"A Family Story"
As you may have noted, my output of essays has declined, especially those of a political nature. While there is much for which I am thankful – the border is secure; Iran has been deprived of a nuclear weapon; the economy appears robust; interest rates seem to be normalizing; "Wokeness" in the workplace and universities seems to be in remission; businesses and people appear to be adjusting to the inevitable changes that will be wrought by changes in technology – I am dismayed by the behavior many of our politicians on both sides of the aisle. Perhaps I am getting old, but I yearn for a time when civility and tolerance were more prominent, and less hatred was being expressed.
Nevertheless, the pull of writing essays remains strong. This one is short about a single, but amusing, incident many years ago. And tomorrow I shall have a review of a short but delightful book.
The photo is of me and my five siblings (I am on the left), taken around 1950, outside of our home in Peterborough. Three more boys would be born before the family was complete.
Sydney M. Williams
More Essays from Essex
“A Family Story”
October 3, 2026
“I was lucky to be born abnormal. It ran in the family.”
E.B. White
Letter to Mrs. Dorothy Guth
March 16, 1984
We had pulled into a gas station somewhere near Athol, Massachusetts.
“Where you headed?” the attendant inquired.
“My mother-in-law’s,” my father replied.
He surveyed the car and trailer: “Does she know you’re coming?” was his dubious response.
My mother laughed.
It was around 1950. In our 1941 Ford station wagon, pulling a one-horse trailer in which were a Shetland pony and two goats, we were driving from Peterborough, New Hampshire to Madison, Connecticut to visit my grandmother. Besides my parents, in the car were six children, a couple of dogs and a cat.
My mother and father were artists – sculptors – who a few years earlier had started a small toy business, Red Shed Rubber Animals. My mother had grown up in New Haven and Madison, and my father in Wellesley, Massachusetts and Peterborough. They had married during the Depression and chosen to live lives quite different from that in which they had been raised. They created a close-knit family that included their love for family, horses and skiing.
We saw a lot of my paternal grandparents, as they summered on property adjacent to ours. On the other hand, my maternal grandmother – widowed in 1947 – lived in the East River section of Madison; so we would spend a couple of weeks with her every summer. She had a barn; so the animals would not have to bed down in the house.
My mother’s response was infectious; my father saw the humor, as did we. They had grown up in the 1920s, were young adults during the 1930s Depression years, and my father went to war in 1944. The post-War years were filled with hope for peace and prosperity. But this moment at the gas station was funny. As E. B. White described his family in the epigraph above, we were an abnormally strange sight – a cacophonous station wagon, filled with voices of children – crying and laughing, and the sounds of animals – barking, mewing, neighing and bleating.
As we drove off, the attendant smiled.
Labels: E.B. White, Family humor



