I'm sure we were just one of many neighborhoods in the old postal zip code of "01067" with kids who roamed its many streets, but as I dig deeper into the history of my beloved hometown, North Wilbraham, Collins Depot, something both startling and comforting becomes clear: I am now a part of that history. Growing up there in the '60s, '70s, and '80s, I was unknowingly leaving my own unique imprint on the rich, ever-evolving story of its past.
Our little corner of North Wilbraham was a world all its own, with Chapel Street, Maple Street, Maiden Lane, Boston Road, and the lower part of Mountain Road serving as our immediate stomping grounds. But oh, did our playground extend far beyond that! To the west, Nine Mile and Spec Ponds beckoned; to the north lay the Chicopee River; to the east, Twelve Mile Brook and Crane Hill Road whispered of adventures; and to the south stood Saint Cecilia Church, where we served as altar boys—a timeless sentinel that seemed to watch over us with a gentle, knowing grace.
The “gang,” as my mother affectionately (and sometimes exasperatedly) called us, was a mix of neighborhood boys who turned every patch of grass, every stretch of woods, and every quiet street into a scene from a great adventure.
The Johnson brothers, Eric and Carl, lived in the front apartment of the same house where our family occupied the rear. On warm summer nights, our bedroom windows, which lined up diagonally, became our secret channel for sharing stories. Just a holler away, the three of us would sit at our windows, recounting the day’s thrilling adventures and plotting new ones under the glow of the moonlight from this home at 6 Chapel Street.
The Normoyle boys—Tommy, Brian, Timmy, and Jay—ruled Maiden Lane with unmatched energy, while Richard and Mark Guthrie claimed their territory on Maple Street. Don Laware had Boston Road under his sway, and Mike Dowd earned his spot in our crew when his parents took over the “block” building on Boston Road. Even the younger Gore boys—Freddy, Ray, and Danny—along with their sister Ashley, would sometimes venture down from the mountain with their parents, bringing a fresh wave of excitement to our neighborhood escapades. Every so often, new families would move in, and their kids would join our mix, adding new faces and new adventures to our ever-growing gang.
We were a crew on a mission to squeeze every ounce of excitement out of childhood. Seasons dictated our play, and our world was full of forts, fields, and dreams. Summer meant wiffle ball in the Grace Union Church parking lot or the Normoyle’s backyard—a backyard so regularly trampled by us that grass had long given up trying to grow there. Mr. Normoyle occasionally roped off sections to plant new grass, but the poor sprouts never stood a chance against our determined feet.
Fall and winter brought football in Musselman’s side yard, where an old hand pump—likely installed on an 18th-century well—stood as a silent referee to our countless games. We’d pump its handle for refreshing water from the 18th century well until one fateful day when it spewed out something that smelled and looked like death itself—likely the remains of some unfortunate critter. The well eventually cleared, and so did our youthful squeamishness. Basketball took us to Don’s house, while street hockey was played in parking lots, and ice hockey had us zipping across the frozen Nine Mile Pond.
At times, we would join the firemen for a friendly game of football in the side lot of the fire station. It was more than just a game; they seemed to genuinely enjoy the camaraderie, and we looked up to them not just as firefighters but as mentors and role models. Their sportsmanship and kindness made those games unforgettable. Across the street, the drug store with its classic soda fountain was our go-to spot. We’d sit at the counter, carefully counting the few coins we had, hoping it was enough for an ice cream soda. If there was anything left over, we’d splurge on as much Bazooka bubble gum as we could buy. We never missed a fire department open house, eagerly crawling all over the fire trucks and, no doubt, causing a little chaos in the process. I’ll never forget one time when we peered through the fire chief’s office window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person behind the Smoky the Bear costume.
Nine Mile and Spec Ponds were a treasure trove of memories, with Spec Pond being the clear favorite. But to make sure we had enough coins for snacks, we’d sneak in the back way along the railroad tracks, bypassing the entrance fee. This clever shortcut left just enough money for the concession stand, where we’d debate the eternal kid dilemma—candy or chips? Tough choices for those of us with limited funds. When we were younger, we spent our summers at camp there, learning to swim and enjoying the sun. One thing I’ll always remember was the strong smell of potato chips that wafted through the air, thanks to the State Line Potato Chip Company, which sat directly across the driveway from Spec Pond. When our day at the pond finally wound down, we’d head up the driveway to the Dragon’s store, where we’d stretch our remaining coins and buy whatever treat we could afford.
