By Dan Shine
Voice Columnist
Goffi’s Egg Farm
We would like to thank those whose assistance made this column possible: Polly Rockefeller, Dave Goffi, Katherine Held and Bob Newkirk.
August 1958
It was one of those summer Saturday mornings when The Boy just wanted to play in his backyard, climbing in the apple trees, and pretending they were the masts of pirate ships. However, mother had devised an errand list that would get father and The Boy out from underfoot for the morning, so that she and sister could tidy up the house. So off went father and son in the family car.
“Where are we going, daddy?” The answer was a rather dreary litany of chores and stops, but when The Boy heard about the last stop, it aroused his interest: “…and then we’re going to the farm, to pick up eggs.”
Now, back in 1958, there was an egg farm on a dirt road known as Shingle Hill Road, near the corner of Morgan Lane. Behind the farmhouse, there were two enormous hen houses, which were big enough to hold a total of 15,000 chickens. It was late morning when the old green Plymouth lumbered into the dooryard; father turned off the engine, set the car in gear, opened the car door, and began to get out.
“What does that sign say, daddy?” “It says that if you blow your horn, it will scare the chickens, so don’t do it.” And with that, father—trusting soul that he was—turned and walked into the farmhouse, leaving The Boy alone on Plymouth’s front seat (You already know where this story is going, don’t you?).
Now, to most six-year-olds, “don’t” is a word that conjures up visions of stop signs and red flags waving; however, to The Boy it represented something more like a dare. It was only a moment after father disappeared into the farmhouse that The Boy’s left hand seemed to take on a will of its own: slowly it rose and sbegan to move stealthily toward the chrome horn ring that was mounted within the Plymouth’s big steering wheel.
It seemed like ages passed, but it was probably just a few seconds later that The Boy’s fingers were wrapped firmly around the horn ring. Father was nowhere in sight—this was the moment—The Boy pushed on the horn ring with all his strength and held it down firmly.
And THAT is when The Boy discovered that the horn on a 1951 Plymouth was wired to the car’s ignition switch: engine off=horn off. Thus, for that day, the chickens were spared.
As recently as 1950, the West Shore was largely farmland. Allspaugh’s Dairy was located at the top of Benham Hill, and the cows grazed in the meadow where Bailey Middle School now stands. Morgan Lane had only four homes on it—Heeney the cabinetmaker lived next to Allspaugh’s meadow, while Horace “Rock” Rockefeller and his sister Dutch owned most of the south corner of Jones Hill Road and Morgan Lane. The land where Our Lady of Victory Church now stands was mostly wetland, feeding the Colonial Boulevard brook. At the top of Jones Hill was Hebbwood Farm, and across the street, Lou’s Turkey Farm.
At the corner of Benham Hill Road was the home of Gordon Mills, in what was a retired schoolhouse.
Yes, everything then was still farms and fields, as it had been for generations. And the Goffi family, who owned the egg farm, at that time owned all of the land along the north side of Morgan Lane, extending from Jones Hill Road to Island Lane, and up the hill to Hebbwood Farm; in all they owned 55 acres.
Years passed; farmland made way for subdivisions, homes, a school and a church, as cows and chickens made way for families and children; and West Haven completed its transformation from agricultural community to bedroom community. Today, the Goffi egg farm, with its 180 year old farm house is just a memory. Just one of the fading memories of a young boy who one summer day so long ago, went there to pick up eggs with his father, in a 1951 Plymouth.