I was planning to write about bridges this week, but the news of Robert Sherman’s passing changed that. I have to say that I’ve always called him Bob or Bobby, probably because that’s what my mother always called him. When my husband and I were considering buying a house at Center Village, the news that the Shermans had bought one there was enough to convince John that it was a good idea.
Bob always rode around in his pickup to check on his properties, so he would frequently pull over to chat if he found us outside. I never knew what the day’s story would be. My favorite one was about his riding his bike to then Harriet Salley’s house. He would have to pass by Jack Wilson’s garage and Jack would call him over and tell him to turn around and go home. He would tell him that he was making a “big mistake”. All the men hanging around the garage would give him a hard time, but they didn’t deter him.
It seems Bob noticed Harriet and her long, blonde curls when he was in 5th grade and she was in 6th. Some years later, he spotted her at a Grange dance and that was it. Sharing his love of square dancing, he taught her the steps and they could often be found at the square dances on Mattapoisett wharf. They married in their teens and were married for 70 years.
Bob became my hero one summer day. There was a horrific smell permeating the family cottage, and my mother was expecting renters the next week. My brother had tried to find someone to take care of the problem with no success, so my mother called her cousin and Harriet relayed the message to Bob.
Bob left the $1,000,000.00 house he was working on and came to the rescue. I met him there and he determined that he would need to cut a square out of the back hall floor to get to the source of the problem. He then sent me off to buy lime so I wouldn’t be there for the worst of the extrication of a putrefied baby fox that had gotten stuck between the floor joists (the cottage sat on cinder blocks) and died. That day he definitely went above and beyond for an older cousin he probably hadn’t seen in years.
When I started to write these articles for the Wanderer, I wasn’t sure if I was reaching an interested audience. I bumped into Bobby at Plumb Corner one Thursday. He had just picked up his magazine and told me that my stories were the reason that he got there early to get a copy. That’s when I knew I was successful.
I used to tease Bob that his picture was in the Post Office (like the wanted posters of old). Actually, he is in a Hartley family photo that is in the PO Box area with other historical pictures. He’s the baby on Grandma Hartley’s lap and my mother is two rows back and four in from the right. With Bob gone, I feel like it’s the end of an era and I know he will be missed.
By Connie Eshbach