It doesn't always take coal subjected to intense pressures over ages to produce a diamond; sometimes a timely visit can have the same results. Allow me to offer up an example.

In 1955, when our family moved to 12 1/2 Emory Street, the area beyond our meager backyard was a grove of lilac bushes so grown out they would be better described as lilac trees. Dirt paths meandered through them, leading to Holman or Morey Street, and at several places were stone benches, which seemed to have been there many years. This area faced my upstairs bedroom window, which I usually kept open so that the lilac fragrance would take me off to sleep. On rainy nights, the patter of raindrops on leaves would put me out even sooner.

A few years later, I returned from Bliss School one day to find all the lilacs cut down, leaving a barren lot in their place. Not too long after, the lot was paved and a chain link fence put up around it. The dozen or so boys of the neighborhood figured "Oh well, at least we have a place to play ball."

Or at least our version of baseball - the ball itself was a solid rubber ball, available for a dime at Blackburn's, Stanton's, Densmore's, or practically any spa or corner store. Since there were normally five or six to a team, defensively, no one manned the bases, so an out could be made by hitting a fly ball which was caught, by the batter striking out (extremely rare), or with a base runner being hit by a thrown ball. Pitchers covered all plays at the plate.

I always felt our guys had the most accurate throwing arms in the city since missing a runner when throwing at him almost always resulted in the bases being cleared. Those of us with scientifically inclined minds learned early that 10-cent rubber baseballs break windows every bit as well as the more tightly wrapped $3.95 Rawling's. About the same time we learned you're a damn fool to run from a broken window in your own neighborhood. Besides our house and two others fronting Emory Street, there was one other house on the block framed by Pleasant, Emory, Morey, and Holman Streets. It was an ancient, haunted house-type place.

Since most of my gang lived in tenements, to our eyes it was a mansion fallen on hard times, and a ramshackle wooden fence ran all around it, part of which was about 10 feet behind our home plate, which was usually a squashed Quaker State oil can. The big guys on our block told us the two old women who lived in the house were witches; one hardly ever sighted them, and there had to be over a dozen cats on the property.

On summer days we'd play ball from breakfast until it was too dark to even see the ball, and then we'd tell our mothers we could see fine just so we could squeeze in another inning or two. More than a few games ended with a line drive drilling someone between the eyes. On four or five occasions, foul balls would land on the other side of the fence in (the witches') backyard. Even the yard was spooky with lilacs and twisted undergrowth everywhere. At one time it must have been beautiful, but that time was long ago. No one ever wanted to be the one to retrieve the foul balls. We usually end up throwing odds or evens to determine the unlucky kid.

One summer led into the next, and in ones and twos the "big kids" went off to college, or more usually the military, and before long, at 13 or 14 I was one of the big kids, showing a new batch of little guys how we play baseball. Though I was loathe to admit it, I still had reservations about that big spooky house where those ageless old women still lived.

One day I caught some 'pout and sunnies and proudly gave them to my mother for supper. She informed me that while they were fine for catching they weren't for eating and suggested I bring them over to the sisters for the cats.

To enter the yard, I had to open a huge black wrought-iron gate, which groaned like the cemetery gate in every Universal monster movie I ever saw.

I stood on the porch, taking a minute to figure out the doorbell. You had to pull a cord to ring it, which I did. As the door opened, my heart was in my throat and the rabbit was in my sneakers. But the white-haired grande dame before me just smiled and bid me to enter.

As I did, I heard a voice from another room, "Who is it, Grace?", and about fell over when Grace answered "It's our neighbor Tommy, our little ball player, and he's come to call upon us" (they knew my name!). I presented them with the fish, which they graciously accepted and then they showed me their house - the interior.

Running off the front hall were bricked-up places in the walls with old-style stenciling still over each one. "Parcel Post" and "R.F.D." were two I recall. At one time it seems the house served as the old East Attleborough Post Office. The ladies served cookies and milk, and I inquired about the magnificent paintings I saw around the home.

It seemed that they had a cousin who was a gifted artist and had left home before World War I to study in Paris, and had actually become a fairly well known painter, which was evidenced by the work. I learned the old ladies had been following our ball games for years, and winced when I remembered some of the language we had used. After an hour's visit (which flew by), I pardoned myself, thanked them, and left, promising to return occasionally. I was 14 that year, 1962, the same year I was so moved by Harper Lee's character of Boo Radley in "To Kill A Mockingbird." I've often wondered if it was a case of the teacher coming to the student when the student is ready.

Footnotes plus

* Job well done to Brandon Richards and Troop 15 from the Good News Chapel on the Peck Cemetery clean-up.

* Thank you to Ward 5 City Councilor Jerry Chase for his complimentary letter on the Fran Driscoll piece; and to Wrentham District Court Magistrate Eddie Doherty, who tells me his uncle Jack Flynn ran the Rheingold dealership which was the force behind the "Miss. Rheingold" visit to Attleboro chronicled a few weeks back.

* Condolences to the families of Maybelle Morin, Marion Mello, and Armand Beauregard.

* Last but not least, please be good to one another out there, and try to do someone a kindness daily. Thank you.

THOMAS McAVOY of Attleboro is a community columnist. His commentary appears every other Tuesday.