What are the opening hours?

Tuesday 9am - 5:30pm Wednesday 9am - 5:30pm Thursday 9am - 5:30pm Friday 9am - 5:30pm Saturday 9am - 4pm

https://www.facebook.com/93102378733/

Classic Chronicles, Providence Highway, Walpole, MA (2025)

05/03/2025

Have you ever stopped to think that the grandmothers of today were once the rebels, the rule-breakers, and the icons of a generation that changed the world? To the twenty-somethings out there, let us remind you of who we were—and still are at heart. We were the ones rocking mini skirts that turned heads, tight pants that made a statement, and high boots that demanded attention. Bras? They weren’t part of our vocabulary when freedom was our style.

Our soundtrack was legendary—Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin were the soundtrack to our revolution. We didn’t just listen to their music; we lived it—singing, dancing, and feeling every note deeply. We drove in Mini Coopers and cruised on motorcycles, embodying independence with every ride. We smoked, sipped gin tonics, and never apologized for being ourselves. Muddy music festivals weren’t just events to us; they were moments to be fully alive, dancing and laughing without a care in the world.

Our days weren’t filled with scrolling through social media or binge-watching TV shows; we didn’t even have those distractions—and frankly, we didn’t care. We were out there in the world, creating memories and adventures that would last a lifetime. So, no, you’ll never be exactly like your grandmother, and that’s okay. But remember, the grandmothers of today were once the wild hearts who paved the way for the world you now know. Rock on, young ones. We already did. 🎸✨

04/30/2025

In May of 1960, when my father got laid off at his job, I had been taking singing lessons at Philadelphia’s Settlement House, an organization that gives low cost music and art lessons to poor children. It still exists today. At that time, my lessons cost $2.00 each. I went to what I thought would be my last lesson because we could no longer afford the $2.00 and told my voice teacher, Dr. Carlton Jones Lake, that I would have to quit. He said he would see what he could do to help.

Several days later, Dr. Lake telephoned and asked my mother to bring me down to the Ben Franklin Hotel the next day. We arrived and went into a function room where 4 men were seated. Dr. Lake sat at the piano in the room and played for me as I sang Handel’s “Where'er You Walk” which Dr. Lake had taught me in my singing classes. One of the men, a white-haired man, handed me a play script and asked me to read the lines that were labeled “Kurt”. He told me Kurt was a boy about my own age who lived in Austria. He read the other character’s lines and I read Kurt’s lines. He then asked me to step out into the hall so that he and the other men could talk with my mother.

Being only 7 1/2 years old, I was clueless and really had no idea what was going on. A few moments later, the white-haired man came out and asked me to come back in the room. When I returned, my mother was signing some papers. The white-haired man explained that one of the two boys playing Kurt in “The Sound Of Music” was going through the voice change that all boys go through (Soprano to Bass) and a replacement was needed. The paper that my mother had just signed was a contract for me to take the job.

Two days later my mother and I took the train from Philadelphia to New York City and I began rehearsals. (My father took this picture that day as my mother and I were leaving for the train station.) My 8th birthday was also my opening night. I stayed with the show for about a year, playing the Friday night show, the Saturday night show, the Sunday matinee and the Sunday evening show.

The four men, I found out later, were Howard Lindsey and Russell Crouse who had written the script (or book) of “The Sound Of Music”, Richard Rodgers who had written the music and the kind white-haired man who read lines with me was Oscar Hammerstein II who had written the lyrics.

04/26/2025

In the shadowed alleys of 1860s Whitechapel, a young Irish doctor named Thomas Barnardo encountered a street urchin whose plight would change the course of child welfare in Britain. The boy, ragged and illiterate, was one of countless children roaming the slums of East London, abandoned to hunger, homelessness, and despair. This chance meeting stirred something deep in Barnardo—a calling to act, to intervene in a world where poverty was met with indifference.

