the plumbing department was to replace bathroom and kitchen plumbing. For
    some parts, they’d send someone to Hopedale Coal & Ice. Eventually they decided to start stocking
    their own parts. I was assigned to set up a “store.” I kept stock, did orders, answered the phone, and
    assigned work.

           Guys were quitting as they found jobs. They knew the place was going to close before long. More
    were quitting than were being laid off. As business slowed down, they laid off everyone over 65. That
    included about all the bosses. Bill Meaden and I stayed another one and a half years taking things
    apart. We took out machines and disconnected pipes. All the water and oil pipes, etc., had to be
    plugged where they were cut. We had to pack machines to be shipped. There were holes in the floor to
    be filled. Eventually there wasn’t anything – machines, pipes, wires, anything – in there as far as you
    could see.

           During the final years, there started to be laws about what you could dump into the water. They
    needed to test the water under the shop. I was the guy who went into the river underneath to get water
    samples. I’d wear hip boots and have a bunch of bottles strung together. I remember seeing eyes
    looking at me down there. I think I did it about every month for a year or so.

           I was laid off by Buddy Rockwood. Years before, I had gotten him his job. He had moved up to
    superintendent very quickly.

        Years after I got through at Drapers, my wife got Alzheimer's. When it was no longer possible to
    have her at home (Purchase Street, Milford), she went to Draper Place in Hopedale. After all our years
    of marriage I didn't want her to be there without me, so I moved there too. She died after about two
    years and then I moved to the Griffin-Dennett Apartments. I liked it very much there. I enjoyed being
    able to walk around town and drop in on people at the Community House, the library and the "Good as
    New Shop" in the town hall. Sometimes I'd walk up to the Fallon Clinic on Route 140, and sometimes
    I'd walk up Adin Street and back by Route 16. In good weather I'd go out three times a day and walk
    about six miles in all. I like to visit and talk with people. I think I'm making up for the years when I
    couldn't talk. John "Gilly" Gilbertson, told to Dan Malloy at various times between 2008 and 2012.

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