Those Were the Days columnist
By VIRGINIA MCNEIL SLEP
Published December 24, 2020
North Reading Transcript
Shortly after we moved to North Reading when I was five years old, Mother and I were walking down Haverhill Street on our way to Molly’s (Ryer’s store.) As we passed the Eaton Inn, an older woman sitting on the front porch called out to us, and we stopped to chat. That may have been one of the more important conversations of my life.
The woman introduced herself as Ruby Eaton. (“You can just call me Grammy Eaton,” she told us. “Everybody does.”) She said that she and her husband Hovey owned the Inn, and that she had a granddaughter who lived in the white house next door. Her granddaughter was also named Virginia, and was also five years old.
And thus it began. Not only did Virginia Eaton become my close, lifelong friend, but Grammy and Grampa Eaton sort of added me to their collection of grandchildren; and as we grew up, Ginny and I spent many memorable times at their home. They often referred to me as “the other Virginia.”
The Eaton Inn, at 110 Haverhill Street, was primarily a “home away from home” for teachers at the Batchelder School, and sometimes for teachers in Reading. There were no superhighways back in those days, and it made sense to a lot of teachers to take a room at the Eaton Inn rather than commute long distances every day. But most of the teachers returned home on weekends, over school vacation weeks, and over the summer, and the rooms would be empty; so Grammy would often invite Ginny and me to come for a sleepover.
The Eatons were warm, welcoming people, and Grammy Eaton loved to cook and to see her guests enjoying her food. She and Grampa were industrious people as well, and the Inn was always trim, tidy, and sparkling, with every room, every corner spotlessly clean and inviting. The front porch always sported flowers in the summer, and in December, the arborvitae shrubs always glowed with the first Christmas lights in the neighborhood.
I still recall my first overnight there. Ginny and I were in second grade, and Grammy and Grampa were going to take us in to Boston to see Snow White at one of the big movie theaters during our February vacation. They invited us to sleep in one of the empty rooms so we could get an early start in the morning. At six o’clock the next morning, as we sat down to breakfast at the kitchen table, I had my first experience with Grammy’s cooking – and her love of feeding her guests.
Grammy started by asking each of us what kind of juice we would like. Every summer she canned gallons and gallons of tomato juice and grape juice (both grown right in their garden), and used the abundant supply at their table all year. After we took some sips of juice, she asked what kind of fruit we wanted. She also canned dozens of jars of blueberries, peaches, and rhubarb sauce, and we were served a little dish of fruit. I figured that was plenty – but then she served each of us a large bowl of hot cereal she had been cooking on the stove. She said it was going to be a long time until lunch, and we needed something that would “stick to our ribs” and keep us warm.
The hot cereal was certainly filling, and I figured we were now definitely ready for our big trip into Boston. Then she served us each a plate of eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. I had never eaten such an enormous breakfast in my life – and everything was delicious.
Over the years, this became a regular treat. Sometimes, Ginny and I were just invited to sleep over on a Friday night. This involved dinner the night before, and breakfast the following morning, often at a little table set up for the two of us in front of a nice fire in the fireplace. At least once a year, Grammy and Grampa would take the two of us into Boston to see a movie on the big screen: Cinderella, Bambi, Gigi, Oklahoma – we saw so many wonderful movies as their guests.
Several times, beginning when we were ten years old, they invited us to spend New Year’s Eve with them at the Inn. The living room of the Inn was large and comfortable and welcoming. Grampa would build a fire, and the four of us would play Scrabble at a card table in front of the fireplace until it was time to turn on the TV and watch the ball drop in Times Square. Ginny and I felt so grown up, being allowed to stay up so late.
Grammy was an amazing cook, and as long as they owned the Inn, whenever Ginny and I were on our way to the library or to the tennis courts, we were welcome to stop in and check out the cookie jars in the pantry. They were always full – one for chocolate chip cookies, one for ice box cookies. There was always such abundance at the Eaton Inn – an abundance of delicious home cooked food, and an abundance of warmth and welcome. I was so fortunate to be included in their extended family, to be their “other Virginia.” For me, there was always room at the Inn.
