New England – JT McKenna Writes

Standing at the Edge

(“Standing at the Edge” appeared in November, 2021 on my old blog; it has been further edited and expanded.)

The series of aerial photos was of a property all too familiar. Seen “bird’s eye”, one might feel compelled to view the images dispassionately, but my emotions played some tricks on me. Nostalgia made me smile; regret made me sigh.

In the mid 1980’s, Mom, Uncle Bob, and Aunt Marie bought a small house on a small lot high on Manomet Bluffs on the southeast coast of Massachusetts, technically not quite a part of Cape Cod, but close enough to feel a sturdy kinship. When you have expansive, breathtaking views of all of Cape Cod Bay, you shrug at the smallness of your staging ground. In any season, on any day — or night — a seascape can be called forth just by wishing it, just by facing east.

While I can’t be 100% sure about Uncle Bob and Aunt Marie, I have no doubts that this little house was the one that Mom loved best. Inasmuch as every memory I have of Mom from that brief period in time presents someone who had found her deserved happiness, the photos I held in my hand were disturbing reminders — the tangible evidence — that their little house on the bluff (affectionately — and always with droll effect — called “Blind Man’s Bluff” because Uncle Bob was blind) was at great risk of tumbling into the sea. I shuffled the glossy photos one final time, lined them up neatly by smacking their lower edges on the table a couple times. I intended to put them away once more, but the decision to save them, I realized, was no decision at all, just kickin’ the can down the road. I instead went over to the trash barrel and tossed them all in, taking a moment to absorb what I was doing. Everyone knows how I hold onto the past. However, because I knew precisely why the aerial set of photos had been ordered in the first place, keeping them was a form of punishment.

The three siblings kept up the gambit for seven years, preferring to count their blessings. One of the first things they had done upon arrival was plant a tripod — with great ceremony — in the middle of the second floor living room; upon the stand they secured a telescope that faced the wall of windows, drawing toward their eye all the activity taking place directly east of them in Cape Cod Bay. One could not climb the open spiral staircase and enter the living room without responding to the beckoning telescope’s eyepiece. On more days than not, they had a clear view straight across to Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod.

Each season offered a bounty of stimulating activities. Even when winter’s furious gales pinned the crag clingers inside their home, their curiosity about life on the Bay continued unabated. And each time air temperatures and weather patterns signaled seasonal change, the activity in, on, and around the water adjusted accordingly.

With an abiding love of learning, the two sisters and one brother quickly taught themselves the habits of various marine birds, but they were especially interested in the great variety of fish species with which the Bay teemed — striped bass, bluefish (who always put on a spectacular display for those who closely monitored fishing activity,) mackerel, pollock, and — of course — cod. (The namesake species, however, was already in decline by then due to decades of over-fishing.) Whales, too, would occasionally wander into the Bay, getting slightly mixed up on their seasonal migration. Sometimes, they were simply in hot pursuit of prey further down the food chain who had lost their own way.

“Aha! You were right, Bob,” one or the other of the sisters would narrate as she leaned into the eyepiece, “Lucky Striker’s back. . . with his arm in a sling. Looks like he might have a deckhand today. Son, maybe?” Each chapter built on the one before, and it wasn’t long before they had fully imagined characters, backstories, and conflicts. By making it a daily habit, they came to know — in their own way — the regulars who plied the waters. Never knowing their real names, they nevertheless could identify them by their boats, and their habits. They could tell you, for example, exactly which lobster pot would be pulled next, and the next one after that. They knew which lobstermen took their time and which ones worked in a hurry, who was absent. . . and for how long. Because sound traveled whole and unimpeded up the face of the bluff, they could, as well, categorize the fishermen by their musical preferences. By and large solitary figures absorbed in their own endeavors, on occasion one captain might motor over to another to engage briefly in conversation. It wasn’t social; topics appeared serious. New industry regulations, perhaps?

The three cliff-dwellers followed with even greater interest the illegal drug smuggling operations, which were often interrupted by U.S. Customs or Coast Guard busts. On occasion, the aerial surveillance by helicopter and high-speed pursuits over water provided exciting entertainment. (Law enforcement was very busy in the waters of Cape Cod all through the 1980’s, first with their efforts to stanch the flow of Mexican marijuana into our country, and later with the Colombian cocaine trade.)

I was recently told that the little house on Manomet Bluffs sits at the highest elevation in Plymouth County. It feels as if it could be true when you arrive there by automobile — steadily ascending the narrow shore road to its highest point. And it looks like it could be true if you’re out in the bay and you scan the coastline. Low growing trees — scrub pine, mainly — and lots of laurel line the undulating horizon. It’s not that high, for the record. (The highest elevation in the county is a short 4 miles inland.) “Indian Hill”, the particular summit on Manomet Bluffs to which the house is moored, shows on topographical maps as being 161’ above sea level; it is still impressively high up there, and gives you a heady experience when you stand at the edge and allow your eyes to abruptly travel down the sheer, mostly sandy face of the bluff.

Follow the shoreline road directly south, and you descend toward sea level and the entry point to the beach. If it can be said that the dramatic, panoramic views from above encouraged big picture thinking, the beach below, in the lee of the bluff, offered an essential counterpoint; it allowed for close scrutiny. All activity at that level was hands-on; it was important to be able to hold things, turn them this way and that, feel all the contours and textures. And wonder about it, talk about it. Any visitor to Blind Man’s Bluff was entertained by a new story about a recently discovered treasure — what it was, where it was found, how they’d determined its keepsake value. The home thus became a vibrant museum with an ever-changing gallery of found marine treasures.

