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108
For a joyful holiday experience, head to Boston. See the lights, shop, dine, enjoy the arts, nourish your spirit. by Amy Traverso
124
When an athlete and adventurer can no longer even stand up, what can he do? A memoir of fatherhood, losing hope, and finding it again. by Todd Balf
130
On October 6, 2015, the Maine Maritime community in Castine, Maine, held a candlelight vigil for the five Maine Maritime graduates lost at sea when the El Faro sank with little warning while in the direct path of Hurricane Joaquin. below : Festive lights at Quincy Market in Boston’s historic Faneuil Hall Marketplace are one of the many traditional markers of the city’s holiday season. 108
Each year, we spotlight ordinary people with extraordinary hearts—this year, our 11th, three inspiring stories. by Ian Aldrich
136
What complex forces led to the tragic loss of the El Faro along with 33 sailors, including eight New Englanders? by Rachel Slade
Christmas magic at Quincy Market. photograph by Andrew Marston
MY COOKING DOES THE TELLING
32 /// A Vermont Family Christmas
Is the Green Mountain State the “most Christmasy” place in the country? Best-selling author Ellen Stimson thinks so. by Lindsay Tucker
38 /// Open Studio
With beach glass and old bottles, Lynne Lovely creates stunning stained-glass art. by Annie Graves
44 /// House for Sale
This Maine house was built in 1797-8 by a direct descendant of John Alden of Mayflower fame. Its historic value speaks for itself. by the Yankee Moseyer
88 /// Could You Live Here?
Among its many virtues, Great Barrington, Massachusetts, is a hub of fine dining. by Annie Graves
94 /// The Best 5
Start (and finish) your holiday gift-hunting at five of the merriest shopping destinations in New England. by Kim Knox Beckius
96 /// Local Treasure
On the 75th anniversary of Pearl Harbor, experience what life was like on the home front at the Wright Museum in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. by Joe Bills
100 /// Out & About
A host of holiday events—from Thanksgiving to Christmas and First Night. compiled by Joe Bills
58 The New England Holiday Kitchen: A memorable feast—that’s the hope for the holidays, but inevitably time is short. These recipes were created especially for the busy cook. by Amy Traverso
72 Editors’ Choice Food Awards 2016: For our 4th annual awards, we look in depth at makers of exceptional specialty foods. by Amy Traverso and Kelsey Liebenson-Morse
8
10
DEAR YANKEE, CONTRIBUTORS & POETRY BY D.A.W.
12
INSIDE YANKEE
14
MARY’S FARM
The pleasures of watching wild turkeys. by Edie Clark
16
LIFE IN THE KINGDOM
Try moving when your house isn’t finished and you have a truckload of animals. by Ben Hewitt
20
FIRST LIGHT
A 1941 Keene newspaper provides a glimpse into the early days of World War II. by Tim Clark
24
ONLY IN NEW ENGLAND
Bugged by blue laws? It’s the Puritans’ fault. by Ken Sheldon
26
KNOWLEDGE & WISDOM
Gifts of beauty, the principles of Americanism, and Dunkin’ Donuts by the numbers.
30
UP CLOSE
Sacred Cod on Beacon Hill. by Heather Tourgee
Our journey along one of America’s greatest rivers is an exploration of the American spirit. Each destination has a unique story, brought to life through our customized shore excursions and onboard experts. Enjoy personalized service and memorable entertainment on a 5 to 22-day cruise along the Mississippi River.
1121 Main St., P.O. Box 520, Dublin, NH 03444. 603-563-8111; editor@YankeeMagazine.com
EDITORIAL
EDITOR Mel Allen
ART DIRECTOR Lori Pedrick
DEPUTY EDITOR Ian Aldrich
INTERIM MANAGING EDITOR Barbara Coles
SENIOR EDITOR/FOOD Amy Traverso
PHOTO EDITOR Heather Marcus
DIGITAL EDITOR Aimee Seavey
ASSOCIATE EDITOR Joe Bills
HOME & GARDEN EDITOR Annie Graves
INTERNS Kelsey Liebenson-Morse, Montana Rogers
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Kim Knox Beckius, Annie Card, Edie Clark, Ben Hewitt, Justin Shatwell, Ken Sheldon, Julia Shipley
CONTRIBUTING
PHOTOGRAPHERS Julie Bidwell, Kindra Clineff, Sara Gray, Corey Hendrickson, Joe Keller, Joel Laino, Jarrod McCabe, Michael Piazza, Heath Robbins, Carl Tremblay
PRODUCTION
PRODUCTION DIRECTORS David Ziarnowski, Susan Gross
SENIOR PRODUCTION ARTISTS Jennifer Freeman, Rachel Kipka
DIGITAL
VP NEW MEDIA & PRODUCTION Paul Belliveau Jr.
DIGITAL MARKETING MANAGER Amy O’Brien
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rachel slade
Journalist Rachel Slade (“A Fatal Mistake,” p. 136) is former executive editor of Boston magazine, where she won an award in civic journalism for her investigative story on the Boston Redevelopment Authority. With degrees in political science and architecture, she is drawn to moments when technology, politics, and humanity collide. She splits her time between Brookline, Massachusetts, and Rockport, Maine.
sT ep hen s h effield
Photographer Stephen Sheffield (“The Way Back,” p. 124) is a Boston area native who has exhibited nationally and has permanent, large-scale art commissions in major cities, including Boston and New York. He is adjunct faculty at the N.H. Institute of Art MFA program. His fine-art photography is represented by Boston’s Panopticon Gallery. stephensheffield.com
a my Traverso
Senior Food Editor Amy Traverso (“Holiday Kitchen,” p. 58, and “Food Awards 2016,” p. 72) oversees the Yankee Food department, writes travel features, and contributes to NewEngland.com. Her restaurant column, “Local Flavor,” recently won a City and Regional Magazine Association award for food and dining writing. She is also the author of The Apple Lover’s Cookbook (W.W. Norton).
e l izabe T h c ecil
Photographer Elizabeth Cecil (“The New England Holiday Kitchen,” p. 58) specializes in editorial and fine-art photography for food, lifestyle, and travel. A resident of Martha’s Vineyard, she is the current and founding photo editor of Edible Vineyard magazine. Her work has been featured in Bon Appétit, Saveur, Coastal Living, Organic Life, and The Wall Street Journal. elizabethcecil.com
Tim c l ark
Writer Tim Clark (“First Light,” p. 20) is a former executive editor of Yankee who then mentored countless ConVal High School students in the art of writing and reading great literature. He serves as Moderator for the town of Dublin, New Hampshire.
Yankee magazine has always been a treasured publication in my home, and while I’ve enjoyed the content, nothing struck me quite like Suzanne Strempek Shea’s heartwarming article about Blue Star Equiculture and its mission of rescuing and caring for aging or ailing draft horses [September/October, p.108]. The story reveals the impetus for Pamela Rickenbach’s creation of this sanctuary and shares the history of some of its lucky residents. The compassionate work of Blue Star is worthy of Yankee ’s spotlight. I hope your readers will respond to its funding needs. My check is in the mail!
Rebecca F. Gaffney O xford, Maryland
Bill De La Rosa’s story [September/October, p. 128] is an important reminder that hate speak ... doesn’t represent who we are as a nation. The United States wouldn’t exist if we hadn’t embraced immigrants. We need to be reminded now more than ever that most people come to this country for the same reason our ancestors did—the chance for a better life.
Louise Lawson Norfolk, Massachusettsk e lsey liebenson- m o rse
Yankee ’s summer intern, Kelsey Liebenson-Morse (“Food Awards 2016,” p. 72), is currently completing her MFA at West Virginia University, where she enjoys teaching and spending time outside. A lover of all things New England—most especially midcoast Maine in the summer and whoopie pies on the beach—she can frequently be seen running or biking.
Your coverage of the coming 165th Fryeburg Fair [September/October, p.64] and its environs was exciting to see, and I appreciated mention of Fryeburg Academy, a private day and boarding high school. ... I write to offer an important clarification. The article twice states that local students attend the Academy “tuition-free.” Though it would be wonderful if such a thing were possible, tuition for approximately 400 area students is addressed by very significant taxpayer commitment, a historic arrangement now in its third century. One of only 19 remaining such “town
academies” in New England, Fryeburg Academy has retained its independence while serving the public good because of this continuous partnership, one fueled by mutual faith and annual dedication of resources.
Erin P. Mayo Head of School, Fryeburg Academy
Corrections:
In our profile of Vermont police chief Frank Koss [September/October, p. 116], we misspelled the name of Diana Nelsen and incorrectly stated that she and Richard Tom had been together for 15 years. They were partners for only five.
In our July/August story on Tropical Storm Irene (p. 120), we incorrectly stated that it led to six deaths in Vermont. Seven Vermonters died as a result of the storm.
Apartment and cottage living at Piper Shores offers residents fully updated and affordable homes, with all the benefits of Maine’s first and only nonprofit lifecare retirement community. Located along the Southern Maine coastline, our active, engaged community combines worry-free independent living with priority access to higher levels of on-site healthcare—all for a predictable monthly fee.
very issue of Yankee takes on a life of its own. Sometimes we plan it that way, when, for instance, we start with a theme in mind and then plump up the pages with stories that fit. But more often, it’s as though the individual stories hold a secret meeting without inviting any of us, and agree to all head toward the same destination, with no concern if the rest of us catch on. With this issue, I have a hunch that maybe the theme that swirled around in that meeting (probably late at night when our building was dark and silent) was “spirit.”
“December 1941” (p. 20) probably pointed out that just as the people of Keene, New Hampshire, readied for Christmas, bombs rained down on a distant Honolulu harbor and suddenly the people in every city, town, and village across the land saw their lives change forever. Yet even as they faced war, neighbors sang carols together, mirroring what would continue to happen everywhere—a determination to carry on.
No doubt “Life in the Kingdom” (p. 16) murmured, too. Readers who have followed the Hewitt family as they worked their Vermont homestead and then made their surprising decision to build anew, will see how they used fortitude, determination, and sheer spirit to move in with their animals in what became their very own manger. I suspect “Life in the Kingdom” was quite proud to have made that analogy.
I am sure “A Vermont Family Christmas” (p. 32) and “Christmas in Boston” (p. 108) and even “The New England Holiday Kitchen” (p. 58) clamored to be heard. The essence and spirit of both Thanksgiving and Christmas flow through each of these. Boston shimmers during the holidays even as the footsteps of winter have us reaching for light earlier each day. Just as the citizens in a small New Hampshire town came together to light a tree 75 years ago, so too, in these politically fractured days, do Bostonians. If ever a city glows with music and festive lights and a sense of deep tradition, it is here.
Finally, I am certain that both “Angels Among Us” (p. 130) and “The Way Back” (p. 124) said simply, “We understand what it’s like to find light wherever it shines.” All these stories carry their own voice, their own spirit. From all of us here at the rambling red building in Dublin to wherever you are holding these pages, we wish you happiness this season and hope that our stories speak to you as well. Just listen.
Mel Allen, Editor editor@YankeeMagazine.com
THEPOEMREADS:
THEPOEMREADS:
Dear Reader,
The drawing you see above is called The Promise It is completely composed of dots of ink. After writing the poem, I worked with a quill pen and placed thousands of these dots, one at a time, to create this gift in honor of my youngest brother and his wife.
Dear Reader,
The drawing you see above is called “The Promise.” It is completely composed of dots of ink. After writing the poem, I worked with a quill pen and placed thousands of these dots, one at a time, to create this gift in honor of my youngest brother and his wife.
Now, I have decided to offer The Promise to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Valentine’s gift or simply as a standard for your own home, I believe you will find it most appropriate.
Now, I have decided to offer “The Promise” to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Valentine’s gift or simply as a standard for your own home, I believe you will find it most appropriate.
Dear Reader,
Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully-framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut double mats of pewter and rust at $145*, or in the mats alone at $105*. Please add $16.95 for insured shipping and packaging. Your satisfaction is completely guaranteed.
My best wishes are with you.
Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut mats of pewter and rust at $110, or in the mats alone at $95. Please add $14.50 for insured shipping and packaging. Your satisfaction is completely guaranteed.
My best wishes are with you.
The Art of Robert Sexton • P.O. Box 581 • Rutherford, CA 94573
The drawing you see above is called “The Promise.” It is completely composed of dots of ink. After writing the poem, I worked with a quill pen and placed thousands of these dots, one at a time, to create this gift in honor of my youngest brother and his wife.
The Art of Robert Sexton, 491 Greenwich St. (at Grant), San Francisco, CA 94133
All major credit cards are welcomed. Please send card name, card number, address and expiration date, or phone (415) 989-1630 between 10 a.m.-6 p.m. PST, Monday through Saturday. Checks are also accepted. Please allow up to 5 to 10 business days for delivery. *California residents- please include 8.0% tax
MASTERCARD and VISA orders welcome. Please send card name, card number, address and expiration date, or phone (415) 989-1630 between noon-8 P.M.EST. Checks are also accepted. Please allow 3 weeks for delivery.
Now, I have decided to offer “The Promise” to those who share and value its sentiment. Each litho is numbered and signed by hand and precisely captures the detail of the drawing. As a wedding, anniversary or Valentine’s gift or simply as a standard for your own home, I believe you will find it most appropriate.
Please visit my Web site at www.robertsexton.com
Measuring 14" by 16", it is available either fully framed in a subtle copper tone with hand-cut mats of pewter and rust at $110, or in the mats alone at $95. Please add $14.50 for insured shipping
“The Promise” is featured with many other recent works in my book, “Journeys of the Human Heart.” It, too, is available from the address above at $12.95 per copy postpaid. Please visit my Web site at www.robertsexton.com
“Across the years I will walk with you— in deep, green forests; on shores of sand: and when our time on earth is through, in heaven, too, you will have my hand.”
“Across the years I will walk with you— in deep, green forests; on shores of sand: and when our time on earth is through, in heaven, too, you will have my hand.”
n recent years, turkeys have been as common as maple leaves around here. After the fields are hayed, they graze on the stubble, moving slowly from one side of the field to the other. In their shape and in their movement, they resemble little dinosaurs, creating a strange leap in time. They seem to be everywhere. When the grass in the hay field is high, it’s disconcerting to see their heads sticking up above the tassels, moving along like shark fins through high seas. There is no indication of a body to go with the bobbing head. But once he (or she) emerges from the ocean of grass, comes the bird many once thought should be our national bird. (The eagle won.)
Habitat loss combined with high demand for turkeys for Thanksgiving platters depleted the population, and the bird disappeared, more or less, from the New England landscape. There was some desire for their feathers to decorate hats as well. This went on until the 1970s when Fish and Wildlife introduced the birds back into our place here. And we have watched them thrive.
We are sometimes treated to very endearing scenes. In the spring, their chicks hatch and the mother hens parade with their young ones. Sometimes there are five or six but other times, they have 14 or 16, a literal retinue that follows the mother on her grazing route. The first year I lived here, I counted her chicks each day, wondering if the abundance of coyotes and fisher cats would diminish her brood. I expected that there would be one or two fewer each morning. But they are not as frail as I might have thought. Or maybe the answer lies in the mother, who can be as mean as a goose if challenged.
Last year’s apple crop was staggering; fruit carpeted the ground—and the turkeys came pecking. I’m used to the deer coming around to graze on the drops, sometimes rising up on their hind legs to reach low-hanging fruit. Often they trot in at night. On moonlit nights, I can see their shapes, heads bent to the ground, enjoying the drops. I can almost hear them, their small mouths working those hard fruits.
But then came the turkeys, lots of them, under the trees, going after the apples. Unlike the deer, the turkeys peck madly at the apples and when they do, the little green apples fly into the air, causing a more or less orgiastic scene of madness and pleasure. One day, I was watching them from the window when I saw two deer moving toward the apples. I was surprised, as they like to have things to themselves. But they kept moving toward the herd of turkeys when, all of a sudden, the turkeys turned on the deer, screeching for all they were worth. And the deer turned tail and ran. The turkeys strutted, pridefully, back to their quarry.
Some years ago, I read an interesting theory that turkeys are the main predators of ticks. Being a Lyme sufferer, and since Lyme Disease is so prevalent in the Northeast, I found this to be exciting news. A single turkey can consume as many as 200 ticks a day, according to one website. The current population of turkeys here in New Hampshire is something like 40,000—quick figuring finds that to be eight million ticks a day. Sounded good for the home team. I wrote a letter to several local papers, urging that turkey season be suspended, at least for a year or two, so that the turkeys might do their work. The response was not what I had expected. Readers retorted with letters suggesting I was trying to take away their guns. I had a hard time following their logic.
Turkey hunting season continues unabated. Everyone seems to still have their guns. And this year, I have a mother with 16 chicks, undiminished.
Edie Clark’s books, including her newest, As Simple As That: Collected Essays , are now available at: edieclark.com
Moving is always stressful.
But what if it involved multiple animals. And, oh, by the way, your new home has neither front door nor floor.
e move over the final days of October, and if it is possible for a house to revolt against its soon-to-be-former owners, this is exactly what ours does. First, a pane of glass in the porch door shatters (it may or may not have had some help from our second-born), then the thermostat in the hot water heater fails, and finally, in a coupe de grâce, the shower drain begins leaking. This is particularly problematic, since the drain is embedded in a layer of mortar that serves as a base to the tile floor of the shower. I know how thick that mortar is (very), since I laid it myself 15 years prior.
I begin chiseling away at the tile late one night, on the tail end of what must be the 40- or 50-something consecutive 12-hour day I’ve worked, but between my fatigue, the emotional terrain of the move, and the half-million other tasks demanding my attention, I soon capitulate and call a professional tile setter. “Can you come in the next two days?” I plead. We are closing in four
days, and I still need time to finish the plumbing downstream of the new drain after he replaces the old one and re-tiles the shower basin. There is a pause on the other end of the line. Before he can fill it with a “no,” I continue. “I’ll pay whatever it takes.” Without question, this is the first time in my 43 years that I’ve uttered these words, and though they have exposed the pale underbelly of my desperation in a way that is ripe for exploitation, he names a very reasonable hourly rate and says he’ll be out the next day to look at the job.
The work has gone well at our new homestead, but not so well that we’ll be moving into the house, which is dried-in but still boasts bare stud walls and other deficits too numerous to mention (OK, I’ll try: no insulation, no water, no floor, no front door, no wiring ... you get the picture). We’d seen this coming—this is not our first rodeo, so to speak—and had prepared accordingly, by insulating the upstairs room of the barn and installing an old woodstove. It is far from commodious—a single room, half-filled with our boxed possessions, fitted with a single carpenter’s clip light plugged into 400 feet of extension cords, and still no running water, but hey: It beats freezing to death in the dark. We arrange a row of mattresses along one end of the floor and decide that it looks cozy enough. Besides, we don’t really have any options, and I’ve always found that not having options is a really good way to learn how to accept circumstances as they are.
As many of you surely know, the physical act of moving is almost indescribably stressful; in our case, the stress is exacerbated by the need to move not just four humans and their belongings, but also one dog, two cats, five cows, two goats, three lambs, and 30 chickens. We’re also moving a couple of pigs, but they’re in the freezer, and therefore less of a concern. There is shelter for all creatures great and small (albeit some of it rustic; the lambs, for instance, will be bedding down under the protection of an old pickup truck cap), and this is comforting, as is the fact that all of these ani-
mals are known to us, and we to them. Still, livestock is not unlike humans in that one can never be sure how they will react to the unexpected, and I do not find it relaxing to consider the possibilities.
Fortunately, the animals handle the transition with far more grace and equanimity than their owners, and our fears of being introduced to the community by way of our marauding cattle as they clod hop through the neighbors’ gardens go unfounded.
With the animals moved, we make trip after trip after trip from our old home to our new one, the bed of our truck and that of our friend Michael’s piled comically high with each load. It is an arduous process, and by midafternoon, I feel wrung out. It is nearly nightfall by the time the final load is strapped down; Penny and the boys fill the Subaru with the remaining few boxes of miscellany, and we leave. I expect it to be harder, driving out that driveway for the last time, but it is not, and I don’t know if this is because I’m so weary, or because I completed the emotional part of the move weeks before. Probably, it’s both.
So. We reside for now in a single room above five cows and 1,000 bales of hay. When the wind blows, I hear the sliding doors of the barn thumping against the side of the building. We have no Internet, no landline, and a cell phone that works only from very particular locations outside our living quarters, so I make calls while leaning against the cows’ paddock fence. I check email every other day or so, sitting in my truck, parked in the parking lot of the nearest library, listening to the radio. Since I seem to be getting less email as I age, I’m thinking I can soon transition to once every third or fourth day and no one will be the wiser, and this makes me wonder if perhaps by the time I’m 50, I can be down to once a year.
Living in the barn is not without its challenges, to be sure, but both Penny and I are mildly shocked at how well
the transition has gone. No one talks of wanting more space or more conveniences, although there is occasional grousing over whose turn it is to carry firewood up the stairs. And let’s be honest: Living out of boxes stinks. But we are warm and well-fed, and still enjoying the work that fills our days. We have enough power in the barn to add another light, a small radio, and Fin’s guitar amplifier. We have procured three new piglets, and they are fattening on the hillside behind the barn; sometimes, when I walk outside for morning chores, I hear them snoring.
Although there is much work left to do, and although our current living conditions are decidedly rustic by modern standards, I feel a renewed sense of peace after the nonstop motion of the summer and fall. And in those times when I find myself chafing to be out of the barn and in the house (this will end up taking three more months), I think about the fact that every night, the four of us, aged 47, 43, 13, and 11, lie side-by-side on our mattresses and read together, while below us the chickens are quieting on their roost, and the cows are settling in for the night. In a few minutes, I’ll close the cover of my book, and rise from bed to stoke the fire for the night.
We’re not finished with our project, not even close. I know that.
But I also know that we made it.
Every night, the four of us lie side-byside on our mattresses and read together, while below us the chickens are quieting on their roost, and the cows are settling in for the night.
ILLUSTRATION BY ERICK INGRAHAM
ecember 1, 1941, was the coldest day of the autumn in New England. It was five below zero in northern Maine and 12 degrees above in Keene, a city of about 14,000 in Cheshire County, New Hampshire.
“It seems good to see the little Christmas trees up on the lampposts around the center of the city,” wrote Henry Davis Nadig, a columnist for the Keene Evening Sentinel who styled himself “The Cheshire Cat.” “It won’t be long now before nightly we shall be offering a very cheery appearance to the winter visitor coming into Keene.”
