Memories of Horton Home have lingered vividly throughout years

Back in the late 1920s and early 1930s, there was a facility, the Horton Home, named after the Rev. William Horton, who was well-known for his kindness and benevolence. He was concerned with the poor and elderly because, as they got older and lost their families, many had no place to go.

Horton (1805-1863) was reverend of St. Paul's Church and stepped forward and embraced the problem by setting aside money for a facility for the elderly, indigent poor in Newburyport. Horton realized there were poor, elderly people who were alone, and he did something about it. He was ahead of his time.

The Horton House on North Atkinson Street was known as the "poor house." However, many people, even I, did not know it existed.

It was December in the 1920s, just before Christmas, when I and my friend, Stephen Sarres, were looking for some kind of work. We were willing to do most any kind of work, especially during the season. At that time of the year, people were busy with their own personal and family matters. Nobody wanted to go to work at the Horton House where they were looking for men to split firewood for the winter.

My friend and I were asking for work from the city — shoveling snow for the winter; we were denied (as usual). However, the city didn't seem to have anybody available on a short notice to go to work at the Horton House, so they allowed Stephen and me to do the job.

Our job was to start splitting wood into small pieces and stack the wood near the cellar door behind the building. We were to be paid $2 a day each. The supervisors, men and women who managed the Horton House, wanted it to look "spic and span" clean because it was getting close to Christmastime. They were in a rush for the house to look its best.

I observed a lot of excitement in the air. The real reason was that they had to hurry and clean the floors, polish the woodwork, open all the windows to air out the main rooms and hang white lace curtains at the windows of each room because there was soon to be an inspection; a Newburyport Visiting Committee consisting of men and women, all well-to-do, was scheduled to arrive that afternoon.

Curiously, I observed there were no residents in the rooms; they'd been removed. The attending nurses and assistants were taking the residents, one-by-one, and placing them down below in the dark cellar close to the rear door. I could see them huddled there while I was splitting wood behind the building. They were all just sitting in the cellar on homemade wooden benches; each bench actually consisted of a plank of wood for each bench seat. The entrance way of the open, lower rear door provided their only light. There they sat, in total silence, not speaking a word, waiting for the visiting committee to arrive. They were told by the assistants, "Do not utter a sound while the guests are here." It was a pathetic sight.

When my friend and I questioned those in charge, who were busily running around and getting things ready, they told us to stay out in back of the building, where we were cutting wood, while the inhabitants were being relocated downstairs.

Just then, within seconds, I saw two large carloads of people arrive in new, shiny, black cars. They walked up the stairs to the main entrance. As they entered, there was much commotion and excitement by the staff. I could see they'd cleaned and polished the floors, and the assistants had now opened all the windows. Rooms were now filled with sunlight. Pretty, white, lace curtains had been hung, and the lady in charge was pointing out to the group, "These are their living quarters," which was less than the truth.

I recall it clearly. It was an unusually warm day in December when we eventually finished splitting and stacking the wood. We had been told to sit inside the cellar with the men and stay there until the visitors were gone, and when they left, we could return to cutting wood. I heard from the men that these visitations occurred twice a year. The visiting committee left in about half an hour; until they departed, we could hear a lot of giggles and laughter and flitting around like butterflies from up above.

I also learned from the men that the residents had a right to smoke. They kept tobacco in their Bull Durham pouch in their area. They came over to Stephen and me and had their pouch of tobacco with them. They told us they were denied any matches and, therefore, could not light their cigarettes.

I asked the men, "What do you do for matches?"

They told me that when they got a book of matches, they'd slice each match in half so they'd have an extra amount of matches, but they were allowed only one match per day. It was such a pathetic situation. They were never allowed a match while in the cellar, and I can understand that, but they also were not permitted to smoke upstairs, either.

The visitation was ending, with lots of cackles and good-byes. I sensed that something was just not right. Hadn't they forgotten something? I knew they had seen the polished floors, the lace curtains blowing in the breeze, the sun-filled rooms and the polished woodwork, but I thought to myself, "The visiting committee has missed something important." It troubled me that they never spoke with the residents who were seated down below in the cellar, never even saw the residents, who were out of sight, hidden away in silence.

We split and stacked three large piles of wood. We were so tired and warm that we took off our jackets and lay down on top of a huge pile of cut wood and fell asleep.

When we went back to City Hall the following day to receive our pay, we did not get money. They gave us a chit that had the value of $2 for each of us.

We said, "That's all right." We were told we had to use the chit in a specific store, but the chit was only good for the store on State Street. So, we went to that store.

The irony of all this ended with the man in the store who now told us we could not buy what we liked in this store. He disallowed us fruit, vegetables and dairy, etc. He allowed rice, oatmeal and navy beans which did not interest me.

We went home without using our chit. The next day, I returned to that same store with my sister. This time, he allowed us to have navy beans, plus anything else we wanted. We used our chit, but we never went back to this store.

The Horton Home is long gone. It was demolished in 1961 and replaced by the elderly housing development called Horton Terrace.

Dear readers, now you have gotten a birds-eye view, so-to-speak, of a personal experience at the Horton House from someone who had worked there. The sequence of events of the entire situation that day was not acceptable to my way of thinking, and the negative experience of this saga became embedded in my brain, and I never have forgotten it.

Let us not forget the good Rev. Horton. It is evident the Rev. Horton was instrumental in the development of a home for the homeless elderly and in seeing that they not be left behind.

• • •

John Lagoulis is a columnist for The Daily News and writes about Newburyport as he lived it, particularly in the early 1900s. John is 92 and recently authored and self-published the book "Newburyport: As I Lived It!" He also has a DVD titled "Recollections of Newburyport in the 1920s and 1930s." You may email him at wharfrat01@att.net or visit www.NewburyportWharfRat.com.

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