Moved by the child’s suffering, Barnardo took him in, offering more than just food and shelter. He gave him dignity, education, and a path toward a future. What began as a single act of compassion soon became a movement. Barnardo opened his first orphanage, which grew into a vast network of homes that welcomed every child in need—without limit or restriction. His philosophy was radical for its time: that no child should be turned away, and that all deserved a fair chance at life.

With the same spirit, Barnardo also established *ragged schools*—places of learning for the poorest children of the East End. These schools taught not only reading and writing, but also skills to break the cycle of poverty. Today, Barnardo’s name lives on through the charity that bears it, still dedicated to protecting and empowering vulnerable youth across the UK. His legacy is written not just in history books, but in the countless lives forever changed by his belief in every child’s potential.

04/25/2025

Amputee World War I veteran watching parade. Harlem, New York. 1919

04/25/2025

📷✨ To many white Americans in the 1930s, Black people were seen only as domestics or sharecroppers—ignored, invisible, and forgotten. But when James VanDerZee looked through his camera lens, he saw dignity, pride, elegance, and community.

In his portraits, Black families posed in their Sunday best, couples radiated love, and children beamed with promise. Through carefully composed imagery and intentional lighting, VanDerZee documented the richness of Black life during the Harlem Renaissance and beyond — a quiet resistance to the stereotypes of the time.

He didn’t just take photos.
He restored humanity to people whom society tried to erase.
He preserved beauty in an era that refused to see it.
He made history visible. 📸🖤

04/25/2025

Mr. and Mrs. Tommy Swafford and their son in the doorway of their four room house; they pay $9 monthly rental plus $2.50 for electricity. They carry water from outside well, have outside privy; there are no garbage collections. The house contains one closet in a bedroom and a built-in pantry in kitchen. Panther Red Ash Coal Corporation, Douglas Mine, Panther, McDowell County, West Virginia.

04/25/2025

Did you know the hippies of Woodstock 1969 changed the world with their message of peace, love, and music? ✌️🌸 Dressed in tie-dye, flower crowns, and bell bottoms, they created an atmosphere of unity that still inspires generations. From dancing barefoot in the mud to embracing the sounds of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, they weren’t just festival-goers—they were part of a movement. Woodstock wasn’t just a concert; it was a revolution against war, materialism, and societal norms. Even today, the spirit of the hippies lives on, reminding us to seek freedom, love, and harmony. 🎶☮️

. ✌️🎸❤️

04/24/2025

A very touching cat story .. ❤

In the spring of 1910, in a quiet English village lined with cobblestone streets and ivy-covered walls, there lived a young lady named Eleanor. She was known for her kindness, her delicate lace dresses, and the way she always had ink on her fingers from writing poetry no one ever read.

But more than anything, people knew Eleanor for her constant companion — a snow-white cat named Marble.

Marble had come into Eleanor’s life on a rainy October evening, just a tiny kitten with wide, frightened eyes, left in a wicker basket on the doorstep of the old manor house where she lived alone after her parents had passed. Eleanor had taken one look at the tiny creature and whispered, “Well then, I guess you and I will keep each other from getting too lonely.”

And they did.

Each morning, Marble would sit by Eleanor’s writing desk as she scribbled poems into her worn leather journal. He would bat at her quill with his paw, and she would pretend to scold him, but she always smiled. Every afternoon, the two could be found in the garden — Eleanor with her parasol, Marble chasing bees and tumbling through patches of lavender.

The villagers spoke of them fondly. “The lady and her cat,” they’d say. “Two hearts, one soul.”

But Eleanor held a sadness that she never shared. At 23, she had once been promised to a young man named Thomas. War took him away before he could return with a ring. Letters stopped coming. And though Eleanor never wore black, her eyes sometimes did.

Marble became her lighthouse through grief.

He would sleep on her chest when she cried, blink at her softly when she stared too long at the sea, and curl up by her journal when she couldn’t find the words. For years, it was just the two of them — quiet, steady, healing.

One morning in early winter, Eleanor didn’t rise.

The maid found her still, her hand resting gently on Marble’s back, a notebook on her lap, the final page filled.

"To the one who stayed,
who asked for nothing but gave me everything,
you are my dearest love,
in fur and silence."

Marble sat by her side for days. He ate nothing. He made no sound.

The villagers buried Eleanor beneath the cherry tree in her garden, the same one Marble always climbed to catch butterflies. They let Marble say goodbye.

But he never truly left her.

Every year, for nearly a decade, Marble would disappear from whichever home had taken him in, only to be found curled at the foot of Eleanor’s grave — rain or shine, season after season. Waiting. Remembering.

Until one spring morning, he too did not return.

They buried him beside her.

And for those who passed by the cherry tree each year, they swore they could sometimes hear a soft purr in the breeze and catch the faint scent of lavender.

Two hearts.
One soul.
Together once more and forever ... 🐈❤️

04/24/2025

Liberated Female Inmates at the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp collect loaves of bread from one of the five camp cookhouses - 24 April 1945

04/24/2025

The “Titanic Orphans,” brothers Michel (age 4) and Edmond (age 2), were photographed in April 1912 shortly after their miraculous survival of the RMS *Titanic* disaster. Their story is both heartbreaking and extraordinary. The young boys, who spoke only French, were found alone and unaccompanied after the ship’s sinking—among the youngest and most vulnerable of the survivors. With no adults claiming them in the chaotic aftermath, they became symbols of both tragedy and hope.

Their journey aboard the *Titanic* was the result of a bitter custody dispute. Their father, Michel Navratil, had taken the boys from their mother in France and boarded the *Titanic* under an assumed name, hoping to start a new life in America. When the ship struck the iceberg, Navratil managed to get both boys into lifeboat No. 15, ensuring their survival before perishing in the icy Atlantic waters. The children were rescued by the *Carpathia* and taken to New York, where they were cared for while their identities remained a mystery.

Dubbed the "Titanic Orphans" by the press, the boys were eventually recognized by their mother through newspaper reports and photographs. She traveled to America to reunite with them, bringing closure to one of the many human dramas that emerged from the *Titanic* tragedy. Today, the story of Michel and Edmond Navratil serves as a poignant reminder of the personal stories behind one of history’s most infamous maritime disasters—a tale of loss, survival, and the enduring strength of family.

04/23/2025

To the ones who carved their lives from the rugged spine,
Of the Appalachian ridges, the endless pine,
Who toiled and tilled in the hollers deep,
While rivers ran wild, and mountains slept steep.

Through seasons fierce, with storms as kin,
They braved the frost, the winds so thin,
Found warmth in the flame of family and lore,
In cabins low and hills they bore.

With calloused hands that knew no rest,
They built their homes with grit and zest.
Through fields of stone and soil they turned,
From dawn’s first light until the lantern burned.

They wrested life from rocky clay,
With simple faith and hearts that stayed.
In song and story, they found release,
In dulcimer notes and fiddle’s peace.

Their voices echoed across the hills,
In gospel hymns and yonder thrills,
They sowed their dreams in mountain ground,
A quiet strength, a life unbound.

So here’s to them, our kin and core,
To lives that labored, yet asked no more,
To roots that run as deep as these stones,
Our forebears’ grit in our blood and bones.

May we remember their paths, their ways,
Their steadfast hearts, their simple praise.
And carry forth their steadfast grace,
In these mountains, their sacred place.

04/22/2025

Bea Arthur, 43, and Angela Lansbury, 40, on the first day of rehearsals for MAME in 1966.

Classic Chronicles

05/03/2025

04/30/2025

04/26/2025

04/25/2025

04/25/2025

04/25/2025

04/25/2025

04/24/2025

04/24/2025

04/24/2025

04/23/2025

04/22/2025

Address

Opening Hours

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Contact The Business

Shortcuts

Share

Tuesday	9am - 5:30pm
Wednesday	9am - 5:30pm
Thursday	9am - 5:30pm
Friday	9am - 5:30pm
Saturday	9am - 4pm