Today, I trekked to Methuen, a town not quite 25 miles inland, referred for a medical appointment that proved harmless enough.
Had I gone 25 miles in any other direction, I might have come right back, but Methuen sits on the northern border of the city where I was born and raised, a section of it called Tower Hill which sits right on that border within a mile of the doctor’s office.
So I took a nostalgic tour, indulging in memories both fond and melancholy, when I realized that there would be one touchstone of my own distant past that I could find, buy, and take with on the ride home.
Between my junior and senior high school years, I was a clerk at the Harris & Moore Delicatessen in downtown Lawrence, Mass., my first real job unless you count newspaper boy.
Even back in 1967, the store was what today would be called “a treasure,” established in 1904, featuring sausages, meat pies and loaves crafted from recipies just off the boats from Hamburg and Liverpool at the time. Not to mention a German-styled potato salad I make to this day that delights my guests here on Plum Island and has delighted my hosts as far as Colorado–never mind that hard boiled eggs take forever to peel at that altitude. Though I never once made it at Harris & Moore, I watched it put together so often that, twenty years later when I finally had a nostalgic craving, I knew what to do.
But I did make, or at least bake our biggest seller, the item for which we were renowned: Pork Pies. Not much bigger than a baseball, they formed in tin cups that fit 30 on a tray in our large ovens. We had a machine that punched out the dough, another to grind the pork, and spoons to measure the seasoning. I’d tell you what the seasoning was, but I was a 16-year-old who never thought to ask, who thought “Scarborough Fair” was a coming-of-age song about four young women.
On busy days we sold hundreds of them. Lawrence was still a fairly vibrant city in the late 60s with a large and busy downtown, a county courthouse and a city hall just blocks away. A pork pie and a half-pint of potato salad–or a sandwich on Kasanoff’s pumpernickel and a side of coleslaw–made for a quick and satisfying lunch for many retailers, lawyers, secretaries, public officials, clerks. Inexpensive, too; those pies went two for 49 cents.
Harris & Moore, along with much of downtown Lawrence, closed shop in the mid-70s. I was long gone by then, but I stayed in touch with the legendary Joe Collins who worked for the original owners for at least twenty years before he bought the place in the mid-30s. He told me that a mom & pop grocery named Thwaite’s had purchased all of the pork pie tins and trays, as well as the machines that punched out the dough and ground the pork. I would have expected him to say it with regret, but he was genuinely happy to leave it all in good hands.
Located just over the border in Methuen, Thwaite’s has been going strong all these years. When I taught at UMass Lowell back in the 90s, it was hardly a detour to stop there. Since then, not so much, and since the pandemic’s shut down, not at all.
Today, the light bulb was as sudden as it was bright.
If Lake Wobegon is the little town that time forgot, Thwaite’s is the corner store that makes time laugh out loud.
A parking lot for about ten cars has green signs that look rather serious until you read them: “Parking for Pies and Sausage Only.” On the wall: “It’s Pie O’Clock Somewhere.” Small hand-written signs appear on the window, and if that’s not living in the past, the “banker’s hours,” posted at the entry, sure are–as most businesses did back in the Eisenhower and Kennedy years, Thwaite’s closes at noon on Wednesdays.
Luckily, there was a tray of pies just out of the oven, nostalgia’s smell so much more vibrant than all its sights. I figured I was picking up dinner and wouldn’t mind re-heating in the oven on this rainy day. Two would do it, as they did on my way home from Lowell years ago.
After I paid, I couldn’t help but tell the woman at the counter of Harris & Moore and how I once made the pies I just then bought. But I could see she was too young for an old man’s sentiment, so I withheld the detail that she might have mistaken for criticism or complaint and paid the bill without comment:
Two pies for $8.54.
To arrive at the doctor’s on time, I managed no more than a banana and an English muffin for breakfast. Leaving Methuen, it seemed way too early for lunch, but yes, I was hungry, and there I was taking whiffs of two warm pies in a bag beside me.
But that’s for tonight to have with a couple IPAs while watching the Red Sox. Maybe I’ll nibble at the crust…
And just like that, I’m 16 years-old, ready to eat anything within reach. The pies are gone before I’m less than a mile past the doctor’s office, so I consider turning around and going back for more. Well, I said only that they were to take with on the ride home, not that they would necessarily make it home.
Here in 1967, it’s always Pie O’Clock.
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Mouth of the River 