At that time, the Sentinel, founded in 1799, was the seventh-oldest daily paper in America, and the oldest to be continuously owned by the same family. Five full-time reporters, two editors, and 22 local correspondents covered the city and its surrounding towns, printing 4,800 copies every afternoon.
Although America was not yet at war, war dominated the news: “Japanese Cabinet Decides to Continue Negotiations, U.S. Philippine Forces Ready” blared the Sentinel ’s front page that day. The state office of the Selective Service had been ordered to begin physical exams of draft-eligible young men, and Brig. Gen. Charles Bowen warned that conscientious objectors must base their refusal to serve on religious belief, not “political concepts.” A smaller story at the bottom of the front page noted that the Australian government had warned that a break in relations between the U.S. and Japan “might come at any moment.”
But due attention was paid to ordinary life as well. Mac’s Fruit Store was advertising large Florida oranges for 29 cents a dozen, and steaks were selling for 31 cents a pound at the First National supermarket. There were Christmas sales on everything from holiday cards to storm windows.
Keene High opened its basketball season with a bang, smashing Thayer 42-8. Mr. and Mrs. Jeremiah Driscoll of 21 Richardson Court celebrated their 40th anniversary, and 14-year-old Clifton Chambers Jr. of Surry shot a 135pound spike horn buck, though it had been a poor hunting season—too warm and not enough snow for tracking. Nevertheless, the Sentinel had some fun with a story about “a deer-colored goat” that was bagged in Swanzey.
“The Cheshire Cat” reported that mild temperatures had made the city “the foggiest I’ve ever seen. Couldn’t even see the lights glowing from Central Square as I came up past the Scenic Theatre,” he wrote, where Sergeant York, the World War I epic starring Gary Cooper, was to open the next day, Sunday, December 7.
The Keene area got first word of that day’s attack on Pearl Harbor from the new radio station in town, WKNE. The Sentinel posted the news on a bulle-
tin board outside its office on St. James Street, and it wasn’t until the afternoon of December 8 that banner headlines appeared on the front page: “U.S. Declares War on Japan. Jap Planes Attack Pearl Harbor. Death Toll of 1500.” The next morning, eight young Keene men were in line at the recruiting office when it opened.
More than 20 local men were already serving in Hawaii, and details of the tragedy trickled in for weeks. On December 21, the Hopkins family of North Swanzey got a telegram from the War Department telling them their 19-year-old son Edwin, a Navy fireman third class on board the USS Oklahoma , was missing in action. It was not until February 18, 1942, that Eddie’s death was officially declared. He was Keene’s first lost boy, and in 1943 the city named its new municipal airport Dillant-Hopkins field for him and Lt. Thomas Dillant, an Army Air Corps pilot from Keene who died in a training accident.
Reaction to the war was not always reassuring. To guard against sabotage, all employees at Perkins Machine Company were fingerprinted, and a Sentinel editorial urged “no Japanese light bulbs, no Japanese toys, no Japanese combs and brushes be purchased by its readers.”
Residents buried their fear and grief in war-related work. By Thursday, December 11, 100 volunteer air raid wardens had started training and 39 people had signed up for a seven-week first-aid course at the YMCA. Even local advertising took on a martial tone. “Your weekly food order plays an important part in the defense of your home,” declared a grocery store offering pork roast at 19 cents a pound.
Despite the new reality, the celebration of Christmas went on. The Keene Hairdressers Association sponsored a Dance for Defense featuring the legendary square dance caller Ralph Page to benefit the servicemen and women of Keene. Keene Teachers College put on a Christmas Cantata before 500 music
lovers at Spaulding Gymnasium, and Keene High School’s a cappella choir presented their most beautiful concert ever, according to the “Cheshire Cat,” who added that holiday music was essential for “relaxation and spiritual uplift,” as well as to “give reassurance to youth in these tense times.”
Sermons at city churches on December 14 were predictably patriotic, although at the Unitarian Church, Rev. W. W. Lewis reminded his congregation that “the conscientious objector has
the right to his position the same as you,” adding that “the time is now to save ourselves from the paganism of hatred.”
Community leaders scheduled a Carol Sing in Central Square for Christmas Eve. A cold rain typical of that winter dampened the enthusiasm, though, and the turnout was disappointing. It was perhaps the lowest moment of the lowest month of the year. The war news continued gloomy, with the Japanese advancing all over the Asian front. The British bastions of Hong Kong and Singapore fell, and on December 24, U.S. forces withdrew from Manila, leaving it to the invaders. Even the weather, the picturesque snow of a New England winter, was missing in action.
The Sentinel ’s Nadig strained for a hopeful note. “We are fighting, we know, on God’s side, and therefore, no matter how black and how apparently discouraging may be the material evidence of the very present, the great and enduring forces of good will be victorious,” he wrote. “The Star of Bethlehem still shines, and it is the large and everpresent hope of millions of people all over the world.”
The concert was scheduled to end at 10 p.m., but a few drenched diehards stayed around to sing an impromptu version of “America” before drifting home. As they did, the rain petered out, and the skies began to clear.
n times past, kings made all the laws and the rest of us had to go along, regardless of how pointless or bizarre the laws might seem. Then in 1620 the signers of the Mayflower Compact—our country’s first governing document—gave themselves the power to enact “such just and equal lawes ... as shall be thought most meete and convenient for the general good of the colony.” In other words, now we could make up our own pointless, bizarre laws.
Like the one the Puritans passed in 1639, banning the making of toasts— not drinking, just making toasts while drinking. Apparently toast-making had evolved into a kind of convivial one-upmanship that caused a dramatic increase in beer consumption—not to mention the invention of the Puritan hangover cure, the “cold cod compress.”
The Puritans may also have invented the fashion police. The same year they tackled the toasting crisis, the General Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony decreed that some colonists were guilty of “excessive wearing of lace,” a practice that led to “the nourishing of pride and exhausting of men’s estates”—which makes you wonder just how much lace these people were wearing. The Court banned the purchase, sale, and
BY KEN SHELDONwearing of lace, and violators may or may not have been punished by being forced to wear those silly Puritan hats with the big buckles.
Back then, folks took the commandment about keeping the Sabbath seriously. Any number of activities were prohibited on Sunday, including
The General Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony decreed that some colonists were guilty of “excessive wearing of lace,” a practice that led to “the exhausting of men’s estates.”
washing dishes, going for a walk, visiting neighbors, and kissing your wife in public. That’s right, kissing your wife. In 1656, a Captain Kemble returned to Boston after being at sea for three years, met his wife at the front door and kissed her, right on the doorstep. It was a Sunday, and for this “lewd and unseemly behavior” he was ordered to spend two hours in the public stocks.
That same year, the New Haven Colony banned innkeepers and tavern owners from allowing any kind
of game-playing on their premises, including the pernicious pastime of shuffleboard. The hard-core sinners who wanted to play shuffleboard while enjoying an adult beverage were forced to do so aboard “cruise schooners,” where Colonial seniors would gamble away their retirement shillings and complain about the high price of quill pens.
Over the centuries, most of the Puritan blue laws have been repealed or simply ignored, the victim of changing times. (Vermont struck down the remainder of its blue laws in the 1980s, although no one outside the state noticed until just recently.)
The blue laws that are still in place tend to restrict retail sales—especially those of liquor and cars—on Sundays and holidays. For example, in Connecticut, it is illegal to sell alcohol on Christmas day, unless of course you’re in a casino. (Because nothing captures the holiday spirit like a mistletoe margarita while you’re playing 21.)
And despite the backward creep of Black Friday sales, retail stores are still prohibited from opening on Thanksgiving day in Maine, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island, which is clearly an infringement of our right to be herded like cattle while spending money on high-tech gadgets that will be obsolete before we can sign our names on the credit card reader.
True, there are exceptions to the holiday laws. In Massachusetts, stores may open on Christmas if they sell, among other things, greeting cards, flowers, and “tires, batteries, and auto parts for emergency use.” (If you still haven’t bought a present for the missus, that qualifies as an emergency; spring for the all-season radials.)
In Maine, an exception is made for “establishments primarily selling boats, boating equipment, sporting equipment, souvenirs and novelties”— which means, basically, L.L. Bean. Even Puritans, after all, wouldn’t try to close L.L. Bean on Christmas.
urprise and usefulness are the most exciting elements in any Christmas present, and a combination usually rather difficult to produce. Does the homely word “usefulness” limit you to things like food, drink, clothing, or kitchen utensils? It does not. The aesthetic and utilitarian [are not] in complete opposition. We use beauty in all its forms to brighten the dark corners of our lives. Among our many blessings, New England is fortunate in having artists in great numbers. We have artisans working in wood and metal and glass, carving and twisting and forging their materials into shapes of enduring beauty. How surprised and pleased a mother is when she receives a portrait of a son or daughter—or grandchild! How happily a portrait of mother or father is received by the children!
Abridged from “At Home in New England,”
by Duncan MacDonald, December 1958
—Margaret Chase Smith (born December 14, 1897, in Skowhegan, Maine; died May 29, 1995, in Skowhegan, Maine).From 1940-1973, Smith represented her home state of Maine, first in the U.S. House of Representatives and then in the Senate. In 1964, the moderate Republican became the first woman to be nominated for president at a major party’s convention.
“Those of us who shout the loudest about Americanism ... are all too frequently those who ... ignore some of the basic principles of Americanism—the right to criticize, the right to hold unpopular beliefs, the right to protest, the right of independent thought.”
5 CENTS cost of a Dunkin’ Donut in 1950
TWO names for founder William Rosenberg’s restaurant before Dunkin’ Donuts (“Open Kettle” and “Kettle Donuts”)
1955 year first Dunkin’ Donuts franchise opens
11,700 Dunkin’ Donuts restaurants worldwide
3,000,000 worldwide customers now served daily
350 calories in a multigrain bagel
1950 first Dunkin’ Donut shop opens in Quincy, Massachusetts $12,000 awarded to Rachel Davis of Sharon, Massachusetts, for her proposed donut, “Monkey See, Monkey Donut”
25,000 ways to order your coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts
280 calories in a Chocolate Frosted Dunkin’ Donut
1.9 billion cups of coffee (hot and cold) served annually
300 maximum cups Dunkin’ Donuts coffee expert, Ellen Rogers, tastes daily while sourcing beans
he year before Ken Gloss was born, his father, George, took over Boston’s Brattle Book Shop, which was then 124 years old. Ken started working at the shop when he was just a boy. Now in its 191st year, the Brattle is one of America’s most venerable bookshops, and Ken, who has been proprietor since 1985 and who makes frequent appearances on Antiques Roadshow, is among the world’s most recognizable authorities on used and rare books. He has advised countless book lovers over the years, and generously shared his wisdom with us.
The proper care for your books, of course, depends on many variables. But over the years, Gloss has learned to cut to the chase. “I have a quick answer that is my starting point when the question comes up—99 percent of books, even old books, are not particularly valuable. Generally speaking, if you are comfortable, the books are comfortable. Follow that logic and most of the time they’ll be fine.” Books can, however, be damaged by extreme changes in temperature and humidity, so avoid storing them close to heat sources or in areas that experience wide fluctuations.
There’s a big difference between a serious collector and the average person
with the average library. Most people are not going to be building fireproof cases or installing temperature-control equipment. If you think your books are valuable, consult a book dealer. If a book is fragile, sometimes a binder can make a box for it. Do not attempt to clean or mend valuable books your-
self. Consult a binder or a paper conservationist for estimates of repair costs. “Keep in mind that these are trained craftspeople, so their work will not come cheap,” Gloss says, “and the value of the book will likely not be increased by the repair, so have an idea of how much is too much going in.”
When deciding where to keep your books, consider these key factors: Books will fade if shelved in direct sunlight, lessening their value. If insects or animals have access to your shelves, that poses a problem. Insects love glue, and will eat through a book’s bindings. And mice and squirrels have learned that shredded book pages make comfy nesting material.
To remove musty or smoky smells from common books, try sealing them in a container with baking soda. Placing dryer sheets between the pages can also work. Freezing can kill mold and insects. Simple white drafting erasers work great for removing marks on interior pages, and a simple duster or soft cloth is often the best tool for cleaning exterior surfaces.
If your books are in a damp environment, a dehumidifier can help. Although they can be useful for shortterm protection, books should not be sealed in plastic bags for long, as the plastic keeps moisture in, and even brief exposure to moisture can lead to mold. If moldy books are left on the shelf, the mold may spread. One particular trouble spot to watch is beneath the dust jacket of hardcover books. Wipe away surface mold with a soft cloth dampened with Lysol or rubbing alcohol, and allow ample drying time before replacing the cover.
Books should not be crammed too tightly on the shelf. If a shelf is too tight, Gloss notes, the top of the book’s spine may rip when it is grabbed. Ideally, shelves should also be wide enough to allow space for air circulation both in front of and behind the book.
Brattle Book Shop, 9 West St., Boston, MA . 800-447-9595, 617-542-0210, brattlebookshop.com
See our picks for the Best Independent Bookstores in New England at newengland.com/best-bookstores
he Sacred Cod that currently hangs above the Massachusetts House of Representatives chamber has been a symbol of the state’s heritage for 232 years. But for all its pomp and circumstance, the effigy has also seen its fair share of codswallop, from a Depression-era abduction plot to a near-miss with the Department of War.
The replica is made from solid pine, weighs about 80 pounds, and measures 4'11" long. That’s nothing compared to the largest Atlantic cod ever caught, which weighed a whopping 212 pounds and was found off the coast of Massachusetts in 1895.
The Sacred Cod pays tribute to the fishing industry of Massachusetts. Cape Cod was named so in 1602 by Bartholomew Gosnold, who first noticed the fish swarming his boat. Unfortunately, by the 1990s, Atlantic cod populations had dropped to less than 5 percent of their historic maximum, and they are still considered a vulnerable species by the International Union for the Conservation of Nature.
In 1798, the Massachusetts Legislature relocated from the Old State House—where the cod had lived since 1784—to their new chambers on Beacon Hill. Draped in an American flag,
the Sacred Cod joined the procession, carried by several Statehouse messengers.
The Massachusetts State Senate, not to be outdone, has its own piscine tribute: a brass fish known as the Holy Mackerel.
During WW II, the solid-pine Cod was almost melted down as scrap metal. Officials at the Aluminumfor-Defense Drive had received some faulty intelligence that the fish was made of solid aluminum. Unfortunately for them, aluminum wasn’t even discovered until 1825, 41 years after the fish was made, but House officials quipped that the Drive was welcome to investigate the Senate’s Holy Mackerel.
In the late 1920s, a likeness of the cod was stamped on Massachusetts license plates. This caused public outrage, however, as the fish more closely resembled a “small guppy” and was swimming away from the word “Massachusetts.” It was soon removed.
On Wednesday, April 26, 1933, three staffers from The Harvard Lampoon entered the Statehouse with wire cutters and a flower box on a surreptitious cod-napping mission. Legend has it that they waited until no one was looking, snipped the wires, hid the fish in the flower box and waltzed right out. The alarms were raised later that evening, and for 50 hours the Commonwealth and the city of Boston were in a full-out panic. Then, on the night of April 28, Charles Apted, chief of the Harvard Yard Police got an anonymous tip that led him on a 20-minute car chase down the West Roxbury Parkway. Two men allegedly leapt from the car, tossed him the fish, and sped away. Order was restored to the Statehouse, and the Sacred Cod (which suffered only a few nicked fins) was hung again, this time six inches higher than before.
Keith said, “I make jewelry and my greatgreat-grandfather was a clipper ship sea captain from Maine ” Keith’s great-great-grandfather was Captain John Drew of Hallowell, Maine Captain Drew of the clipper ship The Franklin, carried ice to the Far East and brought back sugar and rice Captain Drew, in addition to the traditional ship’s logs, kept a personal journal that still survives today, Keith loaned us Captain Drew’s journals and we have posted the original pages with our transcriptions on our website
Do visit our Clipper Ship Trade Wind Jewelry Collection at www CrossJewelers com/journals for a first-hand account of life on board The Franklin
Keith follows a path similar to his great-great-grandfather Traveling to the Far East every two years to buy gems: rubies, emeralds, and sapphires; then returning home to design and make his jewelry.
Needle
this page : Stockings really are hung by the chimney with care. opposite : The holiday greenery goes up the first weekend in December— a family effort that includes ( l to r .) son Eli, John Rushing, Ellen Stimson, daughter Hannah, and Oscar (Wheaten Terrier), Violet (Bernese Mountain Dog), and Charlie (Havanese).
Mud Season author Ellen Stimson calls Vermont the “single most Christmasy place in the nation.”
Today she warms her farmhouse with sweet memories and new family traditions.
By Lindsay TuckerPHOTOGRAPHS BY KELLER + KELLER
STYLING BY CAROLINE WOODWARD
When New York Times best-selling author Ellen Stimson began house-hunting in Vermont with her family 13 years ago, their laundry list of must-haves was concise, yet inflexible. With two teenagers and a 7-year-old in tow, the decision to relocate from St. Louis hadn’t come lightly. But the whole family agreed, Vermont was the place. “We were looking for an old house in the woods or possibly the village, with mountain views, a big gourmet kitchen, four or five bedrooms, and lots of porches—cheap,” says Ellen.
You could say four turned out to be their magic number. After touring nearly 40 homes, they finally found it—a 1838 farmhouse with Victorian flair (a large addition had been added in 1917) and four magnificent porches on four acres of wooded property. “[My daughter] and I imagined a slew of languid sunbathing afternoons drinking lemonade and reading trashy magazines,” Stimson wrote in her first book, Mud Season , a memoir about her family’s upheaval and eventual settling in Dorset, Vermont.
Once inside, the interior did not disappoint: Six bedrooms and a kitchen big enough to satisfy Ellen’s love of baking were simply icing on the cake, because it was actually the library, with its 11-foot tinand-copper ceiling, that Ellen says sealed the deal for them. “It was a perfect place for the Christmas tree,” she says. “We’re the type of people who think about where the tree will go before we even buy the house. In my fantasy it was only a matter of time before we were drinking eggnog in front of the fire, the dogs curled up at our feet.” Indeed, it was the notion of Christmas that told them they were finally home.
For this family of five, Christmas is woven so tightly into their identity it can be difficult to pinpoint if and when the holiday actu-
opposite : Hardly traditional, the purple foyer “really works at Christmas—all that mercury glass cozied up to the purple and red.”
this page : “Our whole lives are on that tree,” says Stimson, who determined where the tree would go before they even bought the house (Oscar approves).
I grew up in a time when you didn’t complain about winter. We didn’t know what the polar vortex even was. If the sky looked foreboding, you bundled up. If the car froze over, you poured hot water on the doors to open them. Winter gave everyone a sense of purpose. We persevered. There were no light thermal underlayers. You wore heavy clothes and kept warm from the exertion of wearing them. My mother was a stoic. She believed if you were comfortable in your flannel nightgown, robe, socks and slippers, why then, the house must be too warm. She liked to see her breath by the back door. That was how she knew we were Getting Our Money’s Worth.
Winter settles in and simplifies everything. The essentials in Vermont are heat, food, shelter, and plumbing. The rest is just for show. The life you talk about on Facebook is mostly fiction. Because when it’s fifteen below temperature is practically all you ever think about. A quiet heat source would be nice but in an 1838 farmhouse it isn’t essential so long as you are warm. Real life is the reassuring sound of the old boiler chugging back to life every morning or a steamy cassoulet on the stove.
—Ellen Stimson, author of An Old-Fashioned Christmas: Sweet Traditions for Hearth and Home |
above : Stimson rolls out her Slovak Nut Roll, made with a recipe from her husband’s grandmother. right : The delectable end result.
ally begins and ends. (“We chose Vermont in part because it’s the single most Christmasy place in the nation,” says Ellen.) In fact, Ellen’s marriage to her husband, John, began with a Christmas nut roll. During the first Christmas season of their courtship, John showed up at Ellen’s front door covered in flour, a big grin on his face. Ellen remembers a moment of confusion before John said, “I’ve been baking all day with my grandma and we made this for you.”
“He’s holding out this beautiful nut roll and I think, Oh my god. This man bakes with his grandma. This is the man I have to spend my life with,” says Ellen. Two years later, they married underneath their twinkling Christmas tree. And as their family started to grow, another Christmas tradition began to take shape. Each year, on the first week of December, they take a family vacation they’ve come to call “Christmas Adventure,” where each family member picks out a new ornament for the tree.
“Our Christmas tree has become the story of our lives,” says Ellen. “There’s a
beautiful glass Indian from when Benjamin was little and playing American West all the time, and little cats from when Hannah was young. There’s a spun-glass lobster and a lobster trap from when we adventured in Maine. The ornaments tell the history of this
family. My kids are just as excited about Christmas as they were when they were little.” And when it comes time to decorate their home for the season, they don’t have to look much further than their own backyard, which is situated in a valley surrounded on all sides by mountains. The family collects fallen birch bark to use as accents around the home and fills mercury vases with greenery that’s right outside their door—pine, hemlock, winter berries, and holly.
“Vermont fills my senses and soothes my soul in a way that city living never did,” says Ellen.
“We have a bunch of pine trees just above our meadow where we get these adorable little pinecones. I fill bowls and vases with them. Sometimes I help nature a little by putting a tiny bit of white paint on the ends of them, because when they’re outside, they’re always snow-dipped. A teeny bit of white paint with a touch of silver glitter can re-create the snow-touched, magic feeling you get walking around woods.”
Slovak Nut Roll R ecipe, a S told by e lle N Stim S o N
For the Dough:
1/4 cup warmed whole milk, plus 3/4 cup cold whole milk
1 packet ( 1/2 ounce) yeast
1/2 teaspoon sugar plus 1/2 cup
2 eggs
1/2 cup butter
3 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
For the Filling:
1 pound pecans
1 egg white, plus 1 egg
1 apple, cored, peeled, and diced
1/2 cup sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
A dash of nutmeg
4 tablespoons butter, melted
Start by making the dough: Add 1/4 cup of warmed milk to yeast with a pinch of sugar and set aside to rise. In a separate bowl, beat eggs and add 1/2 cup sugar. Add butter. Blend well. Sift flour, salt, and baking soda and slowly add to the eggs. Add 3/4 cup of cold milk. Mix and add yeast mixture, forming the dough. If the dough is too wet, add flour. Put dough on a clean, floured surface and knead for 5 to 10 minutes, getting all the air bubbles out. Roll it into a ball and place it in a greased bowl. Flip it, so both sides are greased. Cover and let rest in a draft-free area until the dough has doubled in size. Punch it down and preheat oven to 325°.
