Capt. Larz Neilson, founder of the Town Crier, used to run a column called Town Notes, often including funny little stories.
Sept. 26, 1957
Back in the old days, about the time of World War I, the boys of Wilmington would be very busy at this time of year, raiding, or otherwise visiting the farmers’ orchards after the nice succulent apples that grew in those days, and grow no more, thanks to all the modern insects, which seem to grow more in strength and numbers as modern science invents new and more potent insecticides.
We were thinking about it as we watched the sun set last Saturday. The apples that old Tom McMahon used to guard so zealously, the two Blue Pear Maine trees that used to be up on Tom Daly’s farm, and the Russet tree that stood behind the high school, now the Swain School.
A person who has never eaten a Blue Pear Maine doesn’t know what an apple is. It was a “hard” apple, which, when it was ripe had blue streaks interposed with the red on its skin. The blue, we have no doubt, was part of the reason for its name, but we never could figure out where the Pear part came.
There was another Blue Pear Maine, on Pop Neilson’s hill on Glen Road. It stood near the door of the carriage shed, and schoolboys would knock down a supply with stones, on the way to school, making sure they were well-bruised. They would then leave them in the carriage shed.
After school, when those apples were retrieved, they would be just overflowing with the most delicious cider we ever tasted.
Those were the days.
Jan. 13, 1954
An editor’s remarks
A newspaper editor is often in a position where he cannot make remarks which he would like to make. We envy the freedom which was shown in a church paper recently. (Not one of our local churches.)
The editor was taken to task by someone whose birthday had not been mentioned. Personally, we believe that the fellow hadn’t told the editor and thought that the editor should be able to guess that the birthday was coming. — At least that’s the way some people act, in relation to newspapers.
Anyway, the editor gave as good as he received. The letter read: “The thing stinks, why did they ever pick you as editor. Why, I had a birthday Dec. 24th, and it wasn’t even in the ‘thing’ and furthermore, we paid the first time it came out, and it wasn’t in the next issue.”
(I wish someone would sic McCarthy on this rabble-rousing little runt.)
Sept. 8, 1960
A considerable mystery seems to be developing in the Wilmington Police Department. It has the boys baffled. They are chewing on what’s left of their fingernails.
Somebody found a pig, wandering around touring the countryside, on the 5th of September. The porker was enjoying himself on Lowell Street, and Sgt. Shepard, with officers Kelley and Ballou rushed to the rescue.
The other officers in the department know that — but no more. Was the pig returned to its owner? Did it end up, perhaps, as the piece de resistance at some picnic, or in somebody’s home? Is the pig alive, or is he in some pigly Valhalla?
No one knows, other than the aforementioned three gendarmes, and they are keeping a stiff upper lip, to their own enjoyment, if no one else’s.