William Lowell Smith
I never met my grandfather. He fell off a tank near his bulk oil truck in his shop on February 28, 1949. That was 2 years and 2 months before my birth. However, he was immeasurably influential in my life even to this day. Just the fact that I can remember the date of his death when I can only approximate the day his wife, my grandmother, Hazel died. And she probably had more influence on who I am today than even my parents. So, who was Will Smith?
He was the man whose hat was hanging on a hook on the wall in the entryway from the garage to the south porch of the house where he, my grandmother, my mother, and my uncle Burton lived. This hat was still hanging there when I took it around 1973. He had a smaller head than me which surprised me because he was always a huge man in my perspective. I lost the hat after it fell apart. The house itself belonged originally to his father-in-law and mother-in-law, Sarah and Charlie Hicok. They both died there.
Will was a non-believer. My grandmother was devout. My mother relayed in passing to me as an adult that Hazel and Will fought every Sunday of my mother’s life about Will’s soul and his need to attend church. Mom said that it always ended with the roar of an outboard motor from the garage where Will was repairing said outboard motor stuck in a 55 gallon tank. I always assumed that fixing outboards was just cash market income. Thinking about it now, the roar probably drowned out my grandmother. One of the statements about me, personally, that I am still most proud of was, when I was 18. I was arguing in my grandmother's front room with a friend I had brought up to Nashua to experience the magic of that house about religion of all stupidness. Dumb move, Tom. Rude to boot. Anyway, Hazel declared that I was a heathen just like my grandfather. I still am. What I did not comprehend at the time and didn’t for the next 20 years until my mother informed me, was that my grandmother believed in a literal Hell and her beloved husband was in it because he refused to believe. I am sure that she prayed every night about this issue.
To make matters worse, his will specifically stated that the Masonic Temple would manage the totality of his funeral, not my grandmother. I just now checked Ancestry to verify this and it is true. I am still a heathen and will return from the dead to make amends with whomever prays over my carcass but still… The thought of my grandmother, the grandest person in my life, powerless at that moment in the most pain filled day of her life almost makes me revert from my support of his decision. But, I cannot.
The right photo is of Will (on the right), his dog, Coe, and a friend whose name I used to remember but have now forgotten. This framed photo hung from the front wall in the upstairs bedroom where I always slept while I stayed there. It currently hangs from my wall along with several of Hazel’s paintings.
I remember as a boy lying in bed on a hot summer night listening to the Detroit Diesel engines winding up through the gears as they pulled out of town on Highway 218 just outside my wide open window. I was neither hot nor cold under my single sheet. I vividly recall the amber clearance lights on the truck tractor and the red trailer lights as they passed. This created my passion, which still remains today, for big trucks and the American trucking industry.
The second story window was mine. I don’t remember any electricity in my room. The south porch was behind the door to the right. There was a cot in there where I slept when it was too cold upstairs. Sleeping on this porch is where I learned about milk house heaters. I still have one here in my bunkhouse on North Twin. There was no heat on the second floor just a vent in the floor. I took this picture from the middle of old highway 218 the last time I was there. (for Hazel’s funeral in 1981) The state built a bypass at some time probably mid ‘60’s. The name of our road was changed to Charles City Road.
The house is now gone as is Charlie Demro’s house barely visible on left in this image.