And oh, the railroad tracks! They were more than just a shortcut; they were a stage for daring adventures and brushes with danger. One unforgettable day, Eric and I found ourselves caught between an oncoming train and the unforgiving rock cliffs at the “S” curve. With our hearts pounding, we pressed ourselves against the jagged cliff face, barely squeezing into the narrow space as the train thundered past. Thankfully, it was a Penn Central passenger train with just a few cars—far shorter than the freight trains that could stretch over 100 cars long. Whether it was bravery or sheer luck that saw us through, we walked away with a story that would linger far longer than our fear.
When we weren’t by the tracks, we were knee-deep in the woods, building forts that ranged from leaf-covered hideouts to elaborate treehouses. The nearby Chicopee River and the old Collins mill were irresistible. We explored the catacombs of the mill armed with nothing but kerosene lamps and wild imaginations, and in winter, we dared to ride ice sheets down parts of the river. We even played on the Singing Bridge, whose name promised more whimsy than safety.
Of course, the Snack Bar, which was owned by the Talbot family, at the corner of Boston Road and Chapel Street, connected to the block building, was a highlight. There, foot-long hot dogs were a special treat, and my family would take us when my mother wanted a day off from cooking.
Summers brought us barefoot to Brown’s Field, where the grass grew wild, and time seemed to stand still. Mr. Kittridge’s horse, Oaky, delighted in our crabapple offerings, and when the heat became unbearable, we’d cool off in the swimming hole he’d built by damming Spear Brook. That spot felt like paradise, especially to a group of boys with no worries other than how to spend the next long summer day.
The Danforth Farm was another thrilling spot for adventure. From the backfield, an old cart road wound its way to the remnants of the Collins Mill dam on Twelve Mile Brook. This weathered path likely once connected the grist mill and other long-forgotten mills to the mountain beyond. Walking it felt like stepping back in time, imagining the wagons that once rumbled along it. There was a certain magic in exploring these relics of the past, knowing they were tied to the Bay Path—the historic route that connected Springfield to Boston in the 17th century. It was as if we were retracing the footsteps of history itself.
Older boys, like Ricky Scott, Eddie and Teddy Collins, and Marty Musselman, brought an edge of mischief to our otherwise carefree adventures. Marty once used his new BB gun to turn us into unwilling targets, leaving welts and memories that still sting—but only with laughter now. Ricky, ever the trickster, tied us to a tree one day, claiming he’d rob the next train carrying gold. Believing him, we untied ourselves with wild determination and bolted home, only to be met with my mom’s amused grin.
As a kid, there was a special kind of joy that came with the freedom of the road. No, I’m not talking about a car—I’m talking about the two-wheeled wonder that was every kid’s trusted bicycle. Mine was a used brown 3-speed Columbia with a banana seat and playing cards clipped to the spokes, creating that mighty, unmistakable sound as I cruised through the neighborhood. The wind blowing through my hair as I pedaled was an unmatched thrill.
Memorial School, about a mile and a half south of our home, was where I spent my days, and it was the backdrop for many of my rides to school. I attended from 4th to 6th grade, but in the summer, my bike transformed into my personal passport to adventure. I'd take longer rides to visit my friend Peter Pacosa, who lived in the center of town, savoring the freedom of the open road and the endless possibilities for fun that lay ahead.
Speaking of the "wind blowing through my hair," there was a local barbershop on Boston Road, right near the iconic Skorupski Brothers gas station. This was where my father would take my older brother Paul and me for our high-and-tight haircuts. Robert Poulin’s father, who ran the shop, was our barber, and their home was connected to the barbershop. Every now and then, we’d slip through the shop door and into their house to marvel at Robert’s impressive train set, a world of miniature wonder that added a touch of magic to our routine visits.
Our neighborhood had three gas stations, each a familiar landmark of daily life. The largest was, of course, Skorupski Brothers, a bustling hub of activity. Then there was O'Connor's Service Station near the railroad underpass on Boston Road and the Gulf Service Station at the corner of Boston Road and Maiden Lane.
The Gulf station opened in 1963, a year after I was born, making it a constant presence throughout my childhood. It became a regular stop for us kids—not for gas, of course, but to check the air pressure in our bike tires. It was also the perfect spot for one of our favorite mischievous pastimes: riding our bikes over the hose that triggered the bell inside, the one meant to alert the attendant of a new customer.
We’d take turns circling back and forth, setting off the bell over and over again, thoroughly enjoying the sound and the small thrill of harmless rebellion. Of course, this drove the attendant absolutely nuts. After a while, he’d come out, yelling and waving his arms, chasing us off the property. We’d ride away laughing, only to return another day, our bikes ready for more mischief. It was all part of the fun and freedom that defined our childhood.
