Ed Glowatsky 194?-2023
Henry Street
Dear Neighbors,
For those of you who haven’t yet heard, I wanted to let you know that Ed Glowatsky, our neighbor who lived his entire life in the small yellow house on Henry Street, passed away last week. He had a heart attack. He was in his 70s. I don’t know many more details. Others on this list can hopefully respond here, sharing some facts and some memories.
Even if you didn’t know Ed you will surely have passed him on the street in his blue Chevy pickup (previously his gold Chevy pickup with the ice scrapers sticking out both sides of the bed) as he made his loops up Montview and Williams, down Fair Street and Ventures Field Road, and along all of the hundreds-year-old roads in the Meadows.
The Meadows, especially, was Ed’s place. He picked cucumbers out there when he was a kid. He pronounced the word “potatoes” in only the way a man can who has lifted a shit-ton of potatoes out of the Northampton Meadows. That was when he was young, working on his father’s farm. When he was older he harvested wild asparagus in the Meadows. He tended to some chestnut trees he planted himself on the edge of some land he owned (he called the land “my swamp,” for obvious reasons). But mostly he just sat in the cab of his truck, read the paper, and watched whatever tractor was moving between his hood and the horizon.
Over the last 15 years I ran into Ed in dozens of locations in the Meadows, and in each of those spots Ed would slowly lift his arm and point his finger and tell me a story about something that happened there. It would often take a while for me to figure out if the incident he was describing occurred 6 or 60 years ago. He was a living repository of the stories of the dirt of that floodplain. For years I had been intending to follow him around with a recorder to catch some of those stories. My fault I didn’t take the time.
There was a period about 10 or 12 years ago when I spent more time with Ed than I did with my wife or my kids. This was when we were new to farming and I’d be making these absurdly crooked rows with the New Holland or the Farmall Cub, and I’d turn around on the tractor hoping no one had seen me, and there’d be Ed in his gold Chevy, watching. Several times Ed and I drove down to Feeding Hills or up to Northfield to check out some old piece of equipment. He would talk me into buying it and then chastise me for how much I had spent. When my tractor broke down in the Meadows, which happened more times than I’d like to admit, I would tinker with the engine but keep turning around, hoping Ed would show up. One time I lay down in the dirt and took a nap, knowing he’d arrive eventually.
The man never once knocked on our door. Just sat in his truck in the driveway, waiting.
Ed was, in his own words, “retired” from farming for most of his adult life. By the time I knew him he was “semi-retired” from running his electric shop on Hawley Street. I would love to hear some stories from the booming days of Ed’s Electric, if there ever were any. He told me he spent more time showing people how to assemble their complicated food processors than he spent fixing anything.
So that’s it, my too-limited knowledge of our neighbor, Ed Glowatsky. He had no wife, no dog, no internet, no phone and no credit cards, which is a lot of things not to have. But he had a Chevy pickup and his very own swamp, so I suppose he made out OK. There was always a light on in his window on Henry Street. He read the news in the Northampton Meadows. He brought us all wild asparagus. I’ll miss him.
—Ben James, December 2022
I can't think of Ed without thinking about the cohort of cousins that lived along Henry St - Ed, Jimmy (who died some years ago) and Charlie who lives next door to Jimmy's house. They all had farming in their blood and many a summer could be seen working together in one or another's garden in back of their houses leading up to the dike.
My best memory of them comes from many years ago now when they would gather in Charlie's garage in the fall to make sauerkraut. Enough sauerkraut, mind you, to feed the neighborhood. I'd see them in the morning before I went to work setting things up and when I came home from work they'd still be out there hovering over the large earthen-ware fermenting crocks. One time I ventured over to watch and was so fascinated with the whole process I asked them if they would be interested in getting their pictures taken for the Gazette. I thought they might be glad to share this old-time practice of preserving food with others. Well, I was wrong. If you knew any of them, you could just imagine their less-than-eager reaction.