As much as they loved that perch with its stunning views of the bay; where the ocean air was never still; where their daily ministrations were accompanied by the syncopated strains of sea gull squawks, fog horns, and the low vibrations of boat motors; and where they could cheerfully practice their “5:00 somewhere” (or was it 4:00?) outlook on life; they knew it was only a matter of time before their back yard collapsed into the Atlantic. In the back of their minds, they must have known that their small-scale measures — ecologically sound as they might have been — were inadequate; the salubrious, composted slurry that they mixed up daily in their kitchen and cast over the edge of the bluff was no doubt seasoned with a fervent sense of wishful thinking, maybe even swathed in a wry prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It’s not hard to imagine them examining closely, but with diminishing hope, for signs that their vegetable concoction had taken literal hold of the unstable bluff. After exhausting the ordinary slate of homeowner remedies designed to arrest the advance of the ocean (in your desperation irrationality can be forgiven), with hearts heavy but minds clear, they sold their little piece of heaven.

I live ninety miles north of Manomet Bluffs, also on the coast, but, because I’m an especially cautious person — and a worrier — not right on the water. Several times a week (particularly in the off-season) I take my dogs to Salisbury Beach State Reservation, two miles away. When the cold weather creeps into our region, usually by the end of October, I have a selfish expectation that “The Rez” will — as ever — revert to the quiet sanctuary that encourages private thought and a solitary appreciation of its natural gifts. One lap around the empty campground with a slight detour out to the boat launch where Black Rock Creek meets the Merrimack River gives me just enough time to rearrange my scattered thoughts, and, of course, set my world to rights once more. My two dogs, likewise, lean into the activity, responding to the invigorating qualities of The Rez. They’re eager (more so than I) to sprint along the seawall and cavort at river’s edge, maybe even lap at the briny water (which, of course, they’ll promptly throw up). The further away from the parking lot we move, the more immersed we become in our own pursuits.

So, on one particular morning, I almost don’t notice the low grumbling sound from across the river. Looking over to Plum Island on the opposite bank of the Merrimack, I can just make out the bobbing motion of a large piece of machinery as it excavates sand. Large excavators on a barrier beach attract a fair amount of attention, attention that often billows in clouds of controversy. Right now, a handful of dark figures stands motionless at the edge of the dune; no doubt, islanders filled with equal measures of curiosity and apprehension, apprehension being a sentiment they find impossible to shake these days. For people with homes either directly on the ocean or at the mouth of the Merrimack River (Plum Island, like Salisbury Beach, sits at the very confluence of the Atlantic Ocean and the Merrimack River), weather forecasts are tidings to be followed closely and parsed, their sources carefully vetted.

The Merrimack River is always spoken of in terms of its ability to bounce back from adversity, the “Resilient Merrimack”, it’s often called. Surging, cascading, and gliding along its 117-mile course, it supplies over half a million people with drinking water, all the way up into central New Hampshire. Many of the cities throughout the Merrimack Valley, in fact, owe their very existence to this river. Follow the river inland and you pass through Haverhill, Lawrence, Lowell, on into New Hampshire and cities such as Nashua, Manchester, Hooksett, Concord, Franklin. None of these cities would have endured without the empowering waters of the Merrimack.

As I’m squinting to see what’s happening on Plum Island, I remember that the meteorologists warned of a one-two punch with astronomically high tides and a storm well out to sea, but still near enough to menace the coast. Curious, I steer the dogs back the other way toward the beach on the ocean side, but before I’ve rounded the first dune, I already notice how the familiar contours of the sand near the tall north jetty have been altered. This happens regularly, however; aggressive tidal action shifts the sand wildly, sometimes completely covering the jetty, only to move it back to its original place after a few more tides. When I pass the dune with my two dogs, I’m brought up short by the scene before me — lobster traps and buoys, giant mounds of rockweed, random lumps of wood, and even an orange traffic cone and a 5-gallon plastic bucket litter the sand. Looking north along the length of the beach, I consider that all the debris ranging out in front of me is an amalgamation of things that were ripped from the shore and others that were hurled at it, all comingling and implying a savagery that unnerves. And this one wasn’t even a direct hit. Deep gouges have been carved by the punishing waves. In both the near distance and far, I see stairways — the fragile threads that connect homes with their coveted spots on the beach — dangling well above the sand. And along that same ribbon of churned sand, a different set of dark figures surveys the damage.

None of this suggests a new pattern, it should be noted. Almost forty years ago, and ninety miles south of here, my mom and her two siblings were watching with a similar sense of foreboding as each storm pummeled their segment of the coast. And just like then, it serves to underscore that Mother Nature enjoys a lopsided advantage in her enduring battle with mankind.

When you fall in love with the place you adopt as your home, whether that be on the ocean or a river or nestled deep in a glacial valley surrounded by gentle hills, you pay attention to physical changes. . . and you worry, or at least you should worry. Inasmuch as we’d like to rely on our planet’s adaptability, by continuing to invoke divine intervention (and if not that, then the ministrations of local, state, and even federal government), we fail to perceive the “use by” date; in other words, we risk everything by failing to heed environmental warnings. As that series of aerial photos of Manomet Bluffs made so clear, it’s sometimes too painful, too upsetting, too real to pull back and see the big picture. Just one more roll of the die, you say as you blow on the pair and then uncurl your fingers, almost too afraid to watch as the cubes rock on their edges and settle into place.