Make the filling: Either dice nuts in a food processor or roll them with your rolling pin into a nice, fine mixture. Mix with the egg white. Add apple, sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Roll out the dough to 1/4 -inch thick. Brush dough with melted butter.
Put nut mixture on top of buttered dough. Slowly roll the dough into a crescent shape using fingers to pinch the ends together. Make an egg wash by whipping one egg. Paint the top of the dough with the wash. Bake 25 to 35 minutes. This recipe originally appeared in Ellen’s Christmas cookbook, An Old-Fashioned Christmas: Sweet Traditions for Hearth and Home
wo minutes from Narragansett Beach, just off busy Route 1, there’s an oasis of shingled cottages and colorful houses called Peace Dale. Look for the green-shingled cottage with a faded dinghy resting on the front lawn, piled inside with multicolored shards of stained glass. It’s a tip-off to the glassworks artisan whose wisteria-draped garage is stocked with crates of stained-glass inventions and vintage window frames of every size and description, waiting for new glass art.
“I work everywhere,” emphasizes Lynne Lovely, as she introduces me to her airy assortment of sea glass and ocean detritus (iron oddities, driftwood, the unidentifiable), and those stacks of glassless windows waiting to be studded with brilliant slabs and knobs of colored light. Most arresting are the delicate old medicine bottles that Lynne fuses into the surrounding glass elements—as if these light-filled antiques had been tossed onto a bed of glass, to be hung before a window and subjected to even more light.
To emphasize her point, she leads me to the expansive basement workroom where a stone fireplace dominates the sitting area and a large light table illuminates squares of deep-blue stained glass, the color of dark-
“I work everywhere— my home is my studio, almost every inch of it,” says the artist, in her living room with Salty, her 3-year-old yellow Lab. opposite : Salvaged windows form the canvas for Lynne’s glass bottle art.
est ocean, and green that glistens like seaweed. Here, on a workbench that runs the length of the room, Lynne plans her designs, makes a pattern, cuts and polishes the stained glass, chooses the sea glass she will add, wraps each piece in copper foil, and solders the pieces together. She has made thousands of earrings and necklaces, too—all
breezy ocean reminders—and light catchers by the hundreds.
The willowy 61-year-old Rhode Island native majored in textiles at the University of Rhode Island, and spent years in the retail fashion industry. She was living in Atlanta when she took her first stained-glass class, 32 years
ago. “Right from the start I needed to have a studio,” she says of the craft that she has perfected over the decades. “I like simple lines, but interesting glass. I made one Tiffany lampshade, and put 40 hours into it—that was it. I like things to come together quicker than that!”
But it can be a dirty business working with light. Lynne wears surgical gloves to protect her hands from the abrasive cleaning chemicals, and her arms bear deep scars inflicted by sharp glass. Shivers of glass fly off the grinder as she demonstrates how rough edges are smoothed. Yet each of these small pieces, though pretty enough on its own, is like a puzzle piece waiting to make a picture—incomplete without the whole.
Salty, her 3-year-old yellow Lab, follows us back upstairs to the kitchen,
where light filters into the room through a glass collage set into an old window frame. This is what it looks like when the pieces come together— old bottle fragments stamped with
herself, although she did just buy 158 pounds of it—some usable, but much of which will be passed along. “This piece is very well frosted,” she holds it up to the light. “But some pieces are boring!”
words, bottle necks and bottle bottoms, bull’s-eyes, and a rare slice of purple glass used to dazzling effect. “Every now and then I think I should learn more about the glass that I’m using,” she laughs. “But it’s not about that, for me. It’s what it looks like.”
Friends drop off old bottles and windows, and sometimes Lynne finds treasures in discards and free piles. She collects much of the beach glass
Still, it’s hard to shake the fever for sea glass. It seems that just about anywhere she goes, if there’s an ocean nearby, Lynne is looking for its counterpart in the glass it tosses up. Gifts from the sea, celebrated and made into art.
“Sea glass is for everybody,” she says. “It’s in the tides.”
Lynne Lovely will be at the Foundry Artists Holiday Show at the Pawtucket Armory in Rhode Island Dec. 1-4 and Dec. 9-11. Her work can be found at a number of Rhode Island shops. See Lynne’s Facebook page, LovelyGlassworks, for more information, or call 401-996-3531.
“Sea glass is for everybody. It’s in the tides.”
Yankee likes to mosey around and see, out of editorial curiosity, what you can turn up when you go house hunting. We have no stake in the sale whatsoever and would decline it if offered.
e start this month way back in 1621, a year after the Mayflower landed in Plymouth. That’s when Captain Miles Standish, the military man who accompanied the Pilgrims, needed a new wife. His first wife had passed away that year. He had one in mind, too. Her name: Priscilla Mullins. But he was too bashful to approach her himself, so he asked his friend John Alden, who had also been on the Mayflower, to make a pitch to her on his behalf. Now enter into this story the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. (Remember “Listen my children and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,” etc., etc.?) In his famous booklength poem, “The Courtship of Miles Standish,” he described what happened next.
“Quite forgetful of self and full of the praise of his rival [Miles Standish], Archly the maiden [Priscilla] smiled and with eyes over-running with laughter, Said in a tremulous voice, ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?’”
Did Longfellow make all that up? Well, maybe. But for sure Priscilla Mullins married John Alden rather than Captain Miles Standish and they went on to have 10 children. And the quote attributed to her by Longfellow lives on in American history.
So why are we relating all this? Well, because we recently moseyed onto a gorgeous 13-room early Georgian-Federal house in Union, Maine (near Camden), listed on the National Register of Historic Places, that was built in 1797-8 by a direct descendant of Priscilla and
Well-loved and maintained for more than 200 years, the Ebenezer Alden House is considered one of the finest period homes in all of New England …
opposite : Built in 1797-8 by a direct descendant of John Alden of Mayflower ( left) fame, this 13-room Georgian-Federal home on 56 acres is now being offered for sale by owners Suzy and Dave Shaub ( above ) who have been restoring it for the past 20 years. The bedroom ( below ) features one of seven fireplaces.
John Alden. His name: Ebenezer Alden. He and his wife Patience (don’t you love those early names?) raised their 12 children here and operated the first store in Union, still on the property, as their principal source of income. It’s all available this month, the house, the outbuildings, and 56 beautiful acres, for $695,000.
We recently visited with the current owners, Suzy and Dave Shaub, who are only the second owners since Ebenezer not an Alden, although we learned Suzy had an ancestor on the Mayflower and is an active member of the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution.
We predict both Suzy and Dave will truly miss this place once it’s sold and they’ve moved to North Carolina to be near one of their two children. That’s because, during the almost 20 years as owners, they have devoted so much time, effort, and, yes, love to maintaining and enhancing the property’s history. It’s truly been the focus of their lives. For instance, besides eight restored fireplaces, the spectacular woodwork (by Ebenezer) throughout, and the six-over-six windows, one sees the original, unpainted 1797 shelving in the small storage rooms between the four upstairs bedrooms. History everywhere.
One of the only modern features is the kitchen, which features granite and butcher-block countertops, custom raised-panel cabinets, two refrigerators, a Jenn-Aire range and a break-
“Archly the maiden [Priscilla] smiled and with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said in a tremulous voice, ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?’”
fast space with small-paned windows overlooking gardens, lawns, fields, and woods. Oh, and there’s a modern alarm system, modern bathrooms (the outside privy is used to store fuel for tractors, mowers, etc.), and a nice screenedin porch facing southwest.
As to the outbuilding, well, the barn, built by Ebenezer’s son in about 1869 is huge —and with all original doors and windows. David uses the old Cooper’s Shop as a workshop. It has electricity, a woodstove, a telephone, and a freezer. The 1799 Cobbler’s shop was brought here from Dresdon, Maine, and reassembled inside the barn. And the store … well, the store has been kept exactly as it was when Ebenezer and Patience were operating it. As David pointed out to us, “not many 18th-century houses still have the hand tools that built them.” There’s also a garden house, built recently.
At one point in our leisurely tour around the grounds, we asked Suzy if she knew the name of her Revolutionary War ancestor that qualified her for membership in the prestigious D.A.R.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “According to research conducted by the New England Historical Genea-
logical Society, I am a direct descendant of Paul Revere.”
“Oh,” we said, a bit taken aback. And then “Wow!”
Contact James Ianello at 207-975-0022 or email jim@catesre.com. Website: unionaldenhouse.com
Our Timeline Growth Rules are hand crafted in Maine using traditional materials and methods continuously practiced since 1869. The rules are heirloom quality. Each 6ft 6in blade is milled from select Sugar Maple, markings are engraved into the blades and filled with pigment, and the inlaid ends are machined from solid brass.
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t’s the perpetual conundrum of the holiday kitchen: During the two months of the year when you have the least amount of time to spare, you’re expected to turn out the most elaborate feasts. And you want the food to be special, the stuff of family memories.
The following recipes, designed to inspire your cooking from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve, were created with today’s busy cooks in mind. Well, almost all of them were: The Coconut-Pumpkin Cream Pie does take time, but most pies do (that crust has to chill!), and it’s well worth the effort to turn out such a gorgeous and delicious take on the essential Thanksgiving dessert.
Beyond that, there isn’t a recipe here that requires more than an hour of actual hands-on time. Some, such as the Cranberry-Apple Butter and the Maple-Sage Dry-Brined Turkey, may take hours to cook or cure, but you’ll be out of the kitchen, checking other things off your to-do list, while they take care of themselves. There’s even a streamlined decorated cookie that pops with brightly colored dough instead of time-consuming icings. They may not be 30-minute everyday fare, but these meals will make your days a little merrier, your load a little lighter.
total time : 45 minutes ;
active time : 25 minutes
Here we have a proven flavor combination (pear, walnuts, Gorgonzola, and herbs) in an easy-to-make appetizer that you can prepare with minimal time and effort. What’s not to love?
1 sheet frozen puff pastry, such as Dufour brand, defrosted just before use
2 ripe pears (any variety), unpeeled, cored, and finely diced
4 ounces crumbled Gorgonzola cheese
3/4 cup walnut halves, chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme leaves
Preheat oven to 375° and set a rack to the upper third of the oven. Unwrap the puff pastry and lay on a lightly floured cutting board. Roll out slightly, until smooth. Cut the sheet into 16 squares, then halve those squares diagonally to make 32 triangles. Arrange the triangles on a baking sheet, leaving about 1/2 inch between them.
Sprinkle equal portions of pear in the center of each triangle, then top with equal parts Gorgonzola and wal-
nuts. Season all over with salt and pepper. Bake until puffed and golden, 15 to 20 minutes. Sprinkle all over with thyme and serve warm. Yield: 32 pieces
Crispy Caramelized s weet potatoes
total time : 1 hour , 40 minutes ; hands- on time : 35 minutes
It took many tries to get exactly the recipe we were looking for: candied sweet potatoes that were crisp, not mushy. I tried numerous ways of cutting and roasting the spuds, but their high water content left them perpetually soft until we came across a recipe on Deb Perelman’s Smitten Kitchen blog. By thinly slicing her potatoes and standing them upright, she was able to crisp their edges. It was a lovely dish, but an intentionally savory one. So we utilized the technique, but added a brown sugar-ginger glaze. Voilà! Just the crispy, caramelized top we wanted.
Notes: A mandoline is an essential (or at least extremely useful) tool for quickly cutting your sweet potatoes into very thin slices, but it needn’t be an expensive purchase. I’ve used small hand-held units with ceramic blades that cost less than $10 and did a fine job. With this tool, it takes me just about 10 minutes to peel and slice the potatoes.
2 tablespoons vegetable oil, such as canola
Up to 8 large, peeled sweet potatoes (about 7 pounds), of even thickness
4 tablespoons salted butter, melted
1/3 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Preheat the oven to 400° and set a rack to the middle position. Grease a 3-quart baking dish with the vegetable oil and set aside.
Slice 6 of the potatoes on a mandoline (see Notes) into very thin slices (about 1/8 inch), using the blade guard to protect your fingers. Arrange the potato slices on their sides in concentric circles around the oiled baking dish. You can save the smaller end pieces for the center. If your dish isn’t full from the 6 potatoes, slice and add an additional potato or two. The dish needn’t be packed tight—just enough so the potatoes stand upright.
Brush the potatoes evenly with the butter, pushing the brush between the slices to coat them thoroughly, then cover tightly with foil and bake for 40 minutes. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, flour, salt, ginger, and pepper. Set aside.
After 40 minutes, remove the foil from the potatoes and sprinkle them evenly with the brown sugar mixture. Bake uncovered until the sauce is bubbling and the top is crisp and browned, another 30 to 40 minutes. For extra browning, run the pan briefly under a broiler, about 3 inches from the heating element (watch closely, as it can burn). Serve warm. Yield: 8 to 10 servings
Cranberry-a pple butter
total time : up to 11 hours ; hands- on time : 35 minutes
I love this alternative to the usual cranberry sauce. Cranberries and apples cook down until thick and caramelized−a lightly spiced condiment to serve with turkey, spread on toast, or spoon over yogurt. And here’s the trick: The longer you cook the fruit, the thicker the final product. It’s really up to you. Less time and you’ll have a rich applesauce; more time and it’ll resemble the apple butter your grandmother might have made. To guarantee adequate cooking time, start the process in the evening and let it cook overnight. Your actual prep time is minimal. Cooking both fruits with their skins adds depth of flavor, but you will need a food mill or strainer to remove them at the end.
5 pounds (about 10 large) mixed apples, unpeeled, cored, and cut into medium-size pieces
1 1/2 cups cranberries (fresh or frozen)
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
2 cups fresh apple cider
Turn a slow cooker on high and add all ingredients. Stir to combine. Cover and cook for about 1 1/2 hours, stirring a few times, and bring the mixture to a vigorous simmer. Once simmering, stir once more and set the lid slightly ajar to let some moisture escape. Continue cooking until the cranberry-apple butter is dark brown and as thick as you’d like, 7 to 10 hours more (times vary because slow cookers vary in their heat output). Stir well (the mixture may still be lumpy in spots) and pass through a food mill or strainer to remove skins and smooth out any remaining lumps. Serve warm or at room temperature. If you prefer to preserve the butter, you can find instructions on newengland. com/applebutter. Yield: 11 to 12 cups
potato bread dressing with a pples, sausage, and sage
total time : 1 hour , 55 minutes ; hands- on time : 55 minutes
You’ve probably had potato bread in some form or another—perhaps even potato donuts. Potato starch helps baked goods retain moisture and gives them a pleasingly chewy texture. Paired with sausage, onion, sage, and apple, this dressing is savory, moist, fluffy, and crisp on top.
Notes: Yes, the dressing is made with potato buns. They’re easier to find in most grocery stores than potato bread, and their shape makes them easy to toast and cut into cubes. We love the fruity winelike flavor that cider adds to the dressing, but if you prefer not to use it, simply substitute an additional cup of stock.
1 1/2 pounds potato buns (hot dog or hamburger, see Notes)
5 tablespoons salted butter, plus more for the baking dish
1 pound sweet Italian sausage, casings removed
1 1/2 cups diced yellow onion (about 1 1/2 medium onions)
2/3 cup diced celery (2 large stalks)
2 large firm-sweet apples, such as Honeycrisp, Pink Lady, or Jonagold, cored and cut into
1/2 -inch cubes
3 tablespoons minced fresh sage leaves
2 1/2 cups low-sodium chicken or turkey stock, divided
1 cup medium-sweet hard cider, such as Harpoon, Citizen Cider, or Bantam brands (see Notes)
2 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Preheat the oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position. Grease a 9x13-inch (31 /2 quart) baking dish and set aside.
First, prepare the bread: Separate the buns and lay them, cut-side down, on 2 foil-lined baking sheets. Bake
until toasted and dry, 20 to 30 minutes. Let cool, then cut into 1-inch cubes (this step can be done up to 2 days in advance). Transfer them to a very large bowl.
Melt 5 tablespoons of butter in a large skillet, then add the sausage. Use a potato masher or wooden spoon to break the sausage into small pieces as it cooks. Cook until crumbled and lightly browned, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the onion and celery and cook, stirring, 6 minutes, then stir in the apples and sage and cook an additional 3 minutes. Add 1 cup of the stock to the pan and remove from the heat.
In a medium bowl, whisk the remaining 1 1/2 cups stock and the cider with the eggs. Add the salt and pepper and whisk again. Pour this mixture in with the sausage mixture, then pour all over the bread cubes. Stir well to combine—you want all the bread cubes to be moist. Transfer the dressing to the prepared pan, cover with foil, and bake for 40 minutes.
Remove the foil and bake until the top is nicely browned and crisp, 10 to 15 minutes more. Yield: 8 to 10 servings
total time : 4 hours , plus 2 days brining time ; hands- on time : 1 hour
Dry brining (really just a fancy version of pre-salting) provides many of the benefits of wet brining (enhanced flavor, juicier meat) without the mess. You simply coat the turkey with salt, herbs, and a bit of maple sugar and let it sit in the refrigerator for at least one day, preferably three. The good news: If your turkey is frozen, you can thaw and brine at the same time.
Notes: Dried sage comes in several forms: whole leaves, rubbed, and powdered. We like the flavor and ease-of-use of rubbed sage, but you can substitute 2 teaspoons powdered sage. Many frozen and kosher turkeys come pre-brined, so this recipe won’t work with a treated bird. Be sure to buy a “natural,” untreated turkey.
FOR THE TURKEY:
1/3 cup kosher salt
1/4 cup maple sugar (or 3 tablespoons firmly packed brown sugar)
1 1/2 tablespoons rubbed sage (see Notes)
1 1/2 teaspoons plus 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 13- to 15-pound fresh (untreated) turkey (see Notes), giblets and neck removed
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 medium onion, quartered
1 large apple, cored and quartered
5 sprigs fresh sage
3 cups low-sodium chicken stock, divided
1/4 cup maple syrup (any grade)
Garnish: Fresh sage and rosemary sprigs, pomegranates
FOR THE GRAVY:
Drippings from the roasting pan
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
4 cups reduced-sodium chicken stock or turkey stock
1 tablespoon rum
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Two days before cooking, whisk together the salt, maple (or brown) sugar, sage, and 1 1/2 teaspoons of the pepper in a small bowl. Sprinkle the salt mixture evenly over the outside of the bird and rub into the cavities as well. Place the turkey in a large, foodgrade plastic bag, seal, and refrigerate for 48 hours, turning the bird breastside-down on the second day. The night before you plan to roast the turkey, remove it from the bag and set it breast-side-up in a rimmed pan. (This produces crisper skin.)
On Thanksgiving morning, rinse the bird well and pat completely dry with paper towels. Rub the skin all over with the butter and sprinkle with the remaining 1 teaspoon pepper. Stuff the main cavity with the onion, apple, and sage. Truss the legs with kitchen twine.
Preheat the oven to 425° and set a rack to the lower third of the oven. Set
the turkey on a rack in a large roasting pan and let it sit out at room temperature for at least 30 minutes. Pour 1 1/2 cups of the broth into the bottom of the pan and transfer it to the oven. Roast for 30 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 325° and roast, basting with the pan juices every 45 minutes, adding more broth as needed to maintain some liquid in pan. Add the maple syrup to the pan juices during the last 45 minutes of cooking, basting the turkey twice during this time. (Tent the bird with foil if it is browning too
quickly.) The bird will be done when an instant-read thermometer inserted into thickest part of thigh registers 165°, 2 1/2 to 3 hours total.
Transfer turkey to a platter; tent with foil. Let rest at least 30 minutes before carving. Meanwhile, make the gravy: Set the roasting pan with the drippings over two burners on your stove and set both to medium heat. Whisk in the flour until completely coated with drippings and smooth. Whisk in the broth, picking up any browned bits from the bottom of the
Crispy Caramelized Sweet Potatoes (recipe on p. 61)Slow-roasted Beef Tenderloin with Shallot-Port Sauce (recipe at right)
pan. Add the rum and cook, stirring, until the gravy is thickened and smooth (if needed, run it through a strainer). Season with salt and pepper to taste. Carve the turkey and serve with the gravy. Yield: 12 to 14 servings of turkey; About 5 cups gravy
total time : 2 1/2 hours , plus 8 hours
salting time ; hands- on time : 40 minutes
I was first introduced to the technique of reverse roasting by chef Tony Maws of Craigie on Main restaurant in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Rather than first searing meat on top of the stove and then transferring it to the oven, as I had learned to do, he showed me how he cooked it to just below temperature in the oven first and seared it on the stove to develop a crust. The result: more control over the final level of doneness. Meanwhile, Kenji López-Alt was popularizing a similar roasting technique at even lower temperatures, first at Cook’s Illustrated and later in his popular “Food Lab” column for SeriousEats.com. (His best-selling book of the same name is well worth a read.) It’s now my favorite way to cook meat. Cooking at a low temperature takes longer, but it brings the interior of the meat to a completely even doneness with minimal effort. Try it once and you may never go back. A simple port-enriched pan sauce is the icing on the cake.
Notes: A whole tenderloin is a pricey, special occasion cut and it deserves special treatment. Salting the meat the night before you plan to cook it improves the flavor and texture. You don’t have to do this step, but you’ll be glad you did.
FOR THE ROAST:
2 1/2 pounds center-cut beef tenderloin, trimmed
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 medium shallots
Garnish: coarse sea salt such as fleur de sel, rosemary sprigs, roasted shallots
FOR THE SAUCE:
3 tablespoons plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 medium shallots, minced
3 cups beef stock
garnish the platter with fresh rosemary sprigs and roasted shallots. Serve immediately, cut into 1/2 -inch slices, with sauce on the side. Yield: 8 servings
1
1/4 cups port wine
1 sprig rosemary
The night before roasting (see Notes), tie up the tenderloin with twine at 1-inch intervals so that it has an even thickness. Sprinkle all over with kosher salt and pepper, set on a wire rack in a roasting pan, cover loosely with plastic wrap, and chill for up to 24 hours. (If you skip this step, simply season the meat before roasting.)
