-Hattie Blossom Fritze

1883 - 1970


Hattie P Jones was born in August 1883 in Connecticut. Her mother, Harriet P Swift, was 18 when she married Abner Jones, age 55, in 1872. Hattie had three elder brothers: Abner, Murray and Thomas Jones. Abner Sr. died in 1895, and Hattie's mother remarried to George W Ford in 1896. Later that year, Hattie would have a new baby sister, Lillian.

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 1916.

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 book of lovely nature poems, called 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. If you have anything that could add to Hattie's story, please contact me at poetess@gmx.com

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".

Hattie Blossom Fritze

(photo: Cape Cod Times 8-4-1963)

Cape Cod, Massachusetts



by Hattie Blossom Fritze

In June on Old Cape Cod

In Spring

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.

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 cozy 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.


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.

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.


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 bittersweet 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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