In October of 2020, Plum Island homeowners on the north end of the island coordinated an effort to establish a barricade using one-ton “Super Sacks”, enormous plastic bags filled with sand. It ended badly for them. If you’ve never before seen one of these Super Sacks, up close it is reassuringly enormous, and that’s just one. Imagine hundreds stacked shoulder to shoulder, an entrenched defensive army bracing against a formidable adversary, one whose tactics are not easily discerned. Less than a year later, the bags had been shredded, and the ocean — as if exacting bounty — reclaimed its sand. It was hard for Plum Islanders not to notice Poseidon’s hand in all of it; he has a way of making his point about man’s puniness.

Plum Island homeowners, I learned, in yet another effort to disrupt the sustained assault by the ocean, obtained a consequential legal dispensation that they hope, once again, will buy time until a more permanent solution rescues them from this never-ending crisis. Maybe those dark figures separated from me by a narrow band of water are bowing their heads in silent supplication as the big equipment erects a new barrier. The current scheme utilizes giant rocks and stitched-together coir bags, immobilized by wood pilings driven deep into the sand. The wood pilings, in particular, get me to thinking. After seeing past efforts fail, is there greater confidence that by digging deeper into the ground, the ocean will be vanquished? And, how deep is deep enough to be able to get a firm grip on what each is hoping to hold onto?

As someone who has lived on the Atlantic coast for nearly five decades, it is impossible to ignore the effects of global warming and consequent sea level rise, and with that, soil erosion. I started to pay closer attention, in particular, as more and more investigative reports focused on Greenland’s dramatic ice sheet melt. I was puzzled, initially. In what way does the accelerated melt have to do with the Gulf of Maine’s waters or the shift in the Gulf Stream? Why was — and is — that so important to all of us who live on the coast of Massachusetts? It seems important to make the complex connection between that ongoing event and the changes that I’ve been noting on my dog walks.

One can easily get lost in the seemingly endless chain of cause and effect. Did it all start with the industrial era? Or even earlier? If later, the weight of our own behaviors, and the decisions and choices that we have made could drag us under as we shift the narrative to one of culpability. Ah, if only we could continue to shrug it off as a temporary (but entirely fixable) ecosystem imbalance. It’s inevitable, we might even say; it will right itself over time. My restive spirit strains to see the ultimate good that can be achieved through either complacency or — worse — makeshift (and myopic) remedies that at best provide transitory relief.

I perceive the escalation of despair among those most directly affected by coastal erosion, and am sympathetic to their urgent pleas for deliverance. With each storm that sweeps through, the force that the homeowners use to press their palms together in impassioned appeal increases; their anguish spreads deeper. A good many of them are third and fourth generation homeowners of cottages that have long ceased to be merely seasonal. How hard it must be for them to imagine forfeiture, both of a lifestyle and a family’s legacy. It is not for me to pass judgment on beach homeowners’ determination to save their property. If I lived eye-to-eye with the ocean, I would want to do the same.

To everyone’s surprise, Manomet Bluffs and the little house that roosts at its edge, keeping a wary eye on storms that swoop across Cape Cod Bay, continue to stand sentinel at the retreating margin of our east coast. While stoically resisting the relentless pounding of the Atlantic Ocean, the escarpment is ever so gradually surrendering its tenuous grasp. . . one delicate clump of soil at a time. There is no denying, however that vegetation still stubbornly clings to the unstable surface. It makes one wonder if that composted admixture being poured from above decades earlier did work some magic after all. It’s very mystifying; we can’t make sense of it. With no promising sign that the current trend of coastal erosion will reverse itself (in fact, the data make abundantly clear that ocean storms are becoming more intense and more frequent, and that sea levels are steadily rising at an ever-increasing rate); we nevertheless see it as a reminder of nature’s fighting spirit, its persistent quest to self-heal. It gives us hope.

There’s no easy answer, no easy fix, and it’s quite possible that at some point in our lives, we will all find ourselves standing at the edge of a cliff. Teetering thus, we might — even unwittingly — concede the pragmatic value of the long view. Maybe it’ll be the only one that helps make sense of it all, given that “it” varies from one person to the next. By making periodic small adjustments to the telescope’s lens, we keep the horizon always in focus, accordingly opening ourselves to more promising prospects and ultimately a deeper understanding of nature’s plan and where we stand — and where we hope to stand — in relationship to it.

EPILOGUE

My late husband always traveled with a pair of binoculars in his car. Even without them, he was a keen observer of the landscape. After he passed away, I made a new carrying case for the binoculars, and placed them within easy reach in my own car. What I soon discovered was that I was viewing my surroundings differently. Instead of being drawn to disparate elements, my eyes began to seek the horizon and the defining margins of the diverse landscapes. Open fields; gently rising hills; wide meadows; long, flat stretches of marshland; and, of course, every body of water — their vast size and beauty held a jumble of earnest flora and fauna and all the sacred secrets of life, detectable only by raising the binoculars to my eyes. It affirmed for me the mysterious and magnificent design of the natural world, with all its harmonious parts.

My best and humble advice, therefore, is to invest in a decent pair of binoculars and keep them near you wherever you travel. It is always in an unexpected and thrilling instant that they come in handy, as happened to me only yesterday when I spied a bald eagle traveling south above the saltmarsh. En route to its deep winter fishing ground close to the mouth of the Merrimack, it flew right above me. Although it seemed not to have noticed my presence, nor — more importantly — potential quarry in the form of two small dogs, I was confident that long before I had caught sight of him, he had already sized up the situation. For me, the sight was reassuring, as it always is, for it reminded me that there are still parts of nature that perform in the expected ways. Tracing the path of the majestic bird with my binoculars as it veered west to head upriver, I was filled with gratitude, my mind at peace.