Remove meat from the refrigerator and let sit, covered, at room temperature for an hour before roasting. Preheat your oven to 250° and set a rack to the middle position. Put the whole shallots in the pan (throw in 4 more for a garnish, if you’d like) with the tenderloin and transfer to the oven. Roast until an instant-read thermometer in the center of the tenderloin reads 125°, 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Remove from oven and let sit at room temperature for 10 minutes. Cut and remove twine. Finely chop the 2 roasted shallots (leave the ones for the garnish whole) and set aside.
Set a large skillet over high heat and add 3 tablespoons of butter. Add the tenderloin and brown all over (including ends), turning as you go, about 1 minute per side. Remove meat from pan and transfer to a serving platter. Reduce heat to medium-high. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter, along with the minced shallots and the chopped roasted shallots. Cook until fragrant and lightly golden, about 6 minutes, then add the beef stock, port, and rosemary. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer and cook sauce, stirring occasionally, until reduced to about 2 cups, 10 to 15 minutes. Pour sauce through a strainer into a gravy boat. Sprinkle the tenderloin with sea salt and
total time : 55 minutes ; hands- on time : 55 minutes
I love the contrasting textures and flavors of this earthy combination: the silky chard and crunchy topping, the creamy sauce and hearty greens. This vitamin-rich side dish tastes even better on the second day, so make it in advance and then reheat it, covered, in a 325° oven for 25 to 30 minutes.
FOR THE TOPPING:
1/4 pound day-old French bread (about 1/4 loaf), broken into
1 1/2 -inch chunks
1 1/3 cups walnut halves
1 large garlic clove, roughly chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon grated nutmeg
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon salted butter
FOR THE CHARD:
3 large bunches Swiss chard (6 pounds total), rinsed well
2 tablespoons salted butter
3 large cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 1/3 cups heavy cream
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
Make the topping: In the bowl of a food processor, pulse the bread chunks until they break down into roughly 1/2 -inch pieces. Add the walnuts, garlic, salt, and nutmeg and process until the mixture takes on the appearance of a crumb topping. Set aside.
Set a large pot of water over high heat and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, prepare your chard. The quickest way to break it down is to grab each leaf by the thick stem with one hand, then pull your other hand along the stem, tearing off the ten-
der leaves as you go. You can leave any smaller leaves with fine stems alone. Roughly chop the trimmed leaves into 2- to 3-inch pieces, then rinse thoroughly and drain. (A salad spinner is very useful here—work in batches.) Boil the leaves until tender, about 2 minutes, then transfer to a colander to drain further.
Finish the topping: Set a large skillet over medium heat and add the olive oil and 1 tablespoon butter. When the butter is melted, add the bread crumb mixture and cook, stirring often, until browned and crisp, 3 to 5 minutes. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and wipe out the skillet.
Preheat your broiler and set a rack so that the food will be about 3 inches from the heat. Now make the filling: Melt the 2 tablespoons butter in the skillet over medium heat. When it stops foaming, add the garlic and stir until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Press out excess water from the chard in the colander, then transfer to the skillet with the salt and pepper. Cook, stirring and
breaking up the chard. Add the cream and Parmesan and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. The chard will continue to release some moisture. After 4 minutes, transfer the chard to a 2-quart baking dish using tongs or a slotted spoon. Continue simmering the cream sauce until thickened, 3 to 4 minutes, then pour over the chard. Top with the walnut mixture and run under the broiler until nicely browned, about 1 minute. Yield: 8 servings
total time : 35 minutes ; hands- on time : 35 minutes
I love the tang that a bit of buttermilk lends to mashed potatoes (provided they’re also made with delicious butter). If you like creamier potatoes, add more of the liquid; if you like them firmer, add less. 3
2 tablespoons kosher salt, plus more to taste
6 tablespoons salted butter
3/4 cup whole or 2% milk
3/4 cup buttermilk
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Put chopped potatoes in a large pot with 2 tablespoons salt and enough cold water to cover by an inch. Set over high heat and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a gentle simmer and cook until they can be pierced easily with a fork, 15 to 20 minutes. Meanwhile, melt the butter with the milk and buttermilk in a small pot over low heat.
/4 lbs. Russet potatoes, peeled and cut into
/2 -inch chunks
Drain potatoes of all but a 1/3 cup of cooking liquid and partly mash, then add enough of the warm milk mixture to reach your desired thickness, mashing as you go until smooth. (You can also run the potatoes through a ricer or food mill.) Season with pepper and additional salt to taste. Serve hot. Yield: 8 servings
TOTAL TIME : 4 HOURS , 30 MINUTES ;
HANDS- ON TIME : 2 HOURS
Here’s a cross between coconut cream pie and pumpkin pie. Unexpected? Perhaps, but it was inspired by a friend who makes her pies with coconut milk and swears by their improved flavor and texture. Inspired by her testimony, I recalled that Southeast Asian cuisines often pair coconut or coconut milk with sweet winter squashes in soups and stews and decided to try the pairing here. It was completely delicious, a fresh take on a classic dish, with layered flavors of squash, nut, coconut cream, and spice. (You’ll also find that the easy-to-make coconut topping makes a wonderful crunchy snack on its own. This recipe makes more than enough topping for the pie, so enjoy it this way.)
Notes: Unsweetened coconut flakes, which are much larger than the shredded product you may know, are available at many supermarkets and most health food and Whole Foods stores.
FOR THE CRUST:
1/2 cup sweetened shredded coconut
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
9 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 -inch cubes
4-5 tablespoons cold water
FOR THE FILLING:
1 15-ounce can coconut milk (just under 2 cups)
1 15-ounce can solid-pack pumpkin or squash (or 2 cups fresh pumpkin puree)
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
3/4 cup light-brown sugar, firmly packed
1 1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
3/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon table salt
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
FOR THE TOPPING:
1 cup unsweetened flaked coconut (see Notes)
2 tablespoons maple syrup
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
1/4 cup coconut milk
2 tablespoons powdered sugar
First, make the crust: Put the shredded coconut in the bowl of a food processor and pulse until the coconut breaks down into smaller pieces, about 10 pulses. Add the flour and salt and pulse again to combine. Sprinkle the butter over this mixture and pulse just until the butter begins to work into the
flour but still has some pea-sized bits remaining, 8 to 10 pulses.
Transfer dough to a medium bowl and sprinkle with 4 tablespoons cold water. Use a fork to stir the mixture until it begins to hold together. If needed, add the additional tablespoon of water. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it three times to fully combine. Form the dough into a ball, press it down into a disk, then wrap in plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for at least 45 minutes and up to overnight.
Preheat your oven to 375° and set your racks to the upper and lower thirds of the oven. On a floured surface, roll out the chilled dough into a 10-inch circle (about 1/8 inch thick), turning it regularly so it doesn’t stick. Transfer the dough to a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate and press into the sides. Drape any excess crust over the edge; then fold under and crimp. Place a sheet of parchment paper or aluminum foil in the bottom of the crust and fill with enough pie weights or dried beans to cover the bottom. Place the pie plate on a baking sheet, transfer to the lower rack of the oven, and bake 10 minutes. Remove parchment and weights and bake until golden brown, about 15 minutes more. Remove from oven and set aside.
Meanwhile, make the filling: Pour the coconut milk (with its solid layer of cream on top) into the jar of a blender and blend completely, about 5 seconds. Pour 1 cup of the coconut milk into a small bowl and set aside. Reserve 1/4 cup of the remaining coconut milk for the whipped cream topping. Discard the rest.
In a 2-quart saucepan over medium heat, bring the pumpkin and butter to a gentle simmer. Add the brown sugar, flour, spices, and salt. Cook, stirring, for 5 minutes. Remove from heat and cool for 10 minutes. Add the pumpkin mixture and 1 cup of coconut milk to the blender and blend until smooth. Add the eggs and blend again. Pour this filling into the prepared pie shell and transfer to the oven. Bake until the filling is set at the edges and still slightly jiggly at the center, 40 to 50 minutes. If the crust begins to brown too quickly, cover the edges with strips of aluminum foil.
Meanwhile, prepare the toasted coconut topping. In a small bowl, stir together the flaked coconut, maple syrup and salt. Line a baking sheet with parchment or foil and spread the coconut mixture out in an even layer. Transfer to the upper rack of the oven and cook, watching closely, until browned and fragrant, 7 to 9 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside.
When the pie is finished baking, allow it to cool completely, at least two hours. Just before serving, make the whipped cream: Beat the heavy cream, 1/4 cup of the remaining coconut milk, and the powdered sugar to soft peaks. Spoon this over the top of the pie and sprinkle with some of the caramelized coconut flakes. Serve immediately. Yield: 8 servings
LINZER STARS
total time : 1 hour , 40 minutes ; hands- on time : 40 minutes
Almonds, raspberries, and a hint of cinnamon flavor these classic Austrian cookies.
Notes: You can really use any shape cookie cutters you like (circles, hearts, diamonds), as long as one cutter is at least 1 inch wider than the other. If the dough begins to soften, chill in the freezer for 10 minutes, then resume.
1 cup unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 1/2 cups flour
1 cup almond flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup red raspberry jam
Garnish: powdered sugar
Special equipment: 2 star-shaped (or similar) cookie cutters, one larger than the other (ours were 3 1/2 inches and 2 inches across)
In the bowl of a standing mixer, beat together the butter and sugar on high speed until pale and fluffy, 3 to 4 minutes, scraping down the sides occasionally. Add the egg and vanilla and beat for one more minute. In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, almond flour, cinnamon and salt.
Reduce speed to low and add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture. Mix until evenly combined.
Divide the dough into 2 balls and flatten each into a disk. Wrap in plastic
wrap and chill until firm, at least 1 hour and up to 24 hours.
Preheat your oven to 350° and set your racks to the upper and lower thirds of the oven.
When the dough is firm, roll out the first disk on a well-floured surface to a 1/8 -inch thickness. Cut out as many stars as possible using the larger cookie cutter and transfer them to 2 parchment-lined baking sheets, leaving roughly an inch of space between each. Now use the smaller cutters to cut out the centers of half of the stars (these will be the top “window” layers). Take the scraps and re-roll, cutting out as many
stars as possible from this batch. Transfer these stars to the baking sheets and, once more, cut out the centers of half of them (discard the scraps this time). Bake the cookies, turning the sheets halfway through, until edges are lightly golden, 11 to 13 minutes. Let the cookies sit for 5 minutes, then transfer them to racks to cool completely. Repeat this process with the second batch of dough. Spread about 1 1/2 teaspoons of jam on the flat side of each solid cookie and sandwich with a windowed cookie. Repeat with remaining cookies. Dust with powdered sugar and serve. Yield: About 2 dozen cookies
total time : 2 hours ;
hands- on time : 50 minutes
I designed these cookies as a streamlined alternative to frosted butter cookies. Rather than decorating with icing, you color a bit of the dough and use it to create a polka dot design on the surface. The look is fun, graphic, and modern, and a bit of peppermint extract gives these baubles a kick.
2 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon peppermint extract
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling
1/2 teaspoon table salt
Red and green food coloring
In the bowl of a standing mixer, beat butter and sugar on high speed until pale and fluffy, about 4 minutes.
Beat the eggs into the butter mix-
together the flour and salt. Add this to the butter mixture and beat on low just until combined.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured counter and divide it up into three portions: two large and one quite small. (The small portion should amount to about 1/6 of the total amount of dough.) Gather the two larger portions into balls, press them into disks, and then wrap in plastic and refrigerate until firm, at least 1 hour and up to 24 hours.
Now take the smaller portion of dough. Divide it in half and mix one half with enough red food coloring to achieve your desired color. Mix the second half with green food coloring. Wrap these doughs in plastic and chill as above.
Take your red and green doughs and divide and roll them into small balls, each about 1/4 to 1/2 inch in diameter. Set half of them on a plate and return them to the refrigerator. Keep the other balls on hand.
Preheat your oven to 350° and set your racks to the upper and lower thirds of the oven. Lay a sheet of lightly floured waxed paper on your counter and roll out one of the large disks of dough on the paper to a 1/8 -inch thickness. Arrange red and green balls over the surface of the dough in a pleasing pattern, then use your thumb to press them into the dough to form circles. If the dough begins to soften during this time, transfer it (on the waxed paper) to the freezer for 10 minutes.
Using a 2-inch round cookie or biscuit cutter, cut the decorated dough into circles, working as tightly as possible to squeeze the maximum number of balls out of the dough (once decorated, it can’t be re-rolled). Discard scraps (or you can always gently knead them to make tie-dye-style cookies).
Bake the cookies, turning the sheets halfway through, until edges are lightly golden, 11 to 13 minutes. Let the cookies sit for 5 minutes, then transfer to racks to cool completely. Repeat the entire process with the second batches of dough. Serve at room temperature. Yield: About 4 dozen cookies
By Amy Traverso & Kelsey L iebenson-Morse
our years ago, we noticed a missing link in the New England food landscape. For all the “Best of” awards celebrating restaurants and chefs around the region, there weren’t any equivalent local awards for all the delicious specialty foods that we saw coming to the market with increasing frequency. So we launched our own Editors’ Choice Food Awards. On our travels around New England, we began scouring farmers’ markets, gourmet shops, festivals, and supermarkets. The best of these products won inaugural awards in 2013.
Now, with our fourth annual list, we’ve taken a slightly different approach. We know our readers love a good story, so we narrowed our field of winners to be able to tell their stories in more depth.
As always, we choose not to organize the awards around a single best-in-category winner. Choosing just one best berry jam or goat cheese would lock up these categories, preventing us from bringing other, equally worthy products to light. Frankly, there’s too much good food out there to paint ourselves into that corner. Think of these as “awards of excellence,” rather than an either/or competition.
In that spirit, we hope you’ll enjoy these New England treats. All products are available by mail; visit the makers’ websites to learn where you can find them locally. Serve them at a party or give them as gifts to others. Happy Holidays!
CASCO BAY BUTTER , Scarborough, Maine
Alicia Menard and Jennell Carter started churning small-batch butter using borrowed KitchenAids in a church basement in Portland, Maine. When they sold 54 tubs of store-bought butter flavored with bacon and blue cheese at the Kennebunk farmers’ market in the summer of 2012, they knew their instincts were right. The partners now churn their own butter and offer nearly 20 different flavors, including Blue Cheese, Cinnamon Sugar, Truffle, and Cranberry Orange, but their Maple Butter, made with local organic syrup, is our favorite for slathering on bread, and drizzling over root vegetables and corn on the cob (it also makes
a great glaze for salmon or shrimp). Meanwhile, Alicia’s and Jennell’s company has now grown to include four employees and has moved into a storefront in Scarborough where the butter is still hand-churned, packaged, and labeled. cascobaybutter.com
Suggested retail price: $6.50-7.50 for a 5.5-ounce tub
When the Sabot family bought Cricket Creek, one of the oldest dairy operations in Massachusetts, in 2001, the goal was to preserve Williamstown’s largest single tract of farmland and create a sustainable cheesemaking operation. Dick Sabot, an economist and technology entrepreneur, and his wife, Jude, hadn’t planned to be farmers, but this mission called to them. They looked to Vermont’s Shelburne Farms as an example of what was possible. Then Dick died suddenly in 2005, a devastating loss. But the farm operation continued, and even grew: raising dairy cows on grass, not corn; running an onsite bakery; making cheese; feeding surplus whey to a passel of pigs and operat-
ing an on-site farm store. This is the kind of ingenuity you need to be a farmer in the 21st century.
“Dairy farms struggle with economic viability,” says Suzy Konecky, a cheesemaker who now manages the creamery operation. “We’ve had to ask ourselves hard questions over the years about whether your farm can stand on its two feet. We monitor each step. And that goes all the way down to the genetics of our cows, who can make milk efficiently on a grass-based diet.” It has also meant changing up the mix of cheeses in production, adding several younger, softer cheeses to the lineup in order to free up space in the aging room. One such addition: Tobasi, a sometimes nutty, sometimes mushroomy, always custardy washed-rind cheese, inspired by an Italian Taleggio. Aged two to four months, it’s washed in a brine “cocktail” with bacteria, yeast, and mold added in strict balance for maximum flavor.
We love it with hard cider, in a grilled cheese, or smeared on a baguette with fresh pears on the side. A smaller-format version of Tobasi, called Sophelise, has also joined the ranks. Toward the end of its aging, it’s washed in a locally made bourbon from Berkshire Mountain Distillers. “We can’t keep it in stock,” Suzy says. cricketcreekfarm.com
Suggested retail price: $24 per pound
clockwise, from top left: Topher Sabot, Suzy Konecky, and Teri Rutherford manage farm and dairy operations at Cricket Creek; a view of the farm; Suzy poses with blocks of Tobasi cheese; the farm’s Brown Swiss cows enjoy a grass-based diet.
Tobasi and Chèvre Roll with Ash (listings on p. 74 and at right)
York hill fA rm, New Sharon, Maine
We’ve long been fans of Penny and John Duncan’s cheeses, which were some of the first fresh chèvres being made in New England back in 1987. The couple moved to Maine from Connecticut in 1981 to raise their children and found a shared love of farming. Years later, they still relish the independence of farming. “You create your own reality,” John says. Penny, who learned the art of cheesemaking from books and trial and error, does the bulk of the cheese production, milking the goats twice a day and turning 75-gallon batches of milk into cheese three times per week. John handles the herd of white Saanan and Alpine goats, which grows and shrinks depending on the season, but can run as high as 55 head.
The vegetable ash that coats this particular chèvre promotes a milder flavor, toning down the usual goat’s milk tang. (Picky eaters take note: You’ll like this one.) Penny produces it in the spring and fall, when the milk is creamier, then introduces a male goat into the herd in late fall to begin the kidding cycle anew. After three weeks of maturing, the cheese is ready to go to market, and can be enjoyed for up to five weeks after purchase. yorkhillfarmmaine.com
Suggested retail price: $17.99/pound
, Waltham, Massachusetts
This young company, just three years old, has hit the Boston dining scene like a juggernaut, starting with the instanthit deli/café called Moody’s Provisions,
then moving into a state-of-the-art production facility down the road last July—the state’s first licensed facility for curing and selling aged meats.
The company began with founder Joshua Smith, who discovered a love of charcuterie while working at a Dean & DeLuca shop in Charlotte, North Carolina, in his late teens. There, he learned to cut meat and turn the scraps into pâtés and sausages. Something clicked. He moved to Denver, northern California, and Seattle, studying under master charcutiers.
We especially love Joshua’s finocchiona, a classic Italian salami from southern Tuscany that’s known for a perfect sweet-salt balance accented with fennel seed. The company now has a portfolio of more than 100 products, including an excellent pastrami, delicious fresh sausages, and a growing list of wholesale clients, which means you’ll soon be seeing products in more stores. Just in time for the holiday season, they’re building out an e-commerce platform that will make it easier to order products online. And they hope to find more local farms to meet their evergrowing demands for quality meat.
newenglandcharcuterie.com
Suggested retail price: $24.89 per pound
cA boT c heese , Cabot, Vermont
Cheese snobs may refer to “supermarket cheese” with a barely concealed sneer, but this nutty and mildly sweet cheddar, developed in conjunction with the Cabot cooperative’s 100th anniversary, may redefine the category. We first came across it at the Vermont Cheesemakers Festival and were instantly hooked: Something with layers of classic Alpine nuttiness (think Gruyère),
with notes of Parmesan and yet still the underlying flavor and texture of cheddar? At $4.95 a bar?
Cabot’s team of cheese graders tastes each new batch and identifies how it should be aged, not hesitating to let it go up to 18 months to achieve perfect ripeness. Most of the milk comes from farms in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. Try it in a quiche, an omelet, on a tasting plate with apples, quince paste and nuts, or straight up as a midday snack. cabotcheese.coop
Suggested retail price: $4.95 for a 6-ounce bar
Anchor Toffee , Warren, Rhode Island
Like most of the makers profiled here, Peter and Katie Kelly make their signature toffee by hand, in small batches. It has all the nutty and buttery tones of a great toffee, but what sets it apart are the toasted almonds suspended in the hard crack caramel, adding another layer of rich flavor. Plus, its crisper, more finely grained texture protects your teeth from the dreaded toffee stickiness.
Peter cooks each batch in a copper kettle, beginning with just a few simple ingredients: sugar, butter, salt, almonds, and chocolate. “The process has lots of appeal because people have been doing it
the same way for 100 years,” he says. “It has this primal, pleasing aroma, evocative of fair food, and a super nutty toasty brown color. You can taste it just by the smell.” As the mixture cooks to the requisite 320°, Peter stirs with a large wooden paddle, adding the almonds to roast directly in the syrup. Then he pours it out onto large sheet pans to cool, aiming to make the toffee as thick as the almonds encased inside. When cooled, the candy is coated with dark chocolate and additional chopped almonds. A nut-free version is also available, and the Kellys will offer a peppermint-white chocolate toffee for the holidays. anchortoffee.com
Suggested retail price: $12 for a 6-ounce tub
TORIE & HOWARD, New Milford, Connecticut
Self-described “candy freak” Torie Burke spent years working as a decorative painter in the rarified New York design world before following her childhood passion and starting a candy company. The catalyst was the sudden onset of food allergies that rendered most of her favorite sweets off limits. “I wanted to create a food company that could make a
difference for people,” she says. She partnered with Howard Slatkin, a longtime friend and renowned interior designer— his Slatkin & Co. business remains a leading home fragrance brand—and launched a line of organic hard candy pastilles in flavors like d’Anjou pearcinnamon, Meyer lemon-raspberry, and pink grapefruit-tupelo honey. Packaged in retro-style recycled steel containers, they’re made without artificial flavorings or corn syrup, soy, dairy, or gluten; their vivid colors come from natural sources like beet juice and turmeric.
Within three years, the candies were being distributed to more than 4,000 stores and their next product, Chewie Fruities (think naturally sourced Starbursts), hit the market with flavors like pomegranate-nectarine, Meyer lemonraspberry, and blood orange-honey. Like the best children’s television, the candies appeal to children inherently, but are sophisticated enough to nab their parents’ attention. The clean, potent flavors are as close to fresh fruit as any candy we’ve tasted. And with their pretty packaging, they make a charming gift. torieandhoward.com
Suggested retail price: $3.99 for a 4-ounce bag
L.A. BURDICK CHOCOLATE , Walpole, New Hampshire
It’s not difficult to make an exemplary cup of hot chocolate using this blend of Caribbean and South American chocolate, shaved just finely enough that it melts into hot milk with the ease of butter on toast. But there is one way to screw it up, according to head chocolatier Michael Klug.
