Mary Fusco and Maplewood Square.
A few years after I graduated from the University of Maine,a highschool buddy of mine Mike Sakala and I took an apartment in Malden, just north of the Boston. Located in a neighborhood called Maplewood Square, it featured all you could need as a young graduate—a laundry mat, two neighborhood bars, a hair salon, a breakfast cafe called The Depot, a sandwich joint, lots of neighbors who had occupied those triple-deckers for generations, and easy access to four bus lines that would quickly run you out to the orange line of the MBTA on your way to downtown Boston.
I lived in on the top floor of a four-family Victorian home on the southeast corner of the square. A wonderful Italian widow named Mary Fusco owned the house and was very particular about who she allowed to rent an apartment in her home. She lived on the bottom floor and had been there for nearly 40 years. If you made it through the interview, the rent was cheap. Well, after an hour-long interview, she granted me the top floor and welcomed me to the family.
Every day after work, I’d take the train from Post Office Square in the financial district of downtown Boston to Malden Station, and then the bus to Maplewood Square. By 6:30 or so, she would be sitting by the first floor kitchen window waiting for me to walk up the drive way to the back staircase that led up to my digs. As I’d walk by that window, she would knock on it, and waive me in. So every day, the first person I would see before getting home was Mary. She would have some sort of freshly made Italian pastries waiting for me. For at least an hour, I would sit at her kitchen table eating the baked goods of the day and talking about politics or the neighborhood happenings.
She would sip what I thought was coffee from her mug, but later found out it was straight whiskey. Not much. Not drunk. Just a little. She always asked me not to tell her son Jack who lived with her. This was her little secret. What a treasure she was, as she pinched my cheek just like you see in the movies and told me what a good boy I was.
Mary shared her pastries and groceries with me and sometimes Mike, every day of every week for two years. She shared her memories of her sons growing up. She shared her sadness of a love deceased. She rarely charged me rent but let me paint different parts of the house or garage instead. She just “wanted me there,” she’d say.
I visited her a few years ago while I was in town with my family. I hadn’t lived there in nearly 20 years. She was quite old and senile by then but she remembered me. Her son Jack told me she didn’t really remember anyone and was having trouble figuring out where she was most of the time.
Sitting at that same kitchen table with her brought back such good memories. And even though she uttered the same stories over and over, I loved being there with her.
Maplewood Square and Mary Fusco hold place in my heart I will always treasure.
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Derek Aramburu / Blog
Mary my landlord
Mary Fusco and Maplewood Square. A few years after I graduated from the University of Maine,a highschool buddy of mine Mike Sakala and I took an apartment in Malden, just north of the Boston. Located in a neighborhood called Maplewood Square, it featured all you could need as a young graduate—a laundry mat, two neighborhood bars, a hair salon, a breakfast cafe called The Depot, a sandwich joint, lots of neighbors who had occupied those triple-deckers for generations, and easy access to four bus lines that would quickly run you out to the orange line of the MBTA on your way to downtown Boston. I lived in on the top floor of a four-family Victorian home on the southeast corner of the square. A wonderful Italian widow named Mary Fusco owned the house and was very particular about who she allowed to rent an apartment in her home. She lived on the bottom floor and had been there for nearly 40 years. If you made it through the interview, the rent was cheap. Well, after an hour-long interview, she granted me the top floor and welcomed me to the family. Every day after work, I’d take the train from Post Office Square in the financial district of downtown Boston to Malden Station, and then the bus to Maplewood Square. By 6:30 or so, she would be sitting by the first floor kitchen window waiting for me to walk up the drive way to the back staircase that led up to my digs. As I’d walk by that window, she would knock on it, and waive me in. So every day, the first person I would see before getting home was Mary. She would have some sort of freshly made Italian pastries waiting for me. For at least an hour, I would sit at her kitchen table eating the baked goods of the day and talking about politics or the neighborhood happenings. She would sip what I thought was coffee from her mug, but later found out it was straight whiskey. Not much. Not drunk. Just a little. She always asked me not to tell her son Jack who lived with her. This was her little secret. What a treasure she was, as she pinched my cheek just like you see in the movies and told me what a good boy I was. Mary shared her pastries and groceries with me and sometimes Mike, every day of every week for two years. She shared her memories of her sons growing up. She shared her sadness of a love deceased. She rarely charged me rent but let me paint different parts of the house or garage instead. She just “wanted me there,” she’d say. I visited her a few years ago while I was in town with my family. I hadn’t lived there in nearly 20 years. She was quite old and senile by then but she remembered me. Her son Jack told me she didn’t really remember anyone and was having trouble figuring out where she was most of the time. Sitting at that same kitchen table with her brought back such good memories. And even though she uttered the same stories over and over, I loved being there with her. Maplewood Square and Mary Fusco hold place in my heart I will always treasure.
Reply