And I get it now, why people cling fiercely and stubbornly, even desperately to a piece of unstable earth. It may be an epic provocation of Poseidon or other gods and goddesses of nature, and/or a wild and audacious calculation of risk and reward, but when I reflect back on my mom’s seven-year experience living on a high bluff at the fragile edge of our continent, I realize that each of us defines our own life expectations — our aspirations and our personal limits. We make our own calculations of risk and reward, and live according to those terms. For seven very full years, my mom and her siblings wove together a tapestry of rich experiences, ones that could fuel vivid, life-affirming memories. Who can say why some of us feel more strongly the siren call to the sea? There’s a clear difference between someone who lives right there — and craves an intimate connection — and someone like me, who can breathe in the sweet/salty, intoxicating sea air, but then walk away. . . my needs thus slaked.

So, why only seven years? It can be imagined that every beachfront property owner whose home and acreage are threatened by erosion worries about the next big storm. When you reach a tipping point, when your anxiety becomes unendurable and clarity of mind brings acceptance that no amount of composted slurry will cement that dissolving bluff, it’s time to draw the curtain. The house on Manomet Bluff was never intended to be the “forever” home anyway, at least for my mom. It was more a very long-term vacation home or an experiment in risky real estate. What the three siblings agreed on was that they never wanted to be in a position of coerced surrender, whether through managed retreat regulations or — God forbid — a massive collapse of their section of the bluff.

In the end, they walked away with an overflowing chest of exciting memories. There was no regret, even though the next home that Mom and Aunt Marie bought together was an unfussy, modest cottage in Yarmouth. Midway between Sagamore Bridge and the Cape’s “elbow”, their new home stood in a tidy, safe neighborhood where there was predictability and a tranquil sameness to their days. As Mom explained it to me in an end-of-summer card, back in 1993; “we certainly love living here. It’s a world of different considerations — all of them better except that view.” For the rest of their lives, one or the other sister would on occasion abruptly pause in whatever activity she was engaged in. The sewing machine would cease its rhythmic hum, the paintbrush would hover short of the canvas, the scrit-scrit of the trowel would become silenced in the soil as one sister would be conveyed by remembrance to Manomet Bluffs. With a far-away look on her face, she’d muse, “Oh, but that view!” And the other sister, with that same far-away look, would respond, “Mmm, that view!” In the comfortable silence that ensued, they were each turning over a remembered moment from that earlier time.

You Know You’re in Portland

It has taken me too long, I realize, but I’m beginning to get a feel for Portland, Oregon and just generally the Pacific Northwest. There’s much still to be learned about the region, but I embrace the challenge. I had the use of my daughter and son-in-law’s car during my most recent week-long visit to Portland, which — among other things — allowed me to immerse myself more fully in the experience, make me feel (almost) like a Portlander. I thrilled, for example, that I was able to conduct a highly nuanced, scientific comparison; grocery stores and bakeries were my test subjects. The comparisons with New England are inevitable.

*Example of a Portland truck “in fine fettle”*

Each day found me, as well, doing daily strolls around the University Park neighborhood where I was staying, presenting me with delightful opportunities for discovery (despite invariably drizzly weather conditions). Keep in mind, my friends, I’m a country girl, so part of the challenge is learning how to navigate (comfortably) in a major city.

Observation #1: Once you understand that homeowners have the responsibility for the upkeep of the space directly in front of their houses in between the sidewalk and the street, you can’t help but observe how those intervals are tended. It becomes readily obvious which homeowners chafe at the responsibility and which ones view their assigned space as an artist’s canvas.

Observation #2: Skill in parallel parking is essential, as is threading the needle to manage the gap between the street and one’s driveway (if there is one), inevitably crowded by at least half a dozen cars parked impossibly close. Every night when I left my daughter and son-in-law’s house to head back to my rented apartment, I recited an impassioned dear Lord, please let me get out of here safely without hitting one of those cars. (Truth is, my appeal to the Good Lord sounded more like: The fuck’s wrong with people?! Why can’t they give you some fuckin’ room?! Fuckin’ dickheads!) By the end of my visit, however, I had learned the calculation well enough so that I didn’t have to apply the brakes countless times, and my exit took fewer than ten minutes. The memory makes me smile.

Observation #3: You can buy avocados and actually have faith that they’ll be perfectly ripe, and taste as one would hope an avocado should taste, not like cardboard or wallpaper paste, which is how avocados purchased in New England generally taste. (I’m only imagining what cardboard and wallpaper paste taste like. At least I think I am. There may have been a period in my childhood when I “experimented” with things not customarily earmarked for human consumption.) When I was unable to find nectarines, I asked one of the stockers at New Seasons if they had any. He replied, “No, they’re not in season; we won’t have them for a couple months.” Not in season! When has that ever stopped our Market Baskets and Stop & Shops from making attractive arrangements of imported, tasteless, out-of-season fruits and vegetables?

Observation #4: Through either peer pressure or inheritance, Portlanders eventually own an old truck. Said truck must be installed permanently on the street or as a yard ornament. They run the gamut of eras (70’s through 90’s, mostly) and can be found in various conditions, from the worst state of decrepitude to the most pristine. Walking through the neighborhood, I could easily distinguish between “proud truck owner” and “embarrassed owner of an albatross”.