“Do not overscald your milk,” he says. “If you do it with a thermometer, don’t go beyond 160 degrees. Steaming the milk
to a nice, hot temperature between 145 to 160 will give you a good product.”
Stir it with a whisk, to get a little froth. The rest, he says, is up to you. Use skim milk, whole milk, almond milk. Add less chocolate, add more. “You have to find what you personally like the best,” Michael says. “Just like when you brew yourself a tea, you have to experiment with the dosage. Some like it more tannic; some like it milder.”
Michael, who has been with the company since 2002, trained in his native Germany, first as a traditional chef, then later as a pastry chef at top restaurants in Europe and New York. He brings knowledge of flavors, both sweet and savory, to his work with chocolate. A narrower focus seems to have sparked more creative inspiration. “I identify completely with the product, which is why I keep on doing it,” he says.
Larry and Paula Burdick first established the company in New York City in 1987, moving it to Walpole in 1992. This small New Hampshire town has become something of a foodie mecca, with Walpole Creamery (ice cream), Alyson’s Orchard, and Boggy Meadow Farm (cheese) also drawing crowds. In cooler months, most visitors can’t come to the Walpole headquarters, or its sister cafés in Boston, Cambridge, and Manhattan, without sipping hot chocolate, whether dark blend, milk, or white. And Michael is passionate about his line of single-origin drinking chocolates from cocoa-growing regions around the world, available seasonally. “If I taste a chocolate from Madagascar, it has a certain floral fruity flavor that you don’t find in the Caribbean,” he says, “and a certain nuttiness is typical of Venezuela. Finding these different characters is where it becomes truly interesting.” Still, we love the comforting consistency of the dark blend, which is rich enough to satisfy in small doses and always available in stores or online. burdickchocolate.com
Suggested retail price: $22 for a 12-ounce bag
Michael Klug, head chocolatier at L.A. Burdick, demonstrates how to make a perfect cup of drinking chocolate. (listing at left)
Combine our winning salami, cheeses, and spreads for a holiday feast. seen here: Finocchiona, Chèvre Roll with Ash, Farmers’ Legacy Alpine Cheddar, Tobasi, Triple Ale Onion Savory Spread, and Straw Hat Preserves. (listings on pages 74, 77, at right)
above right, and below: For Robin Cohen, making jams under her Doves & Figs label is a fulfillment of a lifelong dream.
Six years ago and half a world away, Warrick (“Wozz”) Dowsett and Ashley Thompson began selling gourmet condiments at farmers’ markets in Wozz’s native Australia. The products were all inspired by recipes that Wozz had developed over years of working as a chef on private yachts. That spiced beet relish that he had served with steaks on the ship? Can it. The ginger soy dressing? Bottle it. “We started this idea for fun a week before we got married,” Wozz says. “We weren’t expecting much from it. And it took off really quickly.”
Like so many products celebrated in these pages, early success at the local market convinced Wozz and Ashley that they had a product worth selling. In Wozz’s hands, bottled products burst with fresh flavor. It’s a matter of choosing the right ingredients, yes, but also to know when to stop cooking, as any consumer of ho-hum canned salsa will know.
In 2013, the couple relocated to Ashley’s home state of New Hampshire, positioning themselves within commuting distance from the Vermont Food Venture Center in Hardwick, a commercial kitchen and incubator for young companies. “Within nine months we won three SOFI awards [the Oscars of the food world] and our first award from Yankee [for their Balsamic Blueberry & Maple Vinegar],” Wozz says.
In fact, it took some restraint for us to wait three years before giving them a second award. The Triple Ale Onion spread hits the sweet spot between caramel and savory flavors, a perfect topping for a burger, some sharp cheddar, or turkey. “In Australia, when everyone is barbecuing, and they’ve got the onions going, someone will inevitably tip their beer on
it ‘for flavor,’” Wozz says. “So you end up with these caramelized, beery onions for your hot dog or sandwich. When we came to the states, I thought I’d do an onion jam-and-beer thing. My father-inlaw, who doesn’t have the most adventurous palate, loved it. I thought, ‘Now we have a winner.’” wozzkitchencreations.com
Suggested retail price: $10 for a 13-ounce jar
DOve s & Figs, Woburn, Massachusetts
When Robin Cohen’s customers find her handing out samples of Bramble Tea jam at a farmers’ market, they tend to imagine a slightly more agrarian backstory. And yes, she’s been making jam since she was a kid. But it all started in the Bronx. “My dad and my great-aunt were really great cooks, bakers, jam makers, picklers,” she says. In the summer, her family decamped to Montauk, where they owned a hotel. “Being around fresh food and preserving it and bringing it back for the winter was something that was always with me,” she says. “Then I went in a completely different direction.”
That direction was a 25-year career in technology. “But the whole time I had my computer business, I was always cooking and perpetually saying ‘I’m going to write a cookbook someday.’”
She entered contests, winning “Best of
Show” at the Topsfield Fair for her jams. “So when I turned 50 in 2011, I just said, ‘You know what? I really want to cook.’” For a while, it was a weekend-warrior project, with a booth at two farmers’ markets near her Arlington, Massachusetts, home. Consulting paid the bills. Then the market grew. “I created a jam with raspberries and Taza chocolate just as a fun thing to try,” she says, “and it was really delicious and the Taza folks loved it.” Local stores came calling. “Suddenly I needed a wholesale license and a commercial kitchen.” This past year, with the product in 50 stores around the country, she was finally able to work on Doves & Figs full-time in a new space in Woburn, with four employees. “We’ve gone from ‘Let’s buy eight boxes of strawberries,’ to about 800 pounds. And all the fresh fruit is coming from New England. About 80 percent is from Massachusetts.”
Take her Straw Hat chutney, made with apples and green tomatoes. “Once there’s a frost in fall, farmers are dying to get rid of tomatoes that didn’t ripen,” she says. “I’ve always loved green tomatoes. And I love sweet Indian mango chutney. An apple chutney seemed kind of plain, so we experimented with a few fruits and the green tomatoes had just the right texture.” Loaded with golden raisins and candied ginger, a little vinegar and layers of spice, the chutney is multilayered and multitextured, a natural fit for goat cheese, lamb, turkey, and cheddar.
Preserving local sourcing while scaling up the business isn’t easy, nor is it particularly remunerative. “Consultants tell us, ‘The first thing you’ve got to do is stop using expensive local fruit,’” Robin says. “But that’s the whole reason I’m doing this. It’s this idea of preserving a season. I can go to the supermarket and buy pretty good jam. But this is something really special. We know the farmers. We know how the fruit is grown. It was a whole lot easier to make money in the technology business. But this is a labor of love.” dovesandfigs.com
Suggested retail price: $12 for 11.5 ounces
Celebrating life in New England at some of the region’s best events
The Vermont Cheesemakers Festival brings together the very best of Green Mountain cheesemakers, artisanal producers, bakers and brewers. As event sponsor, Yankee Magazine was on hand for this year’s festival with Kenyon International grills to create the “Ultimate Vermont Burger” complimentary to festival attendees thanks to a delicious array of donated products. The Vermont Beef Council Beef Council provided the beef, cheddar cheese, and the Vermont Bread Company the slider buns. Pick-your-own mustards and chutneys from Green Mountain Mustard Creations.
this page : A jumble of the freshest in-season vegetables makes a small-plate meal at Allium. opposite , from top : Prairie Whale owner, Mark Firth, former Brooklyn restaurateur, with pastry chef Megan McDiarmid; grilled cheese rules at Rubi’s Coffee & Sandwiches; in this foodie mecca, even the Inn at Sweet Water Farm offers gourmet distractions.
COULD YOU LIVE HERE?
BY ANNIE GRAVES
BIDWELL
t some point in the last few decades of its 255-year history, Great Barrington became Chef Central, and on this random Saturday the southern Berkshire town teems with diners and shoppers, despite the deep November chill. Cars circle like hungry cats, prowling for parking with easy access to restaurants on Main Street or Railroad Street (aka Restaurant Row). Post-lunch shoppers, fresh off their farm-to-fork meals, duck into Patisserie Lenox for a French pastry pick-me-up or a lick of darkly velvet Dirty Chocolate at SoCo Creamery.
Those more inclined to work it off might be climbing Monument Mountain—a boulder-strewn peak with Berkshire views where Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville hiked and talked, sparking the genesis of Moby Dick. Or strolling the River Walk along the Housatonic, parallel to Main Street, that starts at the W. E. B. Du Bois River Garden Park just steps from where the famed African American writer and activist was born. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC) has designated the town an “Appalachian Trail Community,” for its dedication to the legendary nearby trail. In winter, you can burn calories at Ski Butternut, a family-oriented ski area with 22 trails and überaffordable season tickets. In summer, you’re in the Berkshire cradle of the arts, less than a half hour from Tanglewood or Jacob’s Pillow.
All factors, no doubt, in Great Barrington being named #1 in Smithsonian magazine’s “20 Best Small Towns in America of 2012.” So whether the final head count is 60 or 70 restaurants (potato, potahto, as they say), suffice it to say that the main difficulty facing a visitor or transplant will be narrowing down your choices. Or go for broke and work your way through the full menu of eateries celebrating the lineage of local foods. Delicious.
below : Restaurants line Railroad Street, aka Restaurant Row. bottom : A small sampling of the cheesy goodness at Rubiner’s Cheesemongers.
Equidistant from NYC and Boston (2¼ hours), the vibe here leans more toward Brooklyn than Beacon Hill. Lucky residents have their pick of venues like Tanglewood (Lenox), summer home to the Boston Symphony Orchestra; Jacob’s Pillow Dance (Becket); and the Berkshire Theatre Festival (Stockbridge), for starters. Not to mention local spots like Arlo Guthrie’s Center at the Old Trinity Church, immortalized in Alice’s Restaurant , where Guthrie’s Troubadour series defies musical definition. Nearby spas and retreats run the gamut from Canyon Ranch (Lenox) to Kripalu (Stockbridge), surrounded by the rolling beauty of the Berkshires offset by endless farmland.
You hear the word constantly: culture . “Great Barrington has a good balance,” says Kirsten Fredsall, who works the counter at Farm & Home when she’s not selling real estate in the back, at Brockman Real Estate. “It’s got easy access to NYC, a very vibrant downtown, it’s easy to shop, and it’s got a small-town feel, but with culture.” The historic Mahaiwe Performing Arts Center, a restored 1905 vaudeville house in the center of town, hosts headliners like Tony Awardwinner Audra McDonald, Lucinda Williams, and Art Garfunkel. The Berkshire International Film Festival blazes into the downtown for four days in June, but the BIFF is also a resource year-round and welcomes volunteers.
Support of local farmers is fierce and visible. The sleek, woodsy beauty of Allium is a backdrop to its contemporary small plates—farro with radishes, squash, and pecorino, or Maplebrook burrata cheese with hazelnut crumbs. The Prairie Whale’s Mark Firth is a
renowned Brooklyn transplant who raises pigs, sheep, and chickens, thus guaranteeing the provenance of Sunday’s crunchy fried chicken brunch and an arugula salad with eggs bright as the sun. And we’re just getting started. “It’s impossible to get a bad meal in Great Barrington,” says innkeeper Lynda Fisher at the Inn at Sweet Water Farm, who is no slouch in the kitchen herself (see below).
Some of these shops smell so good you want to move in: Mistral’s, for French country; Farm & Home, for a handcrafted gentleman farmer’s look. Karen Allen Fiber Arts displays toasty-warm knitted things, including the actor/ director’s own line of cashmere wear. And cheese is rightly raised up on a pedestal at Rubiner’s Cheesemongers & Grocers—classes include “Intro to Cheese,” and on this November after-
noon, noted food writer Ruth Reichl is signing her latest book surrounded by massive wheels of milky perfection.
Recently, an in-town Victorian with three bedrooms and views of the Housatonic from the deck listed at $285,000, while a four-bedroom New Englander in a pretty neighborhood in walking distance to town priced at $359,000. “The Hill,” up Taconic Avenue, is desirable and pricey, from $700,000 to $800,000, although a building lot was selling for $129,000. Look for more reasonably priced homes around Christian Hill Road.
Beyond the obvious—some of the best
restaurants in New England at the tip of your fork—you’ve got skiing in your own backyard at family favorite Ski Butternut, with 22 trails, tubing, a ski school, and affordable tickets. And tucked away on 275 bucolic acres, there’s Bard College at Simon’s Rock, a four-year liberal arts college for super-motivated kids.
At Lynda Fisher and Andrei Vankov’s beautiful Inn at Sweet Water Farm, a wall of cookbooks keeps company with breakfast feasts of eggs from backyard chickens, pear-almond tarts, and kefir from a culture Andrei brought back from Russia. 413-528-2882; innsweetwater.com In town, the charming Wainwright Inn has been operating since 1766. 413-528-2062; wainwrightinn. com
Paul Revere Church Bells…durable goods? Oh, yes. Of the few hundred church bells cast during the reign of Revere’s Massachusetts foundry, Woodstock remains home to five. Stroll over to the Congregational Church to check out its oldest, weighing some 711 pounds, on display near the left entrance. It dates from 1818 and is the only bell in town cast during Revere’s lifetime. Of the other Revere bells, three still ring—at the Masonic Temple, St. James Episcopal Church, and the North Universalist Chapel Society. The fifth can be found on the grounds of The Woodstock Inn & Resort. woodstockvt.com
The scenic Marsh-Billings-
hiking, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, and quiet contemplation. Among the oldest professionally managed woodlands in the country, the look of the forest owes much to Frederick Billings. Inspired by the writings of aheadof-his-time conservationist, George Perkins Marsh, Billings used progressive forestry methods to establish the thriving landscape you’ll discover today. Enjoy exploring miles of scenic carriage roads and trails that lead you through centuries-old stands of woodlands to stunning vistas and open pastures. 802-457-3368 • nps.gov/mabi
In a village rich with visual appeal, the Romanesque-style Norman Williams Public Library fits right in. Centrally
benefit of a multimillion renovation in recent years. An architectural treat, the library also offers modern day technology. (Visit during the traditional Wassail Weekend reading of A Child’s Christmas in Wales.) 802-457-2295 normanwilliams.lib.vt.us
Family-friendly alpine ski resort, 30 km of groomed Nordic trails, fat biking and on-site rentals. The Woodstock Inn & Resort is a true outdoor winter wonder-
structed by Dr. Edward Williams in 1883 as a tribute to his parents. Step inside for a peek at the stunning mezzanine level, replete with handsome woodwork—the
side with all of our winter sports options, come inside for some farm-fresh cuisine at one of the Inn’s restaurants. Or, delight your senses at The Spa featuring a eucalyptus steam room, sauna & hot tub. If that is not enough check out their Falconry Center, where professional falconers provide a hands-on encounter with these magnificent birds of prey.
844.571.9968
WoodstockInn.com
Where one-of-a-kind treasures and old-time Yuletide merriment bring the magic of the season to life. |
BY KIM KNOX BECKIUS
our loved ones worked hard to earn “nice” list status this year—so don’t entrust those perfect presents to warehouse elves and delivery-truck drivers. Make this the season you take back holiday shopping—back to the days when businesses were local and magical retail displays buoyed your spirits. New England’s merriest shopping destinations celebrate one-of-a-kind stores; park-once, find-everything convenience; and events that make gift-hunting a joy.
In this throwback downtown set amid steep hills and wild rivers, historic brick façades showcase an extraordinary mix of old and new. Brattleboro is home to four independent bookstores. Find hot releases at Everyone’s Books, plus thrillers and crime at Mystery on Main Street; then peruse the trove of old volumes at Brattleboro Books and Basket’s. Within the city’s small footprint, you’ll find gifts from around the world—all with a local connection.
Don’t Miss: Holly Days, Holly Nights (December 2-3), when retailers and restaurants offer the season’s best deals. Must Shops: Boomerang (new and used vintage fashions), Gallery in the Woods (global and local handcrafts), Sam’s Outdoor Outfitters (sporting goods). Refuel: Deli-made sandwiches and hot selections at the Brattleboro Food Co-op. brattleboro. com
It’s New England’s only place to shop at any hour, 365 days a year—and to talk to a Christmas tree. What enables the conifer at the corner of Main and Bow streets to converse during Sparkle Weekend? Organizers will only reveal: It’s magic!
Those two words sum up your search for cozy gifts, from flannel sheets to moose pajamas, in this coastal town’s factory outlets, specialty shops, and always-open L.L. Bean flagship store, where musical holiday light shows delight nightly. Don’t Miss: Sparkle Celebration (December 2-4), featuring a parade of lights, train and horse-drawn wagon rides, and promotions. Must Shops: Wilbur’s Candy
Shoppe (chocolate-factory tours and sweet gifts), Earrings & Company (artisanal jewelry), Vineyard Vines Outlet (preppy attire). Refuel: Afternoon tea at the Harraseeket Inn. freeportusa.com
Don’t let Victorian-era architecture and subdued holiday lighting fool you: Cool downtown galleries and boutiques elevate gift-giving to an art form. Whether the goods are quirky or classic, Main Street’s surprising displays make wandering its three long blocks a visual adventure. Handcrafted items—including many by New England makers—abound, so when you spy the ideal gift, have it wrapped on the spot—you may never see anything like it again. Don’t Miss: Bag Day (November 19), when thrifty shoppers flock to Thornes Marketplace first thing for shopping bags that entitle them to 20 percent savings at participating retailers. Must Shops: Kestrel (rustic home goods), Faces (novelties galore), PINCH (contemporary crafts). Refuel: Espresso and artisanal baked goods at Woodstar Café. explorenorthampton.com
Portsmouth, New Hampshire
Step one: Board the free Vintage Christmas trolley on December weekends, and scope out the diverse shops along the brick sidewalks of this city by the sea. Step two: Resist the overwhelming urge to buy gifts for yourself. Actually, you’re already financially ahead when zero-sales-tax New Hampshire is your holiday-shopping headquarters, so treat yourself to a fun outfit or tickets to Disney’s Beauty and the Beast at The Music Hall. Don’t Miss: Candlelight Stroll evenings at Strawbery Banke (December 3-4, 10-11, 16-18) for Christmas and Hanukkah celebrations through the centuries. Must Shops: Pickwick’s Mercantile (Victorian-style wonders and smallbatch perfumes), janegee (botanical bath-and-body products), Salt Cellar (gourmet seasonings and salt lamps). Refuel: Holiday Dinners at Strawbery Banke’s William Pitt Tavern (weekends, December 3-18, by reservation). vintagechristmasnh.org
Ridgefield, Connecticut
Holiday retail therapy meets 300 years of history along Main Street. Like a nostalgic Christmas card brought to life, gracious storefronts reflect red-beribboned lampposts and tree branches swarmed by white firefly lights. With tasteful gifts at downto-earth prices and festive goings-on throughout December, don’t wait to visit—but come the darkening hours of Christmas Eve, Books on the Common is the one place, co-owner Ellen Burns assures us, “open until the last procrastinator leaves.” Don’t Miss: Holiday Stroll (December 2-3), featuring free horse-drawn rides, shopping specials, and merriment. Must Shops: Nancy O. (luxurious yarns and “statement” accessories), The Toy Chest (distinctive playthings), Audrey Road (vintageinspired clothing and gifts). Refuel: Holiday Luncheons at the Keeler Tavern Museum (December 6-10 by reservation). destinationridgefield.com
s I sat in the small theater at the Wright Museum of World War II watching a film loop about the build-up to America’s involvement in the war, a man who had also been watching came over and introduced himself.
His name was Dan Schroeder, and he said he’s been volunteering at the museum since 2009. His son, Chris, the fourth generation of his family to serve, was just back from Afghanistan. “This place is important,” Dan said. “I’ve met soldiers and families from all over the world here. We learn and we share and we remember. It connects us.”
Located in the scenic lake town of Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, the Wright Museum makes a memorable first impression. The building’s roadside façade turns heads, with its genuine M3A1 Stuart tank seemingly busting out through the wall. A book shouldn’t be judged by its cover, however. This is more than just a military museum.
Each year, the more than 16,000 visitors who tour the Wright Museum get up close and personal with a collection of fully operational military vehicles, sure, but they also explore exhibits and displays detailing what life was
The vehicle gallery holds center stage, but it is the context provided by the memorabilia and period exhibits that truly sets the Wright Museum apart.
|PHOTOGRAPHS BY MICHAEL
like on the home front from 1939-1945. There is a re-creation of what a typical barracks looked like, and also an on-site victory garden with a section devoted to the types of vegetables that Japanese Americans raised while living in internment camps. Produce from the garden is donated to an area food pantry.
At the core of the museum’s homefront exhibits is the “time tunnel,” a central passage that devotes one room to each of the war years, blending popular culture with domestic and world events.
John and Evelyn Frank, who recently donated a dozen pre-war bicycles to the museum, assisted in the creation of the time tunnel years ago. “[Museum founder] David Wright had a vision,” Evelyn says. “We did the 1939 room first, and then used that as our model. From the start, this has been a labor of love. It has been satisfying to see it grow up.”
The museum has come a long way since 1994, when Wright, a Korean War veteran and the son of a WW II vet, gave roots to his traveling vehicle exhibition. He wanted his museum to tell the larger story of American life dur-
“We may never experience anything quite like World War II again,” says Wright Museum Director Michael Culver. “Every American life was impacted. It was an amazing, universal effort. It can be argued that we won the war by out-producing everyone else.”
A flexible gallery space supplements the permanent exhibits. This year, the space hosted an exhibition of Norman Rockwell’s wartime paintings, a display of art inspired by New Hampshire soldier Charles J. Miller’s service in the South Pacific, and a collection of photos commemorating the 75th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.
ing the war years, and of the many and varied contributions to the war effort. He envisioned a museum of American enterprise, detailing the impact of the war on all Americans.
As the generation who experienced the war firsthand passes on, the challenge for the museum is finding ways to attract younger audiences, while remaining true to its mission. “So much of modern life was advanced or had its roots in those war years,” Culver says. “There
Visitors who tour the Wright Museum get up close and personal with exhibits detailing what life was like on the home front from 1939-1945.
were so many changes in society, so many advancements in technology and products that were born directly or indirectly from the war effort. There are many stories we can tell that resonate still.”
One such project will debut next summer. “The American Soldier, A Photographic Tribute, From the Civil War to the War in Iraq” will open on July 1, 2017, and run through the end of October. The exhibit, which has toured other venues, including the LBJ Presidential Library in Texas and The Gerald R. Ford Museum in Michigan, presents 116 extraordinary photographs, many not widely seen before, focusing on the real lives of American soldiers from 1861 to today.