—Vicki Van Zee
I had been trying to fly a kite in the Town Farm driveway with - I think - a young Silas (maybe Wiley too). Of course the kite got stuck in a too-tall tree right away. MAJOR bummer. We stood staring up at it, speculating about a few unreasonable ways we might get it down. Within minutes, Ed (in the gold truck) happened to drive down the Venturers Field hill, then right down the driveway towards us. He had assessed our predicament from the road and came to help. He just happened to have a REALLY long pole with a hook on the end (for harvesting chestnuts), and he knew it would do the trick. So probably within 10 minutes of getting the kite stuck, we had it back, thanks to Ed. I was about to have a deeply disappointed kid on my hands, but Ed came out of nowhere like a Montview angel and saved the day.
—Kaity Corthell
We moved here when Ed's Electric was in its heyday on Hawley St. Father and son worked together there, holding lively court while fixing all sorts of appliances (back in the days when things could actually be repaired). Their relationship had a yin-yang aspect; Ed senior was a jolly extrovert who loved to gab and tell stories while Ed junior was a guy of few words often seasoned with an understated, wry humor. There was nothing "put-on" about father or son.
Their small shop was totally cluttered with parts and equipment overflowing all shelves and flooding the floor. There were also handmade signs displaying blunt advice and one on the front door that warned potential intruders in grim detail how they would be electrocuted if they tried to break in. Both men dispensed sober counsel about proper care and maintenance to customers who flocked there from all over the region. The Eds sold us a used Electrolux vacuum 40 years ago that still runs today.
Another thing that amazed me was that at some point the Eds bought farmland in South Florida and would drive south to continue farming (tomatoes, I believe) in the winter.
It seems ag was the first love for both of them and the legendary shop was a side project.
—Mac Everett
Ed Glowatsky Sr.
Right. The Eds as we called them. There was a Mrs. Ed (senior) as well, always in the background, but sometimes in the truck when Ed junior wasn’t in that seat. And between the two people was always their small dog; I think it was a dachshund.
In addition to warnings for potential intruders at Ed’s Electric, there was a sign about trying to fix things yourself, and then bringing the dismantled electric whatever to them for repair: no dice on that!
I think both Ed senior and junior were good with sewing machines; maybe they “even” sewed. I’ve never been one to really take care of machines, or try to understand what makes them go or stop going; even my beloved ancient Singer sewing machine. So, one day, years ago the wheel wouldn’t move at all…it just refused to go. I took it over to their house; Ed (junior) cleaned it, oiled and greased it up and set the tension. I’m not sure he charged me anything, but did advise me that if I wanted it to go another 50 years I’d need to take better care of it.
Summer, fall, winter and spring, standing by the kitchen sink—the window looks out onto Montview—I’d see Ed squarely perched on his small tractor/lawn mower which was also a plow. He’d have been up at the electric shop plowing the parking lot, or he’d have been mowing grass somewhere. Just puttering along. He never walked anywhere as far as I know, although at some point, I think he began having some heart issues and told us he was advised to start walking. He might have taken that advice for a short while, but then it was back into the truck.
Indeed Ed loved talking “trees”. He was very interested when I got an American chestnut tree at the Smith tree and shrub sale years ago. It was supposed to be 1/16 of a hybrid that would protect it from “the disease”. He’d come by checking on it when it was in bloom, and when we began getting nuts. Alas, despite fiddling with the genetics, the tree died after 10 or so years…which was probably just as well as it would have filled up our entire side yard. And, of course Ed had his own nut trees and would sometimes stop by to show us the crop, give us a sample and discuss how they were doing.
Ed stole the show at the Ward 3 association picnic one year, when it was in the field next to Jim and Dora’s house. H arrived with his portable french fry machine, sitting at one of the tables for hours, making THE most delicious french fries on demand.
Long-time neighbors become such a part of the landscape of our lives. It’s hard to lose them. I've been knocking on Ed’s door just lately, in the last few days, and leaving him notes hoping, like Ben to get him to share some stories with us.
Alas, too late for that now.
—Claudia
Ed taught me so many things about this neighborhood.
He once pointed at a little patch of wild strawberries that grew over both of our properties.
Ed once pointed at red-tailed hawks and told me how to identify them.
Once when there were sounds of guns, Ed came over and told me it was the air gun for scaring birds away from the corn in the field.
Ed talked to me about what it was like to grow up in this neighborhood.
Ed shared so many tools and materials he owned in his resourceful shed.