So ubiquitous are these trucks, that over time they lose their sense of novelty. Through transmogrification they become part of the urban landscape. Until recently, for example, a little red Toyota truck sat mute and motionless in front of my daughter and son-in-law’s house. No one could say when it first appeared, and no one knew who owned it — everyone imagined that it belonged to some one else. Only when it became the casualty in a hit-and-run accident by an RV “behaving in a suspicious manner”, was one of the neighbors moved to call the city’s traffic division. The city promptly arrived to tow it away. The uncharacteristic speed and alacrity with which the city responded led all the neighbors to conclude that the little red Toyota truck must have been a victim of some high jinks and ultimate abandonment. Accounts such as these produce only desultory shrugs of the shoulder. It’s a Portland thing.

I’ll be back in Portland in May. At that time, just as we in New England will think to cheerily recite, “Mother’s Day, plant away”; bursts of color will already be everywhere. The spaces between the sidewalk and the street will once again be showcasing the creative talents of spade-wielding Portland homeowners, (or vexing the more reluctant stewards of the inter-spaces).

I’m very much looking forward to more opportunities to expand my understanding of the region.

Canine Contrition

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

It was the first thing I said to my daughter Megan after I arrived on foot back to our driveway. Mona, once again shackled, stopped behind me; her demeanor was one of contrition. Megan put her Jeep in “park” and then commented, “I feel the same way.”

It so happens that our house, situated in a former pasture, is a hot spot for deer. We’ve lived here for 24 years, and it’s pretty obvious to us that it’s on one of their well-traveled corridors. Depending on how readily available natural food sources are, they will wend their way from our neighbors’ woods, cross our private road and either approach to graze close to the house or steer further away and feast on our bordering arborvitae. With fruit trees lining our road, there’s plenty to nourish them in our little neighborhood and few predators to cause them real concern.

It was the last “potty break” for the night when I stepped outside with both dogs. I always keep Bowie’s leash taut, but I allow slack in Mona’s. She’s the “good child”. Before I had even completely closed the door, she shot off the steps, and gaining just enough traction, her body snapped around at the end of the leash. If I had had more than a mili-second to think, I would have released the leash. I didn’t, and her body shot out of her collar; with her own gift of a mili-second, she honed in on the four deer across the road. Given her superb sense of smell and her better-than-human sense of sight, she had precise coordinates. I heard rather than saw her make a beeline for them.

I pursued Mona after having handed a psychotic Bowie off to Megan. Galloping across my lawn, the road, and into Pam’s yard, my rising panic stifled my will to curse the fact that I hadn’t laced up my L.L. Bean perfectly-suitable-for-snow boots. The flapping footwear slowed me slightly, and until I could get Mona in my sights (with the flashlight that Megan had hastily handed me in the Bowie-for-flashlight exchange), I was bound to completely spiral in my thoughts. I had only suspected that the deer were close by, as it was very much in keeping with their visiting hours, and the level of canine excitement suggested that the deer were nearby. Either that, or Pam’s semi-feral cat Louie was lurking. (Highly unlikely that late in the day, however; Louie was his most predatory early morning; I often see him strutting back home with his trophies before I’ve even had my morning coffee.) It really is remarkable how many thoughts can run, end-to-end and piling up on each other, through the mind of someone in full panic mode. The first thought to ambush me was that a coyote had darted out of the woods and grabbed her. By the time my flashlight had found Mona, sitting motionless about 20 feet away from the four calmly staring deer, I had convinced myself that I would find her lifeless body, having been kicked in the head by one of the deer, or — even worse, I think — she’d be nowhere in sight.

When my flashlight picked up the glitter of two little eyes, I was overcome with relief. “I’ve found her!” I yelled back to Megan, who didn’t hear me. She had jumped into her Jeep with Bowie, and was earnestly trying to position the headlights on the space between our house and Pam’s.

With a stern, Sit, Mona!, I approached “the good child” and slid her once more into her collar. Note to self: tighten the collar. Second note to self: resume training for recall and stay.

My panic and subsequent relief had whipped up into a frothy consistency in my stomach, resulting in nausea. Yes, I wanted to throw up.

The Alden Graveyard

High on a hill above the Taunton River in the south section of Bridgewater, Massachusetts sits the tiny, 19^th century Alden Graveyard. It also goes by the name of Great Woods Graveyard, which I suspect was a name given in later times, although the name pays homage to the tall, straight white pine trees that were harvested over time for use in the region’s boat-building industry. (The graveyard’s earliest identification on Plymouth County deed transfers had it simply as a “burial lot”.) The graveyard is surrounded by a low, lichen-textured, New England-style stone wall, the kind that was constructed with “two-handers” (boulders that required two hands to carry.) The graveyard had a single, u-shaped carriage drive that would deposit “attendees” at the door of the centrally located Alden tomb.

The high perch where the graveyard sits is surrounded on three sides by rolling, terraced fields. We knew it as “Titicut Hill”, but there was also a brief and casual reference to another name — “Hill of Sorrow” — because a sachem’s daughter was murdered there, so Mom once claimed. I grew up next to the Alden Graveyard. The lot of land upon which our little home sat was owned in the early 1800’s by the Deacon Asael and his wife Sarah (Alden) Shaw. It was either Sarah’s two brothers — Solomon and Amasa — or, more likely, her father, Solomon, who — along with his son, Amasa — donated one acre of bordering land in the late 1700s for use as a “burying lot”.

It pains me to admit how much time my siblings and I spent playing among the headstones and upon the central tomb (and — as a fitting punishment — knee-deep in poison ivy that naturally loved the stone walls). If you stood on top of the earth-covered tomb, which in appearance resembled a hobbit home, and faced southwest, you had a sweeping view of rolling, terraced fields.* Beyond the fields, you could see the silvery thread of the Taunton River. Ok, so I want to believe that, but it’s a lie that I had so thoroughly convinced myself of. Bob — and my four other brothers — assure me that you couldn’t see the Taunton.** It suggests that the forest was working at its own regeneration, spreading outward from the banks to reclaim what it had lost in the prior centuries.