While the focus has broadened a bit, the vehicles remain a defining feature of the museum. For Randy Cook, a lifelong “gear head,” managing the
The “time tunnel” is a walk-through capsule of the American home front from 1939-1945. Side galleries provide detailed glimpses of daily life, both stateside and on the front lines.
museum’s vehicle collection is a dream gig, one that requires some very particular—and increasingly specialized—skills. The stable includes everything from trucks and tanks to motorcycles and snowmobiles. “In some cases, there aren’t a lot of people who know these things, so we go back to the books and educate ourselves,” Cook says. “We teach our mechanics to drive them, how to double clutch. There are different starting techniques, tricks with the choke and throttle mechanisms. Every one is different. There’s always something new to learn.”
Antiques dealer Michael Hashem, a military vehicle and firearms enthusiast,
maintains that he would have been happy to join the museum’s board of directors under any circumstances, but admits that one perk in particular really thrilled: getting to drive a tank. “No one got run over and I didn’t knock the building down. It is one thing to see a tank. It is totally different to hear it, to feel it. We’re keeping something alive here. We are the holders of history. If we don’t preserve it, who will?”
The Wright Museum closes to the general public at the end of October, and is given over to the town’s Festival of Trees in November and December. From January until the end of April, the museum is open for tours, but visitors should call ahead to make arrangements. wrightmuseum.org
NOVEMBER 25-26, DECEMBER 2-3, 9-10, 16-18, 23
The tradition lives on for a 37th year, with a performance of The Nut-Cracker Sweets. Set on Christmas Eve in 1876, the play unfolds through six scenes of seasonal whimsy with a horse-drawn carriage ride, a spirited circle dance, and a visit with old St. Nick ... not to mention a myriad of mischievous mice! Each 70-minute progressive performance covers approximately half a mile of uneven terrain and is performed in all weather conditions. Audience members walk or stand for the majority of the performance, so dress appropriately. Mystic, CT. 860-572-0711; mysticseaport.org/lanternlighttours
NOVEMBER 19-20
Cross Insurance Center hosts a celebration of all that is local and fresh, with demonstrations, talks with authors and chefs, music, samples and a screening of the film Growing Local Bangor, ME. 207-561-8300; maineharvestfestival.com
DECEMBER 2-4, 9-11, 16-18, 23
Escape the holiday frenzy for an oldfashioned evening of gingerbread, roasted chestnuts, music, dance, and sleigh rides at Old Sturbridge Village. Meet Father Christmas, observe model trains and a miniature New England village, take in a Punch and Judy puppet show, vote for the winners of the gingerbread house contest, enjoy holiday readings and caroling, or perhaps even have brunch with Santa. Sturbridge, MA. 800-7331830; osv.org
THROUGH JANUARY 16
The Currier Museum of Art hosts an exhibition devoted entirely to works depicting the Mount Washington region, featuring major paintings by Hudson River School artists, as well as acclaimed artists such as Winslow Homer and George Inness. Created in collaboration with the Mount Washington Observatory, the exhibition includes 40 paintings and many historical objects that help put them
in context. Interactive exhibits also create opportunities to explore the art and science of the region, including real-time weather conditions and incredible summit videos. Manchester, NH. 603-669-6144; currier.org
NOVEMBER 25-JANUARY 1
Every corner of the gorgeous, historic Blithewold Mansion, Gardens and Arboretum sparkles for the season. This year’s theme is “Touring the Americas: 50 Years of Van Wickle Family Excursions.” Stroll through the Mansion, and enjoy decorations and mementos that bring the excitement and diversity of the family’s domestic travels to life. Join in the fun for select dates featuring tours, music, afternoon teas, storytelling, and, of course, visits from Santa. Bristol, CT. 401-253-2797; blithewold.org
NOVEMBER 26-27
Some 120 artisans and crafters gather at Barre Municipal Auditorium for central Vermont’s largest show, offering handmade items and creative crafts just in time for gift-giving season. From journals and pottery to beeswax candles and specialty foods, if it is better when made by hand, you’ll likely find it here. As always, parking and admission are free, and there will be raffles and a visit from Santa, to boot. Barre, ME. 802-4263221; greaterbarrecraftguild.com
—compiled by Joe Bills
For more of the events you love around New England, see pp. 102-107.
NOV. 5-6: WESTPORT, CraftWestport. This annual event brings together more than 175 artists and craftsmen at Staples High School, along with specialty foods, raffles, and more. 845-331-7900; craftwestport.com
NOV. 12: HARTFORD, Seven Things I’ve Learned: An Evening with Ira Glass. The Bushnell Center and the Mark Twain House team up to present an evening with Peabody-awardwinning radio personality Ira Glass, host of NPR’s This American Life 860-987-5900; bushnell.org
NOV. 18-19: WETHERSFIELD, 16th Annual Antique Show. Antiques invade Pitkin Community Center, with more than 40 quality dealers and delicious food at the Sunflower Café. 860-529-7656; wethhist.org
NOV. 20: STAMFORD, USB Parade Spectacular. One of the largest helium balloon parades in the country steps off on Summer Street at noon, with award-winning marching bands, fabulous floats, and giant balloon characters galore. stamford-downtown.com
NOV. 25-DEC. 30: EAST WINDSOR, Winterfest and the Tunnel of Lights. Ride the rails through the Tunnel of Lights at the Connecticut Trolley Museum while singing traditional carols, then warm up with a cup of cocoa while admiring the model trains and other displays. 860-627-6540; ceraonline.org
DEC. 2: WOODBURY, Glebe House Christmas Festival. Tour the charming c. 1740 Glebe House while it’s beautifully decorated for the holidays with wreaths, holiday lighting, and garlands—all for sale. 203-263-2855; glebehousemuseum.org
DEC. 2-3: BETHLEHEM, Christmas Town Festival. Oh little town of Bethlehem—where thousands make the post office pilgrimage so their cards will arrive as if by way of another historic village. The town green is transformed into a unique shopping experience with 70-plus vendors offering fine crafts, music, kids’ activities, and hay rides.
203-266-7510; christmastownfestival.com
DEC. 18: MYSTIC, Community Carol Sing. For six decades, visitors from near and far have lifted their voices in song at this popular holiday event, backed by a brass quartet. mysticseaport.org
DEC. 31: HARTFORD, First Night. For the 28th year, this artistic, multicultural, alcoholfree event will feature great music, artists, performance groups, and exhibits at venues across the city—and fireworks at Bushnell Park. firstnighthartford.org
NOV. 5-6: PORTLAND, 25th Holiday Craft Show. Members of the Society of Southern Maine Craftsmen display their work at this juried show at McAuley High School, a great opportunity to find some special gifts. societyofsouthernmainecraftsmen.org
NOV. 25-27: ROCKLAND, Festival of Lights. Santa arrives by boat to kick off the festivities, which include the lighting of the lobster trap Christmas tree, a parade, horse-drawn wagon rides, a bonfire, caroling, and much more. 207-593-6093; rocklandmainstreet.com
DEC. 2-4: BOOTHBAY HARBOR, Festival of Trees. The Opera House is transformed by 60 decorated trees to be admired and then auctioned. Take a chance on a raffle and visit the “shops” offering sweets and other gift items. 207-633-7609; boothbayregiongardenclub.org
DEC. 3: NEW GLOUCESTER, Shaker Christmas Fair. The holidays are traditional at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, the country’s only active Shaker community. Enjoy baked goods while perusing knit crafts, ornaments, wreaths, woodenware, candy, jams and other gift items. 207-926-4597; maineshakers.com
DEC. 9-11, 16-18: PORTLAND, Magic of Christmas Concert. At Merrill Auditorium, the Portland Symphony Orchestra celebrates their 90th anniversary with cherished traditions of the season. 207-842-0800; portland symphony.org
DEC. 16-17: PRESQUE ISLE, Victorian Christmas at the Estey. Tour the 1875 Vera Estey House Museum, where each room has been decked out for the holidays with handmade decorations and historical interpreters in period costume. 207-762-1151; pihistory.org
DEC. 17-18: BOOTHBAY HARBOR, Gingerbread Spectacular. Every entry in the gingerbread house contest—castles, cabins, and everything in between—is constructed of cookies and sweets. Once you’ve had your fill, stop by the bake sale for an indulgence to take home. boothbayoperahouse.com
DEC. 31: BATH, Paul Revere Bell Ringing. Sing out the old and ring in the new with this noontime New Year’s tradition, singing “Auld Land Syne of Bath” as a lead-in to the ringing of the town’s 1802 Paul Revere bell. 207-442-7291; visitbath.com/events/paulrevere-bell-ringing
DEC. 31: EASTPORT, The 12th Annual Great Sardine and Maple Leaf Drop. The Tides Institute and Museum of Art double up on celebrations, with the Canadian Maple Leaf Drop at 11 p.m. and the American Great Sardine Drop at midnight. 207-853-4047; tidesinstitute.org
NOV. 4-6: FRANKLIN COUNTY, 22nd CiderDays. Celebrate apples with a weekend of orchard tours, cider-making. tastings, and workshops. See the website for a list of participating orchards. 413-773-5463; ciderdays.org
NOV. 5, 6, 12, 13, 19, 20, 24: STURBRIDGE, Bounty: Thanksgiving 2016. Experience the traditions of an early New England Thanksgiving while learning about 1830s dining etiquette and watching the men of the village compete in a post-dinner target shoot. Smell the roasted turkey and pies warming by the fire, learn about Native American food traditions, and more. 800-733-1830; osv.org
NOV. 12, 13, 19, 20: CONCORD, Historic Thanksgivings at the Old Manse. Explore the Thanksgiving stories of Manse residents, discovering what they ate and how they prepared the dishes. Stroll through the kitchen and parlors of this 18th-century house museum, taking in the sights, aromas, and tastes of the holiday. 978-369-3909; thetrustees.org
NOV. 18-20: MARLBOROUGH, Paradise City Arts Festival. Shop the distinctive works of 175 notable artisans at Royal Plaza Trade
Center, with live jazz and some great dining options. 800-511-9725; paradisecityarts.com
NOV. 26: PROVINCETOWN, Lighting of the Lobster Pot Tree. For more than a decade, Provincetown artist Julian Popko and his family have made a tradition of building a lobster pot tree in Lopes Square. Stacked with over 100 real lobster pots, the lighted tree stands more than two stories tall. ptownchamber.com
DEC. 2-4: STOCKBRIDGE, 27th Main Street at Christmas. The town made famous by a Norman Rockwell Christmas painting serves up house tours, readings, caroling, and a holiday concert. On Sunday, the scene from Rockwell’s painting is re-created, right down to the vintage cars. stockbridgechamber.org
DEC. 9-27: CAMBRIDGE, The Christmas Revels. A powerful chorus, fantastic stories, and great Irish dancers come together in this year’s solstice celebration at Harvard’s Sanders Theatre. 617-496-2222; revels.org
DEC. 15, 18: BOSTON, Bach Christmas. Join the Handel & Haydn Society at NEC’s Jordan Hall for a traditional holiday performance of Baroque masterworks for orchestra and chorus. 617-266-3605; handelandhaydn.org
DEC. 31: CHATHAM, 26th First Night Celebration. More than 70 performances and events town-
10/23,
NonantumResort.com
207-967-4050
PRESENTS:
November 18–20, 2016 Sheraton Hotel, Burlington, VT
Friday 10–8
Saturday 10–6
Sunday 10–5 800-373-5429
www.vermonthandcrafters.com
wide, including kids’ activities, community suppers, and more live up to this year’s theme: Light Up the Town. firstnightchatham.com
NOV. 5-6: STATEWIDE, Open Doors. This annual event encourages rambling. Download the tour map and plan your outing, meeting area artists and craftsmen in their studios, sampling local products, and overnighting at one of the state’s historic inns. nhopendoors.com
NOV. 11: TROY, Fall Family Farm Day. Have a hands-on farm experience at scenic East Hill Farm, milking a cow, grooming a pony, collecting eggs, then settle in for arts and crafts activities, games and a campfire for making s’mores. Reservations are required. 603-242-6495; east-hill-farm.com
NOV. 19-20, 25-27, DEC. 3-4, 10-11, 17-18: JEFFERSON, Santa’s Village. If you like your Christmas cheer amusement park style, this is for you. Chat with Santa and make sure he’s clear on your wishes and wants, then ride the rides, do some shopping and take in a 3-D show. The fun continues after dark, illuminated by half a million Christmas lights. 603-586-4445; santasvillage.com
NOV. 20: GREENLAND, 26th Annual Craft Fair and Pie Festival. This Women’s Club fundraiser has grown into a pastry spectacular, serving up 550 delicious pies at the Greenland School, where more than 100 crafters and artisans will also be peddling their wares. greenlandwomensclub.org
NOV. 25-DEC. 22: BEDFORD, Holiday Fair. The seasonal shop at historic Kendall House features the wares of more than 60 Craftworker’s Guild members, from holiday ornaments to gourmet treats, pottery, jewelry and more. craftworkersguild.org
NOV. 26-27, DEC. 3-4, 10-11, 17: JACKSON, Jingle Bell Chocolate Tour. Ride a sleigh from inn to inn, sampling delicious chocolate treats at each stop. This event always sells out early. jacksonnh.com
Because it’s too hard to say goodbye. Stay a little longer, arrive a little early, or treat yourself in between. Until 12/31/16, we’ll add on a $20 gift card for every $100 gift card purchased. Use code Yankee37 online or by phone.
DEC. 3, 10: CANTERBURY, Christmas at Canterbury Shaker Village. Celebrate simple delights by taking a candlelight stroll through the village or riding in a horsedrawn wagon or sleigh. With a magic show, caroling, toy trains, Christmas cards, gingerbread cookies, and costumed characters, too. 603-783-9511; shakers.org
DEC. 3-4, 10-11, 16-18: PORTSMOUTH, Candlelight Stroll at Strawbery Banke. Stroll the lanes and visit the historic homes and buildings, enjoying the sounds of caroling, the handcrafted decorations illuminated by candle lanterns, costumed role-players, and a horse-drawn carriage ride. 603-433-1100; strawberybanke.org
fine craft & art show
508-693-3334 | 877-693-3334 www.vineyardharbormotel.com
2016
The Boston Pops Orchestra
The Boston Pops Esplanade Orchestra
Keith Lockhart conductor
Tanglewood Festival Chorus
november 30 – december 31
SANTA appears during all pre-Christmas concerts.
Back to the Future December 30 & 31 Experience the thrill of Back to the Future like never before—shown in high definition in Symphony Hall with Keith Lockhart and the Boston Pops performing Alan Silvestri’s dazzling musical score live!
season
DEC. 10: MONADNOCK REGION, Currier & Ives Cookie Tour. There are more than a dozen stops on this self-guided tour, with a tasty treat waiting at each one. Collect recipe cards and make your favorites later. currierandivescookie tour.com
DEC. 18: CONCORD, Capitol Jazz Orchestra’s Holiday Pops. At Capitol Center for the Arts, the full Capital Jazz Orchestra rings in the holiday season, with guests Patty Barkas, Laura Daigle, and C.J. Poole joining in on seasonal favorites. NHPR’s Laura Knoy will recite “The Night Before Christmas,” and a traditional sing-along will put the entire family into a holiday spirit. 603-225-1111; ccanh.com
NOV. 4-6: PAWTUCKET, 21st Fine Furnishings Show. More than 50 exhibitors and 80 artists and craftsmen gather at the Armory Arts Center, sharing works ranging from traditional to modern, as well as new products, demonstrations, door prizes and more. 401816-0963; finefurnishingsshows.com
NOV. 5: PROVIDENCE, 4th Annual Waterfire Salute to Veterans. Recognize the service and sacrifice of the men and women who have served in America’s military at this beautiful event, which includes a Veterans Resource Fair and ceremonies and tributes throughout the night. waterfire.org
NOV. 5-DEC. 31: PROVIDENCE, “A Christmas Carol.” Rhode Island’s family holiday tradition returns to the Chace Theater stage. Grumpy, greedy Ebenezer Scrooge is inspired to change his ways when visited by three Christmas ghosts. 401-351-4242; trinityrep.com
NOV. 17-DEC. 18: PAWTUCKET, “American Buffalo.” At the Gamm Theatre, David Mamet’s 1977 classic unfolds during one long day in a Chicago junk shop, where three small-time, tough-talking crooks plot to rob a man of his valuable coin collection. But when their con goes awry, it’s every man for himself. 401723-4266; gammtheatre.org
NOV. 19-JAN. 1: NEWPORT, Christmas at the Mansions. Three magnificent mansions—The Breakers, The Elms, and Marble House—are filled with thousands of poinsettias, fresh flowers, evergreens, and wreaths. The trees are decorated, the tables are elegantly set, and the white candles flicker in the windows. Make a day of it, and tour all three. 401-847-1000; newport mansions.org
DEC. 2-4, 9-11: PAWTUCKET, Holiday Show. More than 60 artists come together to present the Foundry Artists Association’s holiday show at the Pawtucket Armory Arts Center. Featured items range from ceramics to handmade books, fine fiber art, hats,
handbags, food, unique jewelry, and more. foundryshow.com
DEC. 3-4: NORTH KINGSTOWN, Christmas at the Castle. Stroll through Smith’s Castle while it’s decked in period fashion for a celebration of Christmas past. Enjoy nostalgic live music, snap a photo with Father Christmas, and refresh with cookies and hot mulled cider. 401-294-3521; smithscastle.org
DEC. 4, 10, 11, 28, 30: LINCOLN, Old-Fashioned Christmas at Hearthside. The historic mansion steps back in time for a turn-of-the-century Christmas. Volunteers dressed in period attire guide guests through rooms elaborately decorated with lace and gold, festive garlands, and poinsettias. With live music and caroling, homemade cookies and hot cider, and a gift shop stocked with holiday gifts. 401-7260597; hearthsidehouse.org
DEC. 16-18: PROVIDENCE: The Nutcracker. Festival Ballet Providence brings a timeless classic to the Providence Performing Arts Center stage. With beautiful sets, elegant choreography and world-class dancers, the familiar tale of Clara and her prince will appeal to young and old alike. 401-421-2787; ppacri.org
DEC. 18: WESTERLY, Christmas Pops. The 200member Chorus of Westerly joins the Pops Orchestra in their annual salute to the season with two scheduled performances at the George Kent Performance Hall. Enjoy such traditional favorites as “Sleigh Ride,” “White Christmas,” and more. chorusofwesterly.org
THROUGH NOV. 6: BENNINGTON, Milton Avery’s Vermont. The Bennington Museum hosts the first focused look at the work inspired by this great American modernist’s summers spent in southern Vermont between 1935 and 1943, featuring pencil sketches, watercolors, and many of his major oil paintings. 802-4471571; benningtonmuseum.org
NOV. 9-10: BURLINGTON, Mike Daisey. The Flynn Center for the Performing Arts presents an evening with Mike Daisey, whose monologues blend humor, autobiography, and a heaping dose of the unexpected. His new piece, “Khan and the Whale: The Wrath of Moby Dick ,” melds Melville’s masterwork with Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan . 802-863-5966; flynntix.org
NOV. 18-20: BURLINGTON, Craft Vermont. The premier juried show of fine Vermont craftsmen returns to the Sheraton Conference Center, showcasing one-of-a-kind pieces in aromatherapy, baskets, ceramics, decorative painting, digital art, fine art, furniture, glass, jewelry, photography, wood, and more. 802-872-8600; vermonthandcrafters.com
NOV. 19-JAN. 22: SHELBURNE, “Hard-Edge Cool: The Routhier Collection of Mid-Century Prints.” Jason and Dana Routhier, two young art collectors from Northfield, VT, share their collection of mid-20th-century prints, including works by Wassily Kandinsky, Ellsworth Kelly, Sol LeWitt, Agnes Martin, and Frank Stella, at Shelburne Museum. 802-985-3346; shelburnemuseum.org
NOV. 25-27: PUTNEY, 38th Annual Craft Tour. Make your way to the studios of the area’s many artists, and see firsthand where unique objects and fine art are created amidst the inspirational beauty of the region. Explore all 22 studios—several locations will be featuring artist demonstrations. putneycrafts.com
NOV. 25-27: WOODSTOCK, Thanksgiving Weekend on the Farm. Discover how Thanksgiving was observed in the 1890 farmhouse at Billings Farm, with cider-pressing, harvest and food preservation activities, horsedrawn wagon rides, and farm life exhibits. 802-457-2355; billingsfarm.org
DEC. 2-4: ESSEX JUNCTION, Vermont International Festival. Join the fun as this annual celebration of cultures from around the world brings crafts, food, music, and dance to the Champlain Valley Expo. vermont internationalfestival.com
DEC. 3: WESTON, Christmas in Weston. It’s a day of fun for everyone—visit with Santa at the Vermont Country Store, and take a horse-drawn wagon ride. There’ll be plenty of tempting foods for sale, shows, music, and caroling throughout downtown, plus the lighting of the town tree at dusk. westonvt.com
DEC. 10: MONTPELIER, 12th Touch of Vermont Holiday Gift Market. Find the perfect gift for everyone on your list this season as more than 45 vendors and artisans offer their wares at City Hall. touchofvt.org
DEC. 18: BURLINGTON, Winter’s Eve Celebration. Come calling on Ethan and Fanny Allen for an evening of fun. Visit the 18thcentury tavern to take part in period group dances, hear live music, see historical demonstrations, and participate in handson crafts, then enjoy a lantern-lit tour of the Allen House, complete with historical re-enactors. 802-865-4556; ethanallen homestead.org
Please remember to call ahead or check venue websites to confirm dates, schedules, and possible admission fees.
To find more events in your area, visit: NewEngland.com/calendar
AN INSIDER’S TOUR OF A STATELY CITY IN ITS
By Amy Traverso
he well-heeled shoppers on Charles Street look a little precarious as they dodge puddles carrying the sort of long-handled, thickcardstock shopping bags that whisper, “Money was spent here.” On any day, Beacon Hill’s central business district bustles with society doyennes and young professionals doing their daily rounds of butcher, baker, and party-dress maker. But on a gray December afternoon, these errands bring a special sense of urgency as the clock ticks down the shopping hours until Christmas morning.