When I came up to him to ask to borrow his things, he wouldn't ask me anything about the project that I was working on but he was happy to troubleshoot together with me or find the perfect tools for what I was trying to do.
Ed let us pick grapes, cherries, gooseberries, pears and raspberries that grew in his yard.
Ed let us use a patch of garden he no longer had energy to cultivate.
Ed let us run around his yard whenever kids were playing soccer.
Ed once shared his biggest smile with me when he got his renewed license plate for his blue chevy pickup after waiting to get it for three months.
He never called my name, but he let me be in the last bit of his life and I am grateful to get to know him.
Thank you, Ed, for what you've shared with me.
I miss you.
—Kokoro
I had the pleasure to live next door to Ed for the past three years. Before we'd even moved into the house, he dropped off a bunch of wild asparagus he'd picked in the meadows, and honestly, that little bit of hospitality I took as a sign that we were making the right decision about our move. One day he came over and tapped on the window to show me a scrapbook of his with pictures of the old Northampton. He wanted me to know about the great flood of 1936 and how the water came up all the way to the 2nd story of our house. He wanted me to know about all of the various businesses that used to be downtown. Without Ed, I'd have a much poorer connection to this town, this neighborhood and this land.
Ed was a fellow farmer/gardener and we had many a conversation about everything from how to trap woodchucks to the best timing for okra planting. He showed me his amazing chestnut trees in the meadows, which I've now been harvesting for a few years with his blessing. I will continue to tend to those trees which he loved so dearly.
I'll miss that finger wagging me over to his pickup. Rest in peace, Ed. We miss you.
—Dan
Thank you for making this post Ben so we may share our memories of Ed together.
I learned of Ed's passing this week, which has stirred up many emotions and memories as well.
Ed was one of the first people I met in this neighborhood, and I will always appreciate how welcome he made us feel. He invited us to visit the spaces he owned and said that we could walk on his lawn or pick fruit from his berries and trees whenever we wanted. The one exception, he noted, was that the concord grapes that ran along his fence and up the catalpa tree were "for the kids" — i.e. Chicken Side and Duck Side students.
Often, when I was working on outdoor projects, he would stroll over and have a chat with me. The conversations were never deep, but always pleasant, and reminded me of conversations I had with elderly people when I was growing up in the country, where we weren't trying to make a particular point, but rather just to enjoy the exchange of words and pass the time. I looked forward to these engagements and the different cadence of life they allowed me to visit.
The only time I ever saw him act with any urgency was when one of our roommates emptied ash into our compost pile and set a fire. He knocked at our glass door with a pocketknife and simply pointed at the raging inferno as evenly and calmly as ever as I rushed outside to put it out.
After we moved out of 47 Henry St, I would still see him, albeit more rarely, and each time I felt a pang of emotion — "It's such a pity I don't get to talk to him more these days, despite us being in each others' lives so regularly for two years," I would think. But unfortunately I never made the time to reach out, and I cannot help but feel a deeper sadness knowing that I could have, but now I will never be able to.
Thank you to Ed for who you have been to our family and our neighborhood. You are missed.
Shuo
I have a very warm memory about Eddie. When we were planning Kate’s wedding in a tent in front of Tom Holden’s barn, Eddie noticed us walking up and down the property next to his property. He asked us what we were doing. We explained we were trying to find a place for the portapotties. He quietly informed us that the “fancy rig” we were fancying would require a power hookup and a water source. He saw how crestfallen Bonnie looked, and said not to worry, we could use his side yard, water and electricity, which we did. He also offered advice on the tent, the lighting, water runoff ( he knew it would rain heavily), all of which we took.
When the wedding party started, he strolled over, and took a seat on the perimeter of the party. He wanted a solo table, which he got. He ate a small plate, and chatted with anyone who wandered over. Some kids approached him with lots of chatty questions, which he answered with kind and humorous stories.
After the wedding, he got scarce again, though he would occasionally show up with wild asparagus, germs, or scapes. He didn’t really want to chat much. He brought over tiny pumpkins for the day care kids at Halloween, and other produce like corn and watermelon.
We were always happy to see him go by in his pickup for a wave and a smile. We will miss his kind and modest presence.
—Bill