An interesting—and rather nerve-wracking—story my mother often told me involved O'Connor's Service Station. When I was very young, I managed to wander out of the house and down Chapel Street, eventually finding my way onto Boston Road. One of the O'Connor brothers, whose family ran the gas station, spotted me just in time. Scooping me into his arms, he prevented what could have been a terrible accident. He brought me back home to my mother, who was franticly searching for me. The relief on her face must have been palpable, and it became one of those family stories we never forgot—a reminder of both how quickly things can happen and the kindness of neighbors looking out for one another.
An intriguing visitor we occasionally spotted in the neighborhood was the hermit who lived up on the mountain. While I’m sure he had a name, we kids never knew it. He was a quiet, mysterious figure with long gray hair and a beard, his appearance disheveled and wild. He never said a word, and we were careful to give him plenty of space. His routine was predictable: he’d walk down Mountain Road to Chapel Street, eventually reaching the Quality Market near the old block building. There, he’d buy his provisions before heading back up to his solitary life on the mountain.
Another memorable character was Nicholas Depinto, a seemingly grumpy old man who was as much a fixture in the neighborhood as the hermit. He had a habit of muttering to himself constantly, punctuated by moments of yelling—often at us kids. His station wagon was his trusty companion, but what truly stood out was his dog. Let’s just say the dog's name was... colorful, to put it mildly, and hearing him shout it out loud never failed to catch us off guard. Despite his gruff exterior, he was an integral part of the quirky charm that defined our neighborhood.
Grassy Hollow, nestled next to the Boston Road fire station, was the ultimate spot for baseball games and flying kites. With two ballfields, it was where we spent countless hours, playing and creating memories. In 1925, the North Wilbraham baseball team had even clinched the Quaboag Valley League championship on these very fields. We were truly treading on hallowed ground. So, when the town proposed turning it into a dump, we were outraged. We weren’t about to let our cherished playground be lost without a fight, so we took matters into our own hands and wrote letters to the Selectmen. Sadly, our efforts fell short, and soon after, Grassy Hollow became the town dump.
It was a joy living in a neighborhood where everything you could need was just a stone's throw away. Imagine this: the post office, library, barbershop, gas stations, churches, fire station, police station, town hall, park, recreation areas, snack bar, drugstore, soda fountain, public transportation stops, and variety stores—all nestled together with the undeniable charm of a 19th-century community. You didn’t have to trek far for life’s necessities or simple pleasures. Everything felt connected, convenient, and full of character, making everyday errands feel like a stroll through history.
Looking back, those days were pure magic. From daring hikes to barefoot summers, from rickety bikes to the irresistible call of the woods, we lived a lifetime in every moment. And while those times may have passed, the memories live on, etched into the soul of North Wilbraham. Who knows? Maybe one day, someone else will write about the stories I’m still creating.
Loved both stories. I also grew up in North Wilbraham. There were the Boyers, the Murphys and Farmswoths. I lived on Nine Mile Pond. We had so much fun on truck tire tubs on the lake. We had some of the same adventures as the previous stories. But the girls were a little less courageous then then boys. The wildest thing I recall the neighborhood boys doing was jumping off the green bridge into the Chicopee River. I loved everything about North Wilbraham. We went to school with some high and mighty peers who would turn up their noses and say, “ You live in North Wilbraham ??” I’d fire back at them and say,”. We have the librar…
I can not think of anywhere else I would have wanted to grow up. I too grew up in N. Wilbraham, on Stony Hill Rd just a little further west. To read how life was so similar. The railroad tracks as our highway, cause you didn’t want your parents catching you on Boston Rd. The many forts along the Chicopee river, or the river itself riding ice flows in the spring. We even had our own bully in our neighborhood, Wayne Patrice, who did nothing but harass us, until one day when all the kids had had enough and took matters into our own hands. Let’s just say he never bothered us again. I could go on and on with…
This was an awesome article. Did you ever tell mom about the train??? Lol....it's a shame our girls grew up in the time of Holly Perainen and Molly Bishs murders. We could have never let them be as free as we once were. The threat of being abducted was too great. The difference between growing up in the 60s and 70s to our kids' 90s and Y2K were light years apart. I loved that neighborhood too and hold many memories of the girl population by the tracks near and dear to my ❤️
Thank you David.
What a beautiful walk down memory lane!!!!
01067 was a special place full of all we needed. My favorite was our Library. Loved the creaky wood floors, children's room, wooden card catalog and most especially the bench on the porch with the seat that lifted for returning our books.