The merchants here know their audience, ornamenting shop windows with swaths of fresh pine garland, twinkle lights, cotton-batting snowdrifts, and hand-blown glass ornaments. Up on West Cedar Street, the display in front of Rouvalis Flowers is so festively done up with wreaths and garlands, pinecones, red berry branches, and paperwhites, it’s as if Charles Dickens, that great lover of London’s holiday markets, time-traveled to 2016 and opened a florist shop. The display of holiday
abundance is fully concentrated in this monied neighborhood, and walking the streets brings to mind every beloved Christmas cliché: the holly and the ivy, the bearing of gifts, Christmases past and present. But you’ll find these moments in every corner of the city, particularly those frequented by travelers.
So, like Dickens’s Scrooge and ferrying ghosts, let’s take to the winds, flying over the hill to the Common, where skaters circle the public Frog Pond rink in hats and light sweaters, thanks to milder-than-normal temperatures. Business at the hot cocoa stand is lagging, but down the narrow alley of Winter Place in the warren of streets leading from the Common to Downtown Crossing, revelers at Yvonne’s, once home to the storied Locke-Ober restaurant where JFK ate his lobster stew, are tucking into truffle-dusted chateaubriand served by white-jacketed waiters. And past the Common, the Public Garden’s yew trees, wrapped in swirls of twinkling lights, line the central path with symmetrical sparkle. The swan boats are gone, having made their winter migration to the home basements of the Paget family, fourthand fifth-generation descendants of Robert Paget, who built the first boat in 1877. But here at the edge of Back Bay, where mansion windows are lit with candles and Newbury Street shop doors swing open and closed, the young winter season is bursting into life.
Christmastime in Boston is a glimpse into a town at its most traditional. If the 21st-century City on a Hill has come to identify itself as a place of innovation and wealth, of biotechnology breakthroughs and robotics, at Christmas it seems to ease off the accelerator and return to a gentler pace. Residents embrace the familiar: sipping hot chocolate at L.A. Burdick on Clarendon Street; lining up outside the Paramount Theater for the 46th production of Langston Hughes’s Black Nativity ; feeling some childlike awe as the Christmas tree in the Boston Ballet’s The Nutcracker magically uncoils to its full 42-foot height. It becomes, once more, a small and stately city, rooted in history.
The following hotels, organized by price, offer not just excellent accommodations and sparkling décor, but close proximity to the heart of the city.
The Liberty Hotel: The famously revamped Charles Street Jail is still one of Boston’s hottest lodgings, with a view of the Charles and easy access to Beacon Hill. Don’t miss the upside-down Christmas trees in the lobby. From $629 per night. 617-2244000; libertyhotel.com
Boston Harbor Hotel: A stone’s throw from Quincy Market, this waterfront hotel hosts a holiday skating rink and boasts an always-changing gingerbread masterpiece in the lobby. From $357 per night. 617-439-7000; bhh.com
Eliot Hotel: A charming boutique hotel located along the glorious display of the Commonwealth Avenue Mall. From $195 per night. 617-267-1607; eliothotel.com
Fairmont Copley Plaza: This 1912 landmark wears its history with panache and puts you in the center of Back Bay. From $262 per night. 866267-5300; fairmont.com/ copley-plaza-boston
Boston Park Plaza: Just off the Common, this 1927 mainstay piles on the sparkle at Christmastime. From $189 per night. 617-426-2000; bostonparkplaza.com
Omni Parker House: Charles Dickens stayed here (he gave his first public reading of A Christmas Carol at the time), and it’s the home of Boston Cream Pie. Plus, it’s a stone’s throw from Quincy Market. From $125 per night. 617-2278600; omnihotels.com/hotels/ boston-parker-house
this page : Strolling along Commonwealth Avenue in the Back Bay evokes images of Parisian boulevards, graced by elegant homes and pedestrians, and lined with statues that speak to the city’s storied past. opposite, from top : Skating in the ice rink of the Boston Harbor Hotel, which is sheltered by the building’s iconic portico; the communal table at the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel’s annual Holiday Bacchanal feast.
With a respectful nod to the beauty of a well-placed single candle in a 12-pane window, we present a guide to Boston’s grandest holiday light displays.
Illuminations Tour: For a single evening, the Somerville Arts Council hosts trolley tours around the city’s most enthusiastic residential light displays, some of which turn entire streets into dizzying highwattage wonderlands (the SAC’s website calls it “folk artistry”). Enjoy cocoa and cookies at City Hall, where the tour begins and ends. Details: December 17. somervilleartscouncil.org/ illuminationstour
Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park: In summer, the 260-foot-long trellis that snakes through the North End’s prettiest waterfront park is draped in wisteria. Come December, the entire promenade is illuminated by a sparkling blue and white LED light installation out of a 6-year-old’s Frozeninspired dream. Details: November 21 through February. foccp.org
Blink! Faneuil Hall: With 350,000 LED lights synced to a festive soundtrack, plus one giant fully lit tree and several minis, Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market offer the most concentrated holiday bling (plus lots of shopping options, mostly chains). Details: November 20-January 2. faneuilhallmarketplace.com/blink
Commonwealth Mall: The elm-lined park running down the center of Commonwealth Avenue becomes one of the city’s loveliest sites, a twinkling forest lined with well-lit Back Bay townhouses and mansions. Details: December 1-February 1, cityofboston.gov/Parks
Boston Public Garden and Boston Common: The city’s official Christmas tree (always a gift from the good citizens of Nova Scotia) is located on the Common near the Frog Pond, but the entire expanse is lit to varying degrees. The prettiest spot, in our view, is the central promenade of the Garden, with its tastefully lit yews. Details: December 3-early January. cityofboston.gov/Parks
this page , from top : The LED-lit trellis at Christopher Columbus Park remains illuminated through much of the winter; sparkling trees on Boston Common frame the popular Frog Pond skating rink; The Blink! synchronized light and music show at Quincy Market begins at 4:30 daily and runs every hour on the half hour. opposite : In December, Quincy Market and the Boston waterfront take on a fairy-tale feel with just a dusting of snow.
It’s Saturday at Symphony Hall, 30 minutes before the start of one of the two weekend Holiday Pops children’s concerts that run throughout December. Little girls in red dresses wait expec tantly—there’s a rumor that Santa will be here. One mother, wearing a tartan skirt that must leave the closet this one day each year, wrangles two wriggling toddlers in taffeta. Inside, fami lies take their seats in the balcony or crowd around the tiny tables where nimble servers bear cheese plates and Chardonnay (cocoa for the kids). The Pops have done these shows since Arthur Fiedler inaugurated the first “Pops Christmas Party” in 1973. Evening shows are for everyone,
PHOTOGRAPH BY GENE SCHIAVONE, COURTESY OF BOSTON BALLET (NUTCRACKER); STU ROSNER, COURTESY OF BOSTON POPS (LOCKHART AND SANTA, POSTER); ROGER IDE (REVELS)
but best for those over, say, age 10. The daytime children’s concerts, in contrast, are perfectly constructed for short attention spans: For every rollicking orchestral rendition of “Tomorrow Is My Dancing Day,”
Christmas Story with cartoon images projected on a giant screen. And then, ho-ho-ho! Santa enters stage right and makes his way to the stage for a little shtick with conductor Keith Lockhart.
Over in Cambridge, where the holidays take a more overtly multicultural tack, erstwhile hippies and Harvard intelligentsia ring in the winter solstice
The Christmas Revels , an annual celebration of holiday traditions from around the world that weave together dancing, music, carols, and drama. This year’s focus: Acadia and Cajun country. For many families, Christmas simply couldn’t be itself without the Revels and its midshow community dance through the halls of Harvard’s Sanders Theater. For others, it’s a performance of Handel’s Messiah or A Christmas Celtic Sojourn . Choose your tradition, and trust it’ll be there next year, unless those little girls in taffeta grow up to experience their Christmas revelry via Occulus Rift.
ate November, and for weeks Boston has been bedecked in wreaths and laurels. Across the street from the storied Symphony Hall, the city’s other lyrical little bandbox, musicians have assembled in what looks like a high school classroom. They are dressed casually. A cell phone rests on top of a harpsichord. A couple of Trader Joe’s tote bags lean against music stands. The musicians—members of the Handel and Haydn Society orchestra, and several solo singers—chat amongst themselves, before a peppy, friendly English voice—that of conductor Harry Christophers—says, “Right, then. It’s Messiah time again, yes? Here we go.”
Even if you are not a fan of classical music, chances are you have attended at least a piecemeal performance of Handel’s 1741 oratorio. If you live in New England, odds are excellent that you have seen a performance from the Handel and Haydn Society. Or perhaps you are one of those people who view the holidays as incomplete without experiencing one of the world’s most beloved classical works, delivered by a group who perhaps renders it better than any.
They’ve certainly had time to get matters in order. On Christmas Day 1815, 90 male singers and ten female singers arrived at King’s Chapel for the first Society perfor
mance. The members came from local churches, an area all-star team of performers. Local papers reported deafening applause.
Harry Christophers, born the day after Christmas 1953, has been helming the Society since September 2008. He is an energetic leader, stopping this first rehearsal to make an illustrative point, then leading everyone back into the charge.
“There are very few pieces, particularly from Baroque and Classical period times”—in other words, the periods the Society specializes in—“that have maintained popularity like Messiah,” Christophers remarks, a few days later, in the offices of H&H. “I don’t find it that difficult to keep it fresh. I think part of the problem is that there are some singers and musicians across the world who think, ‘It’s Messiah time, that’s kind of boring,’ because they do it every year. But that’s not our kind of performer, frankly. There should never be anything boring about Messiah.”
The Handel and Haydn Society’s Messiah is one of Boston’s most-loved holiday traditions. Here, Artistic Director Harry Christophers (center), the musicians, and the singers take a bow.
Handel wrote the work in a blaze of creativity in less than one month. We tend to associate it with Christmas, but as Christophers points out, “It was really a piece for all seasons, and one that became particularly associated with charity, with giving.” It is, essentially, the life of Christ in musical form,
STU ROSNER (PERFORMANCE)
the soup-to-nuts treatment, from birth to death to resurrection. All in a tidy couple of hours.
Christophers selects four new soloists each year. Last year one was contralto Emily Marvosh, who returns regularly to the Society fold. Messiah is in English, but the language was not Handel’s native tongue, which results in some highly individualistic turns of phrase.
“There are these quirks in the language at times,” Marvosh offers, “that keep things wonderfully new for a singer. Handel maybe thought something meant something a little different, but the words have a musicality to them, and Harry always brings out something new, too.”
After the four soloists and the orchestra, the chorus and organist have their rehearsal, before everyone gathers the next day for a full-group run-through. Christophers is quick to remind everyone that “There’s always someone hearing us for the first time. Let’s always remember that, yes?”
Christophers is abetted in his conducting efforts by his brilliant concertmaster, Aisslinn Nosky. Anyone seeing her remembers her shock of red hair and expressive body movements as she plays her violin at a level few approach. Sometimes she stops the rehearsals, too, offering a point of clarification, stating that a note be held for an extra fraction of a beat. Christophers conducts sans baton, very spryly, like he’s involved in an athletic pursuit where nimbleness is the crucial criterion. He and Nosky exchange barely perceptible glances at certain points, and after two days of rehearsals—the final of which is open to special Society guests—Christophers halts the music, and says, “I think we’re all set, then. See everybody tomorrow.”
It is still not concert time. First, there is a last rehearsal, in full dress—for this is also a photo shoot—at the vaunted Symphony Hall. Violinist Jesse Irons, a relative newcomer by Society standards, having appeared on a handful of Messiah performances, says, “You never want to rehearse where you sound great, like in Symphony Hall, with perfect acoustics. But when we get here, wow. The dynamics of the sound can just blow you away.”
More special guests occupy the orchestra section of seating. Christophers walks down a ramp, as Nosky and the strings play on seamlessly, and walks toward the few people in attendance, so that he can hear what they are hearing, and determine if anything is off, acoustically. The near-empty hall is a singular sight. People commonly fail to note how narrow it is, which works like one of those wind corridors near Government Center, channeling the music straight at you, through you. Witnessing the rehearsals, you become aware of how emotionally taxing this work is, how much it asks musicians to give of themselves. And despite the musical and emotional range of Messiah, performance hiccups are virtually nonexistent.
There are people in their eighties who have been coming for 60 years, small children in their holiday finest with their first Messiah memories about to be made, young couples having decided to invest themselves in some
rich musical culture, in this, the season of office parties, rebroadcasts of Griswold misadventures, and family gatherings.
If you know but two pieces of classical music, they are undoubtedly the chorus from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and the Hallelujah movement from Messiah. You encounter the latter, even by accident, dozens of times a year. It comes relatively close to the end of Messiah, and it’s what a lot of people most wish to hear. Sometimes, having heard it, they leave, which is a big mistake in these matters. For as stunning as the Hallelujah chorus is, it is not the most moving portion of the oratorio, not nearly. Handel saved that for the end, and Christophers and the Handel and Haydn Society save their best for the end, too.
Emily Marvosh says, “For me, the most amazing moment I’ve had doing Messiah with Handel and Haydn was one time, during the final Amen chorus, when there was this brief pause, and Aisslinn’s head went down, and then back up again, and everyone, the orchestra, the chorus, just became this one interlocked musical creation.”
That closing Amen chorus is one of the great achievements in the history of Western musical culture, with Handel taking a single word, and, from it, ringing whole new worlds, with but two syllables, some singers, and some players. Whether you have hope and gladness in your heart, or despair and faltering hope that things will get better—for such can be the emotional range of the Christmas season—you will connect, in your way, with this final movement, especially with how the Society handles it, and you will walk back out into the cold all the better for it.
For this special occasion of Messiah performances for the Society’s bicentennial, there is a new wrinkle on the final section. “I did not see that coming,” Irons remarks backstage afterward, his eyes still watery with tears. He is referring to a look Christophers gave to the four soloists, to stand and join in the final chorus, which is not the norm. Voices ring out from everywhere, as if in an attempt to remove the roof from Symphony Hall, and get out into the streets, where the green bedecked city awaits.
“I don’t think we’ve ever done that,” Irons says. “Some people might think it’s cheesy.” A devoted Scrooge, perhaps. “But you can’t deny that if it is, that’s good cheese.”
Amen to that.
For more information, visit: handelandhaydn.org
Not all of Boston’s charms are vintage or antique. The Boston Public Market, est. 2015, is the city’s long-overdue, year-round indoor food market, a more modest variation on Seattle’s Pike Place or San Francisco’s Ferry Plaza building. Inside, 39 permanent vendors, plus seasonal pop-ups, sell everything from cheeses from Vermont’s Jasper Hill Farm to steaming cups of Taza chocolate to crusty loaves of ciabatta from Mamadou’s bakery. There’s grass-fed beef, seasonal produce (lots of apples, brassicas and roots this time of year), fresh cider donuts, and a bevy of eat-in options of
every stripe. Stay for lunch, then shop for your foodie friends. There are treasures here in bottles and jars, bags of sweets, gift baskets, and plenty of free samples.
From here, you can head across the Rose Kennedy Greenway for a stroll up Hanover Street, the North End’s main thoroughfare, and sample Italian holiday treats at Modern Pastry, or grab an espresso at Caffe Vittoria, now in its 87th year. Walk a little farther and you’ll find the brick-lined Paul Revere Mall, with its view of the Old North
Church and rows of linden trees lined up like ready militia. In the center, a single tree swathed in simple white bulbs stands as the sole Christmas decoration. Seen at night, it gives the park a surprising stillness amidst the press of double-parked cars and waiting diners huddled outside the door of Giacomo’s Ristorante on Hanover. Pause here for a moment.
The changing population of the North End (good-bye Nonno, hello nanotechies) has given rise to a phalanx of boutiques and gift shops along
Hanover and Salem Streets, but for the quintessential shopping experience, head back to the Hill where we began. Charles Street is Boston’s prettiest place to shop, even if your budget stops with the window displays. Want to serve a Christmas goose? Buy it at Savenor’s, once the city’s only name in gourmet grocers and still one of the best. Black Ink stocks quirky, charming gifts for your quirkiest, most charming friends: Japanese kitchen sponges shaped like emoji cats, sea salt soaps, vintage print calendars. For the children, there are
In an ideal world, Copley Square would be transformed into a monthlong, German-style, outdoor Christmas market stocked with local foods and crafts, music, and mulled wine. Absent that, the city provides some excellent (and climatecontrolled) alternatives. The following stand out for the quality of their wares.
SoWa Holiday Market:
It’s a weekend-long winter incarnation of the popular South End Open Market that turns the Benjamin Franklin Institute into a one-stop shop. Look for: nature-inspired linocut prints from Hearth and Harrow (hearthandharrow. com); charming encaustic works from Bumble Belly Designs (bumblebelly.com).
Details: December 10-11. sowaholidaymarket.net
Harvard Square
Holiday Fairs: This Cambridge mainstay has a more classic lineup of potters, fiber artists, printmakers, and the like. Look for: Japaneseinspired woodblock prints by Matt Brown (ooloopress.com); tin can lanterns by Lennie Kaumzha (tincanlights.com).
Details: December 10-11, 16-18, 21-24. harvardsquare holidayfair.com
Craft Boston:
Fine art meets craft at this higher-end show featuring contemporary artists from around the country. Look for: cityscape pottery by Nicole Aquillano (nicoleaquillano. com); geometric gold-on-silver jewelry from Thea Izzi (theaizzi. com). Details: December 2-4. societyofcrafts.org
Cultural Survival Bazaar:
A celebration of arts and crafts from the world’s indigenous peoples, with an emphasis on ethical sourcing and fair trade.
Look for: Wampum jewelry from Wampanoag artist Elizabeth James Perry (elizabeth jamesperry.com); upcycled fabric bags from India; colorful tinwork from Puebla, Mexico.
Details: December 16-18. cs.org
preppy and colorful togs and toys at The Red Wagon. At Blackstone’s, a well-curated general gift shop, a small glass case displays an irresistible collection of Wee Forest Folk, little fairy-tale sculptures, mostly of mice, handmade by the Peterson family in Carlisle, Massachusetts. Think you’re too cool for tchotchkes? Try to resist these.
Then there’s Newbury Street, Boston’s answer to Madison Avenue. All the major designers are here, kept afloat, in part, by the international students who drop their “winter” Mer-
cedes off with the valet to buy this season’s riding hats at Chanel. For more local flavor, browse artisan goods at Simon Pearce, but for a lighter density of national chains, the South End is home to small boutiques like Sault (men’s clothing with a nautical vibe), Farm & Fable (upscale and vintage kitchenware), and Olives & Grace (artisan goods). And lest our fourlegged acquaintances be forgot, there’s a world of beribboned chew toys, not to mention gingerbread biscuits at Polka Dog Bakery.
Boston’s restaurant scene has exploded logarithmically in the past five years. Throw a stone in any direction and you’ll hit a good, if not great, eatery. But several stand out for holiday dining: the aforementioned Yvonne’s, with its old-school lunchtime feasts and glittery bar and dinner scene. And then there’s No. 9 Park, Barbara Lynch’s first game-changing entry into the Boston restaurant world, now in its 18th year. It remains elegant and relevant, with an enviable view of the Common, where elms and oaks are draped haphazardly with thin, multicolored twinkle lights. (Note to the Parks Department: More lights on fewer trees would have more impact.) Still, you can watch the
Frog Pond skaters and salute the great bauble of a gold-plated dome atop the Statehouse. Dinner service is a seductive and pricey enterprise, but we love the holiday lunch series, which brings all the Yuletide spirit with a gentler price tag at $52 for three courses. Yes, it’s a splurge, but a leisurely meal here qualifies as a special occasion. Here are girlfriends stretching a lunch break, bankers celebrating a good year, manor-born merrymakers. There are four champagnes sold by the flute and warm rolls that taste of milk and butter. The chestnut farfalle with pheasant and black trumpet mushrooms brings to mind an Italian forest made edible, something served after the hunt. If you can, plan for a late lunch: The Common is most beautiful as daylight fades and holiday lights sparkle.
Another choice option: the moderately priced Sea Grille at the Rowes Wharf Hotel. Few views can match that of Boston Harbor framed by the hotel’s grand central rotunda, and after a watercress and beet salad or lobster roll, you can spend an hour skating at the hotel’s outdoor rink.
opposite : Sharing cheese and Champagne at No. 9 Park. above , from top : Cut crystal and ornate woodwork evoke the late Locke-Ober, but Yvonne’s supper club concept feels entirely modern; shared large-format entrées, like this Argentine-inspired beef Matambre, are some of Yvonne’s most popular menu options.
Then there are the other feasts. Several restaurants—among them, Nebo, Marliave, and L’Espalier—make the traditional Italian Feast of the Seven Fishes (or some variation) in a nod to Boston’s coastal heritage. And at the Fairmont Copley Hotel, Executive Chef Laurent Poulain takes over the mirrored lobby for the annual Holiday Bacchanal on December 21, transforming the space into a Versaillesinspired winter wonderland where guests feast on five courses at long communal tables.
But, of all the city’s delights, one stands above, whether you celebrate the holiday of Santa Claus or “Jesus is the Reason.” The Candlelight Carols ceremony at Copley Square’s Trinity Church, a tradition since 1909, is quintessentially Boston: historic, dignified, and contemplative, walking the same razor’s edge of grandeur and restraint that marks all our greatest public institutions, from the Copley library to the Statehouse. The church resembles no European cathedral, yet boasts the same jaw-dropping wonder, from the William Morris stained glass to the encaustic murals by John La Farge. Simple pine garlands swag along the balconies and pulpit, while unadorned trees stand
silent on the altar. No twinkle lights necessary, nothing to distract from the music and the candles’ glow.
Here, all races, all ages, all family configurations fill the rows. To grab a coveted seat for the free Saturday services, parishioners and non-parishioners alike line up by 2 p.m. for the 4 p.m. service (the 7 p.m. service tends to be less crowded). Others, less inclined to stand in the cold, buy tickets ($45-$110) for a benefit service on Sunday. The service is the same for all.
Rector Samuel T. Lloyd III begins with a short greeting followed by an invocation: “Welcome to the mystery of Christmas.” The lights dim and then a lone child’s voice soars into the dome and is met by a trio from across the nave. It is Richard Marlow’s Advent Responsory. More voices join in from
the entrance, where the larger choir has gathered. Two conductors, working fore and aft, hold it all together. Now come the choir and acolytes, candles in hand, filling the church with golden light. The music swells with brass and tympany. And behind the stained-glass panels, the daylight is dimming to a deep blue glow.
Congregants join in for sing-alongs of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” but during the offering hymn, the choir holds the stage:
Sleep, sleep, sleep, ‘tis the eve of our Savior’s birth.
The night is peaceful all around you, Close your eyes, let sleep surround you.
The soft lights that hang from the
ceiling now dim until they are outshone by candlelight. A hush settles, as soft as fresh snow. Acolytes holding pillar candles position themselves around the nave. In Latin, the choir sings
It is a moment as close to heaven as human hands and voices have ever crafted. To be amid people in a room so full and so fully at peace. This is the Christmas of dreams. We arrived weary. We depart aglow, immune to the honking taxis and rush of the ticking clock.
See more photos of Boston at Christmas at newengland.com/boston-christmas
A MEMOIR ABOUT FATHERHOOD, LOSING HOPE, THEN FINDING IT AGAIN.
he day I was diagnosed with a rare spine cancer, a part of me almost felt relief. For months, I’d been suffering from debilitating nerve pain. I’d stopped running and mountain biking when the jarring got to be too much on my lower back. I couldn’t lift weights anymore. What I was down to in summer 2014 was a road bike on smooth pavement. I told friends I likely had a herniated disc—every 50-year-old I knew had some sort of lower back ailment—and that I didn’t plan to see a doctor as long as I could ride something somewhere.
As the family story goes, I taught myself to ride a bicycle as a 3-year-old, overcoming the problem of legs not reaching the pedals by sitting on the rear fender. I’ve been running and biking and pushing ever since. As an outdoors adventure writer I’ve climbed the iconic Grand Teton in Wyoming, biked the length of Israel along its version of the Appalachian Trail, tramped across the fabulously lethal Darien Jungle in Panama, and braved big Maine rivers in early spring to become a whitewater guide.
I imagined my cancer comeback to be no less energetic. I joked that my disease, called chordoma with only 300 cases a year in the country, was proof of what I’d always maintained: I was one in a million. I rode a bike across the city to my pre-surgery radiation appointments and pumped away on a YMCA exercise bike before each of the 28 sessions. I charted my minutes and the levels I rode at, and noted approvingly that I was somehow trending stronger even as a continent-shaped burn mark—a silhouette of the tumor inside me—darkened my lower back in the last week.
I was as mentally and physically robust as a man carrying a tumor inside his spine might be. I looked forward to the massive surgeries to come, when Boston’s best doctors would excise the grapefruit-sized mass, at which point I’d get back to being me again.
Here’s the moment when I first realized that I wouldn’t be me again: I was on the edge of the hospital bed with a nurse and physical therapist on either side to help me to my feet for the first time. It was only a few days after backto-back, eight- and 10-hour-plus surgeries. The first had cut me open from the back to lay in the supporting hardware for a transplanted fibula—my new
backbone. The second, even-longer surgery had gone in from the front to saw free the vertebral tumor. The surgical team told my family their work had gone well and that rehab should begin immediately.
“Can we let go?” the nurse and therapist wanted to know. Of course they could let go. Standing? What could be more rudimentary to a guy who in the past decade had twice raced to the top of Mount Washington, once on foot and once by bike? I smiled confidently as they pulled their hands away. But there was a void in the place where my legs should have been. They were there, but they weren’t. I began falling.
I can’t recall when my children first came to visit at the hospital, but it wasn’t for several more days. This wasn’t an oversight. I told my wife, Patty, I’d like them to stay away. If it sounds like I was protecting them, that’s only partially true. I wanted to buy myself a few days and put things in the right. I wasn’t expecting to be in the hospital long. They’d see me at home, not much the worse for wear and gaining.
At the time of my diagnosis, Patty and I were quasi-empty nesters with both children in college. Henry was a
freshman just getting started at Boston College. He’d been off everyone’s recruiting radar when all his work and talent and love somehow totaled up and drew the interest of multiple D1 soccer programs. BC was a dream come true for him.
Our oldest, Celia, was entering her junior year. She was doing well, but anxious about the future and fighting back onto the field after a second ACL knee injury. Her grit had earned her the co-captaincy of the UAlbany soccer team.
I’d also torn up my knee, as had my college athlete brothers. As a youngster, Celia sometimes alluded to a catastrophic knee blow-out as fate. She was a beautiful runner whose stride was long and effortlessly explosive. I assured her there was no genetic curse. Then it happened. Twice.
My cancer reminded me of the helplessness I’d felt then, of the dismay over giving children something—even if it was just a looming doubt—that they didn’t deserve. Later, somebody asked me how I told Patty on that day my MRI was read. I couldn’t remember. Probably I was already thinking about our kids and what I’d tell them. It was early August and their college soccer
pre-season—a punishing three weeks of fitness tests and two-a-day practices— was just starting.
Ultimately, we didn’t tell them until the eve of my pre-surgery radiation at Mass. General Hospital’s Proton Beam Therapy Center. It was the second week in September 2014, and Henry was a surprise starter who’d played almost every minute. Celia was healthy and holding onto her center back starting role. I’d sat on my diagnosis an entire month.
We chose a favorite restaurant in Newton Center near Henry’s BC dorm. Celia’s team was in the area because of a game against Holy Cross. The kids were in their respective athletic gear and the signature popovers had just arrived. “So you’re saying it’s not the bad kind of cancer?” Henry asked. “Right,” I replied, “it’s very slow-growing.”
I was relentlessly positive, telling them I’d be good as new with the precision proton radiation I was about to receive and a now-scheduled December surgery. It wasn’t anywhere else. They’d get the tumor and I’d be fine. It wasn’t a big deal. Onward. By the time dinner arrived, we’d long since moved onto soccer, upcoming opponents, and in both of their teams’ cases, the dying dream of playoffs that season.
When I collapsed by the side of my Mass. General hospital bed, it was a surprise to everyone. Surgeons had warned there would be peripheral nerve damage, an unavoidable result of excising the cancer en bloc from in and around the spinal cord. With time and determined rehabilitation, it was expected I’d walk and be reasonably active again. But as the days and then weeks went by, it became apparent that I wasn’t getting better. Instead of being in a post-surgery rehabilitation hospital for a few days, I was there almost five weeks.
My left leg, which shouldn’t have been impacted at all, was largely paralyzed. I couldn’t feel touch on most of my leg and couldn’t raise it off the bed or wiggle my toes. My left foot—the naturally strong one that earned me a varsity letter as a freshman soccer player in high school—hung limply off the end of my leg, unable to push down or
pull up. I was assessed as a T10 Class C paraplegic.
When I finally returned home, I was in a wheelchair with a rotation of friends and in-home care professionals to look after me. I was so bewildered by my predicament and new body, I left a heating pad on my abdomen for too long and badly burned myself. I’d forgotten I couldn’t feel anything.
Through one of New England’s biggest snowfall winters, I was largely housebound. I walked with a walker in endless circles around our small house and slept downstairs in a dining room our friends had refashioned into an inlaw apartment. My doctors put off my post-surgery radiation treatments to give my nerves every possible chance at
was a topic of no special or lasting consequence. I struggled for an explanation.
Only a year earlier, on the eve of his first college season, I’d been at a soccer field with Henry, flipping balls at him rapid fire to settle with his foot or chest and kick back. I’d done the same drill with Celia a few years earlier, back when she was worried and coming back from her knee injury.
“My dad and I like to ride whoopde-doos,” my son once told his preschool teacher. The caption and the accompanying scribble sketch hung in my office. I was that dad, the dropeverything, ball-tossing, whoop-dedoo dad.
On the eve of my surgery, Celia had
recovery, but the grace period produced no change.
In March, I concluded most of my radiation requirement—accepting the unusual option of subtracting a couple of treatments to improve my odds of nerve growth. My doctor understood what I was looking for. He often introduced me to colleagues as “the guy who I told you about who rode his bike to radiation appointments.” Some of his data suggested the additional treatments might not be necessary to prevent cancer recurrence. I tried to be thoughtfully reserved in considering the options—a proven protocol vs. a less-proven one—but in reality I was just pretending. I’d been told multiple times that nerve regeneration usually happens within the first year. The clock was ticking and I wanted a better ending. “I’ll do it,” I said.
In spite of my hope, there was no pretending anymore that cancer—and now an indeterminate spinal cord injury—
sent me a poem. She wanted me to know it was all going to be OK, to remind me I had the special stuff. “A road awaits you,” she’d written in part. “Just another road to take your bike out on. Probably bumpy, but you love mountain biking. Probably cold, you’ve sat through soccer games. Probably unpredictable, you’ve been in love ...”
Whoever I now was, it wasn’t the protagonist in her poem. When she and Henry returned home for their respective spring and summer breaks, I felt uncomfortable in their athletic, energetic presences. It wasn’t that I needed to be at the playing field with them like I used to—I’d aged out of that—but whether I was in a wheelchair as I was in the beginning, or transporting myself around the room with steadying holds on furniture and countertops, I represented the exact opposite of what I’d promised. Different. Changed. Disabled. In the downstairs bathroom, they needed to move aside an adaptive toilet seat. My long crutches, leaned against a
table or a living room couch, never failed to trip somebody up.
My progress, when it came, wasn’t sweeping but drip-like. I slept a little less, walked a little farther. After a time, I could tie a shoe, stretch enough to close a car door. When Henry came home from his summer job at BC and asked about my new outpatient physical therapy, I painted a picture of good exhaustion from supported squats and an infernal exercise machine called the “Reformer.” He encouraged me the way I had him: “Good,” he said, “it must mean you’re working hard.” Hard always promised progress. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was losing faith: hard was just hard.
Celia was in California, having cut
was concerned about my emotional stability. “Do you ever want to hurt yourself?” she asked a few minutes later. “Someone else?”
I felt like I was falling. Then I fell. This time there was no one around to catch me. I’d been distracted and trying to carry something in my left hand when I stumbled in that direction. With no crutch to brace against, I simply slammed to the blacktop. I screamed, more out of shock and exasperation and horror at what I’d become, than from the pain of impact. Nothing was broken.
“What, what, what?!” Patty hollered, running out of the house toward the backyard. She helped me roll up onto my side and held onto a patio chair
ing. One day I felt my leg engulfed in a tightness like a spasm; on another my abdomen ached with hernia-like symptoms. The symptoms might disappear in minutes or stay for days. Sometimes I felt a little dripping of water inside me, so real-feeling I’d put my hand to my waist expecting the skin to be damp. But it never was. My world was narrow but unknowable.
When the 2015 college soccer season started, I reflexively did what I always did: pull down the kitchen wall calendar and scribble in game dates and locations. It was Celia’s senior season; BC was close by. My plan was complicated by one fact above all others in late August: I didn’t have a license.
I hadn’t much missed my “surren-
off her break for a journalism internship. If there was brightness, it was in the middle of the night when she’d text me, forgetting about the time difference. “I’m interviewing Kobe Bryant,” she wrote in one of them. “What do I ask him??!!!”
When I went to Boston for my first major follow-up, the good news was that I was cancer-free. The bad news was that the neurological testing revealed that I was not likely to recover from my injury. My doctors were puzzled. Their best guess was that a loss of blood during surgery had resulted in damage on the spinal cord, not outside of it. When I asked for my prognosis, the doctor called me an “N of 1.” They’d never had a surgical outcome like mine; they couldn’t say.
A few days later, I met a new primary care physician. It was a disaster. She hadn’t read my case history and greeted me, “So what brings you here today?”
When I told her I couldn’t believe she didn’t know why I was there, she said she didn’t like the tone in my voice and
as I slowly inched up it from the ground. We were alone, mercifully.
For a long time, I sat silently in the chair, at the edge of our catalpa’s broadleafed canopy. Since I’d checked into the hospital last December, I’d gone from young to old, from husband to dependent, from my kids’ most dependable companion to their least. People with my lumbosacral spinal cord injury often could expect serious secondary issues like spasms and loss of bladder and bowel control.
Friends and family had come through. Everyone had been trying so hard. Neither Patty nor Celia and Henry had wavered in their support. I feared less for their ability to handle what might be next than for my own.
Throughout my recovery, I’d approached it as an athlete and focused on what my body was telling me. But the language of the injury was different. It wasn’t just the extreme weakness in my legs, but a type of chronic pain I’d never experienced and had trouble describ-
dered” license in the late spring and early summer, with friends and family delivering me to physical therapy and medical follow-ups. But with upcoming games in mind, I needed it back.
I expected a delay in getting the paperwork approved. In the interim, the idea of an illicit test drive grew on me. I simulated everything in the driveway: raising my foot to gas pedal and brake, twisting my reconstructed back to glance over each shoulder. When I accelerated away from my driveway in Beverly for the first time, a jolt went through me like I was dropping down a steep New England mountain bike trail. It was my first recovery adventure. I went to Stop & Shop.
A week later, with my license actually in hand, I drove to see Celia play. UAlbany’s thumping 4-1 victory over Quinnipiac was fine reward. Afterward, Celia would ask a teammate to snap a father-daughter pic, our first since my surgery. I’d find it “liked” like crazy on her Facebook feed later that night:
(continues on page 160)
OUR 11TH ANNUAL APPRECIATION OF
It’s been a back-and-forth game when Derrick Webb grabs a defensive rebound and pushes the ball toward his team’s basket. Crossing mid-court, he slows down near his coach, Rodrigo Fabio Da Cruz Bento, a freshman at Brockton (Massachusetts) High School, who stabs at his clipboard with a pencil as he talks.
“Get the ball to Jose [Depina],” he says, just loud enough for his point guard to hear him. “Pass it to him.”
Webb nods. When he gets to the top of the key, he flicks a bounce pass to his teammate, positioned 15 feet from the basket. Depina collects the ball and fires up a shot, which cleanly goes through the net.
“There you go!” says Bento, as the player trots back to play defense with a wide smile. “There you go!”
It’s a scene that plays out for the next several hours at Brockton’s East Middle School. Middle school kids are coached and spurred on by high school kids. They, in turn, are overseen by a small group of juniors and seniors from nearby Stonehill College, who give counsel on how to give the younger kids directives, maintain their motivation, and keep them focused. Students helping students, helping students.
In Brockton, an economically challenged city where the high school dropout rate hovers around 10 percent and extracurricular budgets are never safe, this innovative private after-
school program, known as Coaching For Change (C4C), builds on this basic idea: Give a young person ownership over what they’re doing and they’ll feel empowered to not just do well, but strive to take on more. On the court, in the classroom, and at home.
The core of it is taught through basketball coaching. Struggling high school students are thrust into the role of being leaders. They organize games and tournaments; they draw up plays and push their players to play harder. Doing this, they find their natural voice as a role model. When you have to teach someone, the reasoning goes, the choices you make, the way you behave, is also altered. Success breeds other kinds of success.
“Kids step up to the plate when they’re given responsibility,” says C4C co-founder Marquis Taylor, who started the program in 2011. “What we’re doing is getting these kids to understand that what they’re doing as a coach requires basic leadership skills, and then getting them to transfer those skills to their community and classroom.”
It’s a story Taylor knows well. A native of Los Angeles, he leveraged his basketball talent to expand a vision for himself that went beyond the streets of his own struggling neighborhood. He earned a full basketball scholarship from Stonehill, then embarked on a career in finance after his 2006 gradua-
Photographs by Dana SmithGive a kid a chance to be a leader, say Coaching For Change co-founders Peter Berman ( left) and Marquis Taylor, and good things happen, both at home and in the classroom. “Kids step up to the plate when they’re given responsibility,” says Taylor.
Guilt about not being able to serve with his friends in Vietnam eventually drove Roland Bousquet to launch a monthly Veterans Appreciation Day in his hometown of Mexico, Maine.
tion. But the memories hung on, of the coaches who’d mentored him, and of the people he grew up with who never had the chances he did.
“There’s the familiar model,” says Taylor. “You’re a good athlete and you get attention. Hopefully, you get a scholarship, and then you’re off to the races and that changes your socioeconomic status. But what happens when you get cut from the team or the funding for the program gets cut? Kids that are high-achieving get awards and access, and kids at the lower end get access to different services. But then you have all these kids in the middle where nothing is happening. They have untapped potential that needs to be recognized.”
In 2010, Taylor quit his job, enrolled in a master’s program in teaching at Smith College in Northampton, and directed a summer sports program at the Brockton Boys and Girls Club. There, he formed an early incarnation of C4C. Older kids coached and mentored younger ones. When summer ended, kids asked that it continue. Taylor made sure it did. He built an after-school program, sleeping on friends’ couches or in his car just so he could afford the $7,000 to get it launched.
By 2012, he’d landed a $70,000 grant and partnered with Pete Berman, a Sudbury native who’d returned to Massachusetts after working for the United States Soccer Federation, to expand C4C. Over the last four years they’ve built a program that extends far beyond the basketball court. In between the whistle calls and the sounds of sneakers streaking across the floor, universal themes are shared: “Pass the ball. Don’t get mad. Help your teammates.” It’s basketball advice, but it’s also the kind of instruction that has its place in life off the court.
But it’s a misnomer to call C4C just a sports program. At East Middle School, 128 students split their two-day-a-week after-school sessions between the gymnasium and the computer lab, where they work on projects that range from writing and publishing a magazine to producing podcasts and crafting poems, raps, and songs. A third day is devoted strictly to the program’s 32 high school students for homework support and
test preparations. Berman and Taylor track their academics through weekly progress updates filed by the school and report cards.
“A few years ago we had this kid,” says Berman. “He struggled academically, had been kicked off sports teams, and had a tough home life. He started the program and he didn’t say a word. But after that first semester his teachers asked me to save a spot for him because the program was all he talked about. The more time he spent with us, the more he opened up and asked to take on other responsibilities. He made a point of coaching some of the hardest-toreach kids. He’d been where they were and they listened to him. I remember walking into school one day, and he grabbed me and said, ‘I didn’t show you my report card.’ It was all A’s and B’s. Now he’s on the track team and he’s one of the fastest kids in the state.”
C4C tries to show these high school kids a future that may be bigger than they imagined for themselves. Four times a year, Taylor and Berman lead the students on college campus visits. “It’s a chance to expose them to an atmosphere that is foreign to them,” explains Taylor. “Many of our students are first-generation and college is not something that they see as a natural next step.”
Can this model work elsewhere? Taylor and Berman believe it can. As they have with Stonehill, they see a chance to partner with additional colleges to bring C4C to other underresourced schools throughout New England, and ultimately, around the country, in an effort to replicate the kind of results—better grades and school attendance—that they’ve helped their Brockton kids achieve.
“This program gives these kids a connection to something,” says Charlene Mont-Rond, a social studies teacher who serves as C4C’s site director at East Middle School. “Kids aren’t ending up in the principal’s office and they’re showing up more at school. A lot of our current eighth-graders are asking about becoming mentors. They’re thinking about the future and that’s great.”
For more on C4C, visit: c4cinc.org
Sometimes the most extraordinary places can be found in unexpected spots. One such destination exists in a plain downtown building in Mexico, Maine. There, you’ll find Roland Bousquet, who hosts a monthly Veterans Appreciation Day for anyone who has served in the armed forces.
On the third Tuesday of every month, he opens his doors at 10 a.m. and over the next 12 hours welcomes his guests into The Paper Plate, a converted function space that resembles a living room. There are couches and chairs, fresh coffee, and instruments and games to play. Some visitors come for an hour; others stay much longer. Nobody pays for a thing. “It’s a place for them to hang out, meet new friends, and just have a good time,” says the 70-year-old Bousquet, who lives in an apartment above the retired storefront space.
Bousquet launched Appreciation Day in November 2014, but really, it was half a century in the making. In the early 1960s, a medical condition denied Bousquet the chance to continue his Navy career and serve in Vietnam. Over the next several decades, he built a life in his hometown. He ran the family’s general store, later working as a bus driver and school custodian. All the while feeling guilty about not being able to serve his country. Even now, it still chokes him up.
“In my heart I felt I deserved to fight with my friends and do my fair share,” he says. “This is my way of offering my duty to my country. I just had to do it.”
The (mostly) men filter in throughout a day. Sometimes only a few; other days the room is packed. Some have known combat. The names of the wars change: Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, Iraq and Afghanistan; and the faces and bodies of the men change with them: the aged and the younger. It doesn’t matter in this room since there is rarely
talk of war. Instead, they talk about the weather and sports and children, the price of oil and the economy—but what they are saying just by walking in there is that they are not alone. Bousquet has given them the gift of shared space. In return they’ve given him something, too. A few months ago, he hosted 25 visitors for dinner. “I was in my glory,” says Bousquet. “I was hustling back and forth like a chicken with his head cut off. At one point, a song broke out. I just had the best day of my life.”
Bousquet’s generosity does not stop here. He loans out his building to other charities. He builds birdhouses to give to children at the local hospital, and during the holidays he gives candy and homemade cookies to police and fire workers, as well as town employees. In a struggling mill town like Mexico, where the past can sometimes overshadow the present, Bousquet’s outreach has not gone unnoticed.
“He’s an all-around good guy,” says Mexico’s town clerk, Penny Duguay. “The kind of person who would do anything for you. You wouldn’t find a person in town who has a bad thing to say about him.” Bousquet shrugs off the praise. For him, these acts of kindness are as essential to him as breathing. “You just never know what someone has lived through,” he says. “I want people to feel appreciated. That’s my job. That’s what I do.”
The conversation is still burned into Nancy Cayford’s memory.
In the fall of 1993, Cayford, a Dublin, New Hampshire, resident, who had been working to help address the poverty on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, was chatting with a 10-year-old girl she’d met there.
“What would you like to be when you grow up?” Cayford asked.
“Nothing,” the girl replied.
“She couldn’t come up with a vision for her life,” Cayford explains. “I was stunned.”
And propelled to act. She wanted to give the kids she’d met a chance to discover a bigger world. She couldn’t bring them to those places, so she did the next best thing. Back home, she and a friend organized a book donation drive, and over the next several weeks collected more than 600 titles to give to the Pine Ridge schools.
It was a pivot from her previous attempts to help the community. But then, Cayford has never feared change. A Maine native who’d grown up on a potato farm in Aroostook County, Cayford began her working career
as a nurse, then pursued her dream to become an artist and went on to become perhaps the country’s preeminent maker of decorative floor-cloths, a popular 18th-century home accent. Her work is displayed in homes all over the country, including Old Deerfield, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and the Lincoln Home National Historic Site in Springfield, Massachusetts.
Then in 1