[Sidebar] The Worcester Phoenix
December 5 - 12, 1 9 9 7
[Tales From Tritown]

Mutual congestion

Tritown gets the sniffles; plus Fitchburg history

by Sally Cragin

In Tritown, at this time of year, the sun is a frail disk that barely clears the treeline, and the sky is a bleached gun-metal gray. There's a knee-high salt line everywhere you look -- on trees, on cars, even on Tritownies themselves. And, like the "wretched refuse" referred to by the message on the Statue of Liberty, everyone yearns to breathe freely once again.

Hacking, wheezing, sneezing, snorting, Tritownies communicate in guttural croaks and liquid coughing. In confined spaces, the aroma of eucalyptus rises, and clacking cough drops in sore mouths would make you think the Rockettes were among us. One unspoken adage among long-suffering (which means, "those who enjoy their suffering") New Englanders is that one works throughout illness, fever, convulsions, and death. If you feel peaky, wear a muffler and show up anyway -- never mind if you transmit billions and billions of viruses with every exhalation.

Ward the Winger, Tritown's pond hockey pro gets colds but always struggles out of a sick bed if the fire department plows the pond, and if there are a couple of steady, freezing days. Oddly enough, he's more likely to be ill on days when the sun is shining and temps are above 32 degrees. "No-skating weather makes me sick," he declares. He's the only resident who blows his knees as often as his nose.

Ozzie the Wiz, Tritown's resident librarian and general-knowledge sage thinks we're all overreacting. "From time to time, everyone suffers from a nasty bout of diarrhea and/or vomiting. There are many possible causes for this, but self-diagnoses by lay people usually owe more to habit than to medical science. Some people routinely attribute it to food poisoning, which is only occasionally correct. Others call it `stomach flu' or just `flu.' This too is generally wrong."

Delia Ellis Bell counters with the tiny puncture wound she got from her still-controversial "flu shot."

"Well, Ozzie," she remarks, "If it has nothing to do with `influenza,' why call it `flu'?"

Ozzie, of course, has an answer: "Influenza is basically a disease of the respiratory tract -- like the common cold -- not the digestive tract," he says. "Digestive side-effects are possible, but if you don't have those respiratory symptoms (some combination of sneezing, runny nose, congestion, coughing, etc.), along with fever, aches, etc., it probably isn't the flu."

"Well," says Delia. "I got sick of -- and sick with -- the seasonal colds long enough and decided to get the shot, because as a teacher of youngish children it's more trouble to organize a substitute than to show up myself."

On such days, when her cold has moved into her Eustachian tube and her hearing isn't what it should be, she has the children read aloud, round-robin-style.

Hollis the Mountain Man, on the other hand, is, by his own admission, a big baby. He gets his first cold around what he calls "daylight spending time," and cycles in and out of illness on a 10-day interval. For a hulking, sturdy, old-stock New Englander, he has surprisingly little resistance to any passing virus. Delia is convinced that Hollis's haphazard heating arrangement (a coal stove) only exacerbates his symptoms.

"I don't understand it," she says. "You have minimal contact with humanity, yet you're always sniffling."

Delia has brought him a gallon of orange juice, aspirin, some back issues of the Tritown Bugle, and a quart of chicken soup from his aunt Winnie (named after Lake Winnipesaukee, though she can't swim).

"It's the damn Pennysaver and Valu-pak," he croaks. "My mail is infected." This comes out as "By bail id idfeckded," which makes Delia wince. She feels sorry for her old friend who wears a muffler, a hat, and his chore jacket inside. He thinks she's mad to spend her working days with children. "Little germ labs, every one," he snuffles, shuffling to the rocking chair by the coal stove. Trick and Treat, the Mountain tabbies, are huddled around the stove. Hollis slumps in his seat and shakes out the paper.

"Hey -- who did the crossword puddle?" he grumbles. Delia knows her friend is on the mend when his complaints take a trivial turn, so she opens his curtains ("Let some light in on the subject") and takes her leave.

IN TRITOWN, EVERYONE has some special step, gadget, or ingredient for fighting the flu, but the clincher is a prescription of liquids and sleep. Still, the current generation doesn't know how lucky it has it if a modern 'flu is measured against the 1918 killer influenza. Hollis's great-aunt Winnie remembers being told about this scourge by her mother, who nursed her mother and was fortunate enough to survive it. Winnie's mother explained how during the Spanish flu a doleful horse-and-cart made the rounds, and if your patient was definitely not getting better, they would be taken to a town meeting house. Though there were hospitals in the more settled parts of Tritown, you would only go as a very last and reluctant resort.

Originally called, "Old Man Grippe," the Spanish flu caused chills then fever and a profound muscle weakness and sore throat, then often death. One theory claims that the 'flu germ had existed during World War I but was strengthened by mustard gas. Whatever the cause, it spread most quickly in military bases and shipyards.

It first appeared in summer of 1918, and by mid-September, Massachusetts had organized a State Emergency Health Committee. Three days later, the number of cases at Fort Devens had trebled -- more than 5000 ill. More frightening, were the number of doctors and nurses who succumbed to the malady, which proved resistant to home remedies, flannel masks, cut onions, whisky, "cetolates tablets," and sulfur in the shoes. The flu lingered for months, afflicting some 20 million Americans, of which a half-million perished. A cure was never found.

CONGRATULATIONS to Barbara Edsall, Ruth Penka, Helen Obermeyer Simmons, and Romayne Dawnay Timms for collaborating on a terrific new walking/driving brochure for REACH Fitchburg (Recreation, Education, Arts, Culture and History). The Architecture of Henry M. Francis offers a short biography of this prolific Lunenburg-born architect (1836-1908), whose elegant church and commercial buildings and residences ornament Fitchburg to this day. Rollstone Congregational Church (the gray granite church on lower Main Street), the YMCA building on Main Street, and the original Fitchburg Art Museum edifice are among his work.

Francis was a versatile and industrious architect, and his buildings incorporate many classic styles, including Georgian, Queen Anne, and neo-Gothic. If you've ever driven around downtown Fitchburg and suddenly marveled at a Palladian window on an office building or an ornate overhanging eaves on a house, chances are you're looking at a Francis-built structure. And it's the exceptional church in town that isn't a Francis house of worship. His ecclesiastical projects were ecumenical and included the German Evangelical Church, the Swedish Evangelical Church, and the Finnish Congregational Church, as well as Faith United Parish, now listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

The REACH brochure is convenient to carry and refer to: a four-fold cardstock with fascinating historical information by Barbara Edsall, interspersed with reproductions of Francis's work. Romayne Timms's exquisite map with legend will help you find these glorious buildings downtown.

REACH Fitchburg collaborators include Fitchburg State College, Fitchburg Historical Society, Fitchburg Art Museum, Fitchburg by Design, and the Fitchburg Economic Development Commission. All members will carry the brochure, but if you live out of the area write Ruth Penka, at the Historical Society, Box 953, Fitchburg 01420.

Sally Cragin just noticed that words that sound like `flu' include: flay, flaw, flee, flow, fly, and, of course, phlegm.


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