It can be expected that colonial era graveyards — with their utter lack of adornment — don’t excite interest beyond the occasional visitor. Visitors who, like me, enjoy musing about the somber and strenuous lives of 18^th and 19^thcentury New Englanders. They’re quiet, reflective places. That is, unless you’re a young girl who allows herself to be talked into entering the tomb. I will never forget the day I foolishly stepped into that dark, dank, silent space. There had to have been an insanely attractive reward offered by one of my brothers. Most likely Chris. I do recall descending at least one or two of the granite steps. (That must have been one of the conditions for my reward.) The heavy metal door was pulled shut and I was alone in the tomb, or “alone” only in the sense that I was the sole breathing person in a room that also housed dead bodies. I pounded and screamed for hours. Once again, that part is untrue. I think I pounded and screamed for five seconds. . . which seemed an interminably long time.

When the fields on the far side of the graveyard were covered with snow, the whole Alden Square neighborhood took to toboggans and skis and saucers and Flexible Flyers for hours of outdoor sledding. Alternatively, and when we needed a more immediate rush, we’d dash over to the graveyard; from the tomb’s summit, we’d either roll our bodies down (doable at any time of year) or — when snow cover allowed — steer our sleds along a twisting path, avoiding (as best we could) the headstones, much as skiers do on alpine courses. Like, very short courses. . . maybe 15-meter. (For those readers who are at this moment cringing, I promise that, as an adult, I’m much more respectful. . . and not as idiotic where it concerns personal safety, but I doubt your thought process ventured so far as to reflect on the hazards to personal well-being.)

For me, it wasn’t all about play, however. I came to know the families who slept quietly there, and would read and re-read the inscriptions and epitaphs. The earliest known owners of our home made that graveyard their final resting place. The Deacon Asael Shaw is truly “rest[ing] from his labors”, having lived to the surprising age of 92. And “resting place” really does have fulsome meaning, for 18^th and 19^th century folk believed that admission through the pearly gates could only be secured by presentation of a notarized form vouching for a life of hard work, sacrifice, misery, and really plain and uncomfortable “waring appearill”. (I love to insert that expression whenever possible.)

My fascination with graveyards, as you can imagine, has been a natural outgrowth from having been next-door neighbor to the bones and spirits of colonial era yeomen and the like. I intend to continue cultivating my interest when opportunity permits — if you’ve ever driven with me, you’ll no doubt have seen my head pivot when I spot a tiny graveyard. I only occasionally, however, will respond to the tug to stop and walk around. Maybe it’s because of the residual sense of terror it inspires — what if someone were to shut me in another tomb? Or, maybe it’s because I am too fearful of the day that my own flesh will mingle with the dust. I don’t want to rush things.

*By the way, it didn’t pay to take in the north view from Titicut Hill. All those red-brick buildings with bars covering the windows were a disturbing reminder that ours was generally known to the rest of the town as the “prison neighborhood”.

** Bob, bless his little heart, allows me to save face by qualifying his statement; it was possible that one could see the flood waters that would occasionally breach the banks and travel as far as the pigeon coops.

Scarlet Fever — A Persistent Worry

Part of this story concerns a topic that has been gently brewing in my mind for over two years. It was given a toe nudge by recent reporting about the proliferation (globally) of cases of scarlet fever.

I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what “iGAS” stands for until a couple weeks ago when I came across an online Wired article that seeks to draw attention to the disturbing uptick in scarlet fever cases. (“The UK Is Enduring an Onslaught of Scarlet Fever. Is the US Next?”) The article itself links to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s website, where you read a simple message and try not to hyperventilate: “Increase in invasive Group A Strep infections.” Short in length, the message goes on to warn, “iGAS infections include necrotizing fasciitis and streptococcal toxic shock syndrome.” It is highly contagious, and often fatal. Sometimes the bacterial toxins associated with the infection move so fast that by the time the sufferer seeks medical relief (in the form of antibiotics), it’s too late. Very scary stuff. I find myself reflecting uncomfortably on those occasions as a child when I suffered with strep throat, but, jeesh, these new bacterial strains are a whole ‘nother thing.

The Wired article presents both a historical view of scarlet fever, even looping in old familiar stories in which the disease afflicts beloved characters (Beth March of Little Women, Mary Ingalls in the Little House series, also Boy of The Velveteen Rabbit), as well as the disease’s latter-day machinations. Making much of the fact that scarlet fever never went away, its gradual scaling up the last decade or so (in number of documented cases worldwide) is cause for concern.

It is equally concerning that there’s no systematic method of documentation, nor any reliable means to share. Here in the United States, only ten states participate in a “surveillance” program run by the CDC. (See “Active Bacterial Core Surveillance.”) Further limiting the program’s reach and effectiveness is the fact that unless the person stricken with illness is admitted to a hospital, the data is not collected.

The obvious controversy is that data collection may be seen to infringe on individual privacy rights. That’s a legitimate worry. How, then, do we discern trends and patterns, a contagion’s migratory behaviors, and still preserve our rights to privacy? On a micro level, when a doctor (or a nurse) enters into a patient’s chart their diagnosis, along with the list of patient symptoms, in my mind, a breach has already occurred, regardless of how “trusting” the relationship may be that a patient has with their physician. . . and nurses. . . and technicians. . . and front-end staff. . . and — gosh — any hackers who might illegally access patient records. I imagine that if a patient had an objection to their doctor’s inputting of data — weight, height, blood pressure, complaints, diagnosis, whether they feel safe at home — they probably wouldn’t even be visiting the doctor’s office in the first place. No clinician would agree, either, to see a patient who won’t allow data to be gathered. Is there a way, then, that relevant data (surrounding contagions) can be harnessed by a central databank without violating personal privacy? Not surprisingly, I haven’t any answers.

Invisible Killers of the 19^th Century

Eliza (Buswell) Coffin must have gasped in horror when one of her children came to her complaining of a sore throat that first week of January back in 1863. It was less about the throat than the angry rash on eight-year-old Caleb’s skin that gave flight to her blossoming dread. At the time, her husband, Samuel Coffin — the well-known boatbuilder of Rings Island — was off doing his part to save the Union in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. (He would endure his own private anguish a couple months later when his younger brother with whom he had enlisted — John — died there of “congestive chills”, likely malaria.) In a matter of two weeks, Eliza stood helplessly by as one by one three of her five children died, all from scarlet fever.

Mid-19^th century was, of course, still a time of antiquated thinking, at least in terms of people’s understanding of human health; in particular, their understanding of disease. Louis Pasteur’s “Germ Theory” was just beginning to excite curiosity among the medical establishment, but any observable progress wouldn’t happen for several decades. And antibiotics, the miracle treatment, wouldn’t become available until the 1940’s. Thus, when one looks at town reporting of deaths from that time, it might startle to see how many people died of bacterial diseases, such as diphtheria, consumption, typhus, dysentery, scarlet fever, chronic diarrhea, and cholera (and — with similar symptoms affecting only young children — cholera infantum). Of course, there’s the occasional “dropped on his head” mention, but from our enlightened 21^st century perch, we’re left to wonder why it took so long for scientists to draw the connection between illness and “invasive bodies” that can only be detected by means of a microscope (something that had been invented at least as early as the 1600’s.) So little did doctors understand the causes behind illness that they naturally made judgments based entirely on symptoms. “Cause of death”, therefore, always must be treated with a grain of salt when perusing death records from throughout the 19th century. (Perhaps not as baffling was the lengthy delay on the part of the public to accept scientific wisdom; we need look no further than our own communities today to witness the skepticism with which new scientific findings are treated. Because we are unable, for example, to see how all the recent variants of the COVID virus are spreading, mutating, and jumping species, many of us remain unconvinced of their lethality, even their very presence.)

I admit to a morbid fascination with death. Plagues and poxes unnerve me, but they do also electrify my curiosity. When I do my genealogical research, I can find plenty to capture my interest just by reading death certificates. One great-great-grandfather, Patrick McKenna, whose peripatetic journey took him from County Monaghan, Ireland to the textile mills of Glasgow, Scotland, then to various mill cities of New England; survived into his 70’s after decades of factory employment. (Spotty record, that one had — he couldn’t manage to hold onto any job for long. Rather a tragic figure.) It appears he died at the Tewksbury Almshouse, with cause of death determined to be “pthisis”, aka consumption, more commonly known these days as tuberculosis. Another great-great-grandfather, James Loughnane, died much younger (in his 30’s) from — yet again — consumption. He, too, had been a mill worker whose (short) life story read a lot like Patrick’s.

The Buswells of Mudnock Road

Closer to home — literally — my interest at the moment has turned to Eliza (Buswell) Coffin because of a study I freely undertook a couple years ago on a house that I see from several windows of my own home. I’m not a creepy stalker, but my interest was instantly sparked when I heard someone make passing reference to an ancient intra-family feud, simultaneously gesturing toward the “William Buswell” home. (Actually, one of two “William Buswell” homes that sit only yards apart on Mudnock Road.)

If you stand on Mudnock Road at the top of (and facing) Niko Way, the home that sits on the right corner, at 34 Mudnock Road, is the newer Buswell home, built in 1780. (Its twin was built 50 years earlier and gives the appearance of having been more loved — or at least cared for — through the years.) The “newer” Buswell home stands on the original 2-acre homestead lot of Isaac Buswell (laid out in 1639 as part of the First Division of Settlers). The federal-style “double house” has a brick wall running right down the center of it that serves as a physical signpost of the acrimonious relationship that developed between two brothers, Walker and Jacob Buswell, soon after the hammers and saws ceased their racket. (It is quite possible that Walker was the one to erect the dividing wall, as, in addition to being a yeoman/farmer, he was a bricklayer.)

“Deacon John” Buswell, seven years before he died in 1783, thought he was doing a good deed. He had ample personal property and real estate holdings, but lots of children — nine, in fact. (The Buswells appear to have been prolific reproducers.) He outlined carefully in his will who should inherit what. His language was clear: along with his lot of marsh in the meadow and half of this and half of that lot (he really did have a finger in every pie), Walker should have the “easterly part of my homestead. . . my shoemaker’s shop. . . and my hog house.” To Jacob, The Deacon bequeathed the westerly side of the homestead and his (other) dwelling house, as well as the other half of this and the other half of that lot.

It has been my opinion — after reading and re-reading his document — that, as careful and thorough as The Deacon had been, as aware as he was of his own substantial holdings, he misjudged the character of the two sons who were expected to “play nice together” and share. For over thirty years, the two brothers occupied the home, Walker and his family on the east end, Jacob and his family on the west end. They both lived into their 80’s; Walker died in 1817, Jacob in 1822. The record provides us with no evidence that fraternal harmony ultimately prevailed. Going forward, the language of their titled properties became complex and is clear about “passing” and “re-passing” rights where it concerns access to the well, the barn, the shoe shop, etc. Meanwhile, their brother Caleb — jauntily sporting the “wearing appearill” left to him by Dad — went merrily about his way, tending the Chester, New Hampshire farm bequeathed to him (and raising a brood of ten — all sons).

Walker, for all the headaches that co-ownership posed, inexplicably died intestate. . . and with debt to be settled. His interest in the easterly half of the home was bought out at auction by his 20-year-old grandson, John Walker Buswell. Then, in 1825, John Walker paid Caleb Pike Jr. $700 for property that included the westerly side of the house; the home, going forward, would be known as the “J.W. Buswell Home”. In that way, any embryonic references to the “Otis Pike Home” became moot.

Eliza was one of five girls born to John Walker and Nancy (Walton) Buswell, their fifth child (of eight.) Her choice of husband was likely based on sound reasoning. After all, the Coffins of Rings Island were solid people. Long-time ship builders in a ship-building village. There were lots of Coffins on Rings Island. The Mudnock Road Buswells — yeomen, mostly — were, likewise, solid people. There were lots of Buswells on Mudnock Road. The union of the two powerhouse families held great promise.

Epidemics, with their seemingly mysterious origins and movements, have beleaguered and bewildered communities since time immemorial. It should be here noted, however, that 1863 was an especially bad year for Salisbury in terms of mortality. The number of deaths — 89 — was more than double the deaths recorded the year before for our small town. Thirty-seven of the reported deaths (or 42%) were of children and infants (ages 0-17). Of that number, seven were victims of scarlet fever. As noted, three of the seven were Eliza and Samuel’s small children.

It is a belief held by some that families of earlier times became so accustomed to the beckoning finger of the grim reaper that they were inclined to adopt a dispassionate attitude toward death. If you read epitaphs from headstones for children who died in the 1800’s, you come away with a different perspective. While “heavy clod” and “arms of God” seem fitting for someone who died in their 86th year, and “mouldering bones” is perhaps apt for any adult who has passed on, the epitaphs for children are much more touching expressions that suggest real grief, even foundering defenselessness against baffling forces. As one example, in the Great Woods Cemetery in Bridgewater, next to the house I grew up in, one of the epitaphs for a child who died at age 6 reads: “Nature has but soft powerful bands, And reason she controls; While children with their little hands, Hang closest to our souls.” We see, then, that as much as 19th century New England families looked to their bibles for consolation and guidance, they grieved just as deeply as we do now upon the death of a loved one, especially a child.*

For two years the imagined grief of Eliza (Buswell) Coffin has resided as a slow simmer in the back of my mind. All the while (and after) I researched the Buswell home, the nearness of which reminds me of a mute, doddering forebear; I’ve wondered how she weathered her crisis in 1863. After losing three of their five children, Eliza and Samuel had two more. In one way or another, all the descendants wove their lives into the fabric of the river- and ocean-side communities of Rings Island and Newburyport. Thus, it’s impossible in current times to uncouple the Coffin name from the history of Rings Island.**

After a bit of searching, I was able to discover a photo of Eliza. As much as I had been hoping to see an image of her as a young woman, this one, at least, is a close-up — a good one, at that — so one is able to see fine details.*** In the photo, which appears in a direct descendant’s published history (The Coffin Family of Rings Island by Cynthia C. Wildes, great-granddaughter of Eliza and Samuel), Eliza is an old woman. She appears to be looking slightly up and to the left of the camera; it causes her to have a far-away look. The lines on her face read like a city map, and I wonder if they’re caused by a vigorous life of hard work (outdoors?), or from a lifetime of internalizing painful experiences. Her white hair, vaguely wavy, is center-parted and carefully but simply coifed, tucked behind her ears and fastened snuggly. She appears serene and self-contained, but also exudes confidence — she is sure of her place in this world. Do I detect, though, a hint of sadness in her expression? Perhaps. Or, perhaps, I should read it simply as weariness. I decide to tuck this mental image in a quiet corner of my memory. I want to remember Eliza (Buswell) Coffin, even though I never met her — she was, after all, born nearly two hundred years ago, and lived in an era that persists in confounding me, try as I might to make sense of it. I want to remember her because of the connection I have made between her childhood home and the home I own, which, once upon a time, was part of the Buswell homestead lot. It’s more than conceivable that her little feet scampered across the same yard that is now my yard. Like most people who are interested in the past, I seek the common elements that bind me to events and people who lived before.

*One way that mothers could express their sense of loss was by keeping close to their heart (in an ornamental locket) a tuft of hair snipped from their departed child. Another common practice from Victorian times that today we view with curiosity (maybe even unease) was the fashioning of jewelry out of hair, and not necessarily from a dead person; just as often from a good (living-breathing) friend. In a National Geographic article by Becky Little, “Trendy Victorian-Era Jewelry Was Made From Hair”, Karen Bachman of the Morbid Anatomy Museum in Brooklyn, NY puts it this way, “Women of the 19th century would swap locks of hair as a love token the way young girls today might wear friendship bracelets.” The hair could be fashioned into earrings or pendants. The popularity of “hair art” owes to its enduring qualities — hair takes a long time to decay — and because, as Bachman points out, “it’s a very personal indicator of self.”

**Lincoln Coffin, born in 1864, will make a cameo appearance in a separate story, one that caused a surprised “Oh!” in my research of the long-time residence of the Salisbury Historical Society on Second Street. (Keep an eye out for that as a future blog post.)

***I had been trying to secure permission to include the image as part of this story, but determining the person or concern that currently holds the copyright is a frustrating exercise.