Flanked by a cupboard of her homemade jams and preserves, Irene Mannix talks about her many adventures in and out of the classroom at her home on West Bare Hill Road. (Photo by Lisa Aciukewicz)

“This will be my last fair,” announces Irene (pronounced with the final ‘e’) Mannix, referring to the Historical Society’s Holiday Arts Festival and Sale at the old library on Dec. 5 and 6. These words signal the loss of a Harvard tradition. For the past 15 years Mannix has been a regular fixture at Harvard’s craft fairs and annual flea market. Her booth, with its jams, jellies, and shortbread—and generous samples of each—has always been a popular destination for both new and repeat customers.

“I’m still selling,” she hastens to add. But it will be out of her house, with people needing to call ahead.

Mannix got her start while she was teaching at Harvard Elementary School, and teamed up with a colleague who was selling her homemade jam at fairs. Mannix’s specialty was shortbread, befitting her Scottish heritage. Before long she woke up to the fact that, living as she did in the midst of fruit trees and berry bushes, she should make her own jam and jelly. A typical summer would yield 1,500 to 2,000 jars of fruits in all combinations.

People have their favorites. Mannix tells of a man from New York who called to ask her where her outlet was in the city. (Locally, Mannix’s outlet is The General.) He had searched specialty shops for her ginger pear cranberry, which he had been introduced to by Father Peter from St. Benedict’s on one of his trips to New York. A man from Maine orders only orange marmalade. Mannix says that the most popular has always been plain raspberry. A pregnant woman in Groton bought raspberry by the case.

A year-and-a-half ago Mannix gave up her large old home on Slough Road for a smaller house on West Bare Hill, where a Scottish flag flies under the American one on the pole in the front yard. A sign on the garage reads “Well-Preserved”—the name of Mannix’s business, which applies to her wares and also, she jokes, to herself.

When she moved, she vowed there would be no more orchard—she was done with all that hard work. But she couldn’t hold out, and she let her daughter buy her three raspberry bushes. Then came peach trees. Still, she insists she’s cutting back. It’s a lot of work and “I won’t sell anything unless it’s perfect,” she says. She’ll fill orders for people who call, and she’ll be “open” for those who make an appointment. She loves her business. It has kept her busy and kept her socializing. As she says, “I’ve met a lot of people through jam.”

She also met a lot of people in her 43 years of teaching. One of her greatest joys is seeing a former student, getting a hug, and sharing memories. A special treat is to meet the offspring of former students, especially ones the age their parent was when he or she had Mrs. Mannix in class. On one occasion a father said to his son, “If you get a teacher like her, you’ll be really lucky.”

Mannix’s first teaching job was in Edinburgh with a class of the most difficult 9-year-old students in one of the toughest parts of the city. She was 19. As I looked at this petite woman, I expected to hear a horror story, but instead she said she never had any trouble. When I asked her how she had managed the kids, she hesitated a moment. Then she replied, “You have to have something about you.” Her face grew stern and she drew herself up to illustrate her words. I could believe the children behaved.

She speaks fondly of several students who have special places in her memories. One, Ian Tibbits, long and lanky, was put with her because there was no room in the special school. “Just keep him busy,” she was told. She put him to work, opening the milk cartons, pulling up the shades, putting something away. By the end of the year he could read and spell and write. Another boy came to her not speaking. Other teachers had given up on him, but she had him come in early every day and after a time he was reading aloud.

“I could never let a child go,” says Mannix.

Next she spent four years in Hong Kong at a school for children of military personnel. She was a vice principal and also a captain in the army, with all of the privileges of the title. Then, after a brief time in England, she fled the cold for Jamaica. There she met her future husband, Jack, a lawyer in D.C. who was on the island for business. He was handsome, with an easy manner that appealed to Mannix, who was used to the rather stiff demeanor of the British. They were married after a few months—“no point in wasting time,” she said. Jack died in 1995. They had a son who now lives in Colorado and a daughter who is in Scotland and recently left a corporate job to start her own wedding cake business.

In the States one of Mannix’s first jobs was in Bolton, teaching a group of third- and fourth-grade students deemed too difficult to attend a regular classroom. Mannix met with them in a building in the town center that now houses the police department. There were no supplies and no special services. After six months she went to Littleton. She taught for three years, at which point the school told her she couldn’t stay on because of a law about citizenship. Parents got a petition going to change the law, but Mannix had already accepted a job in Harvard.

“I couldn’t get to school fast enough,” recalls Mannix. “We had fun—after we established who was boss.” Through the years, she prided herself on teaching the basics.

Up until 10 years ago, Mannix was swimming competitively. She had always swum as a child and continues to do so today, though now it’s just for fun. In 1999 she won two bronze medals in the national seniors competition in Orlando. That was after having taken six gold medals in the state meet. She also loved to ski and sail; until last fall she regularly took her sailboat out on the pond.

Mannix is delighted with the family who bought her old house.

“They appreciate its antiquity and charisma,” she says. They have brought her fruit from the orchard and berry bushes and in return she has kept them stocked with jam. “People are good,” she asserts.

She feels lucky to have found a smaller house in Harvard. The day I went there the sun filled the newly renovated breezeway area where I was served tea, and lots of birds came and went at the feeders and the fountain. Mannix had recently put up more than 100 jams. While I was there a customer from Connecticut called to arrange for a pickup of 10 jars of her favorites.

“It keeps me going. You need to stay busy. You like to do things when people enjoy them.”

Irene Mannix, “well-preserved,” indeed.