Earlier this fall, I was traveling up West Street and saw a sign for the new Centennial Senior Center. I was bemused. Not because the seniors had a place to once again call their own, but because the “new” home is one of the landmarks of Concord: the West Street Ward House, voting place for Ward 7 residents.
Curiosity, having got the better of me, required a quick stop to see what was going on at the West Street Ward House. I was brought up on Badger Street, which shares the northeast corner with the ward house, so I had a lot of memories of the place.
To a young boy of 6, the West Street Ward House was a formidable and imposing building, to say the least. The cornerstone indicates a construction date circa 1884. Made of old brick and having a heavy wooden door that needed three people to pull it open, we very rarely ventured inside, and when we did it was usually when our parents voted.
It was a hotbed of activity for those in the know. I remember asking my father why the building existed, and his response was so that people who paid a poll tax could vote. Not knowing why one would have to pay for a pole, or even what a tax was, my vivid imagination conjured up visions of putting tacks on poles. That made sense. If I put tacks on poles, I would gain entry to the West Street Ward House. I wasn't a normal kid.
During this time, I became aware of various and sundry activities offered to neighborhood residents other than voting for pole taxes. In fact, throughout my early childhood, I would venture into the West Street Ward House, usually drawn there for food and fun. (It was the food, mostly.)
I was invited to a Saturday afternoon sock hop put on for the teens in the neighborhood. I'm not exactly sure who invited me in, but I'm assuming it was one of my sister's friends, as my sister surely didn't want her little brother bothering her. I was scruffy and had the remnants of a chocolate donut in my hand and, in all probability, all over my face. Nonetheless, I entered the hallowed halls of the West Street Ward House and was amazed by its cavernous size. I was ready to make a hasty retreat should any girl ask me to dance – I knew what was going on thanks to “American Bandstand” and wanted no part of it – yet there were throngs of sweaty teenagers, mostly girls, who seemed to have paid some pole tacks and earned the right to dance to their hearts' content.
There was at least one dance a month for them, and there were Friday night dances as well. That's what teenagers did. And they did it at the West Street Ward house.
A few months later, I learned that the West Street Ward House was the home of a neighborhood Halloween party. This, too, I found out by accident. I was on my way back from trick-or-treating with my mother just before twilight. My brother, being older and more experienced at the candy-grabbing game, had the luxury of trick-or-treating with his gang of thieves. We were to meet with him at the ward house where, once again, I was astounded by all the activity. There was apple bobbing, donuts on a string, “witches brew” to drink and a fortune teller. I was later coerced into entering the Halloween costume contest. My costume? Well, I went as my brother's little brother, having already taken off my ghost costume, because I just wanted to be at home eating my stash. I didn't win. Someone in a Davy Crockett costume, complete with musket and coonskin cap, beat me out. What they didn't realize was that it took a lot of imagination and guts to attend as my brother's little brother. I think I should have gotten a prize for sheer bravado.
I had not been into the West Street Ward House for almost 40 years, until I ventured in on that day in September. To quote Yogi Berra, “It was déjà vu all over again.” Nothing had changed except the size of the building. The cavernous room that I remembered from my early boyhood days appeared to have shrunk with age. However, the wood slat floor with the grated heating register in the middle was still there. There was definitely some reminiscing of days gone by, both joyful and melancholy.
What was most noticeable, though, was the buzz of activity from the present members of the Centennial Senior Center. They were engaged in dancing, game playing and eating – activities that brought me to the West Street Ward House in the first place.
Who says you can’t go home again?
January 6, 2019
This is Patricia Woods we used to live across the street from there, I used to be in the Brownie’s & Girl Scouts that’s where our meeting’s were held. Wow this building brings back so many memories. I do remember Janet’s Donut Shop right next door to our house, I used to go there & get donut’s every day before I went to school. I was born & raised in Concord . Just thinking about all these places when I was younger it just seems weird seeing what they all look like now. When I was little the town seemed so big , When I went back there in the year 2000 , it didn’t look so big. My last name back then was Champney , had a wonderful man that loved all us kids , he adopted us & gave us his last name . God rest his soul , he worked for the Fire Dept in Concord , his name is Lawrence Woods . He married my mom . The best thing he ever did. That is the only Dad , I ever knew .