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-Hattie Blossom Fritze



Cape Cod, Massachusetts
Hattie P Blossom Fritze was born 31 August 1883 in Connecticut. I am having trouble discovering who her family of origin was, but in 1933 she married, at the age of 50, Ernest B Fritze in Barnstable on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

It appears that, prior to that marriage, she was married to Alton H Blossom (b 1882) of Barnstable who died in 1930. They had a daughter, Edwina, in 1917.

Hattie was apparently a frequent writer to editorial pages of newspapers, including the Boston Globe where she contributed to a column called "Confidential Chat", Richard D Elson, editor. Several of these letters are included in her poetry book, along with an endorsement of Hattie's contributions by Elson.

Her poetry book, Fragments, was published by the Osterville Garden Club (printed at The Register Press, Yarmouthport, MA) as part of their 10th anniversary celebration in 1959. Hattie would also write a history of Cape Cod in 1966 entitled Horse and Buggy Days on Old Cape Cod: Reminiscences of the Town of Barnstable by an 83 Year Old Native.

Apart from those bare bones facts, I do not have much to add about Hattie. I shall continue to research and see if I can dig up some more information about her.

Hattie Blossom Fritze died on 4 March 1970, aged 87, and was buried in Marstons Mills, Barnstable on her beloved Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

My copy of her book is signed "To Fran with Love, Hattie Blossom Fritze".

Fragments 1959
by Hattie Blossom Fritze

 In June on Old Cape Cod

I once saw a sky of wondrous hue - 
Big snowy clouds 'gainst sapphire blue
And around, wild roses for acres grew -
In June on old Cape Cod.

The beach that ran out to meet the tide
Lapping the sand-bars, golden wide
Where snowy seagulls sat side by side
In June on old Cape Cod.

But how to describe the sparkling sea
Or the rose-scented breezes o'er hill and lea?
Or the sense of being released and free -
In June on old Cape Cod.

I'll never forget that morning fair,
There was heady wine in the sparkling air
For life can be more than passing fair
In June on old Cape Cod.

 In Spring

Three things I love and always will--
A little house atop a hill
A bubbling brook with rims and rills
And gardens full of daffodils.

May Twilight

Across the pond, all misty pink,
I watch the afterglow,
Above, like tiny yellow sparks
The stars begin to show.

The peepers trill their ceaseless chant
Like sleigh-bells, one might say,
Ringing out the joy of welcome Spring
On this perfect night in May.

 Ode to My Fireplace

A fire on the hearth is a cosy thing
When twilight shadows fall
And night creeps on with gentle arms
Enfolding one and all

This is the time I love to pile
The fragrant pine boughs high,
And watch them turn to golden rain
As incense smokes on high.

A fire on the hearth is a cheery thing
When stinging north winds blow,
And I pile logs with a thankful heart
As I watch the drifting snow.

But the fire on the hearth is a primitive thing
When, at the end of a long hard day
It opens the door of Gypsy dreams
And my spirit soars away.

 Woodland Union

Dogwood blooms, like drifts of snow
Among the hollies green
As dainty as a bridal veil,
As white, as pure, as clean.

In white delight it cascades down,
All purity and grace
As bright as close set candles,
Lighting all the place.

May the holly act as fitting groom,
To protect this dainty bride
Who has come to share his solitude
And walk along beside.

Yesterday the sun was shining
And all was bright and gay
But clouds gathered after nightfall
So we are having rain today.
But the forsythia bush in mother's garden
Is as bright as yesterday -
As though the sun caught in its branches
And just couldn't get away.

November has come and settled down
In quiet shades of russet and brown;
The  mornings are crisp with black frost's chill
Until the pale sunshine creeps over the hill.

The flowers are dead - gone one and all,
But bright bettersweet flames 'gainst the wall
And as by the river I wandered today,
Scarlet berries of alder made all my path gay.

There's a feeling of peace that hangs in the air - 
A sense of completion that seems everywhere;
Nature's work is finished, - her rest time is near - 
For this is November, twilight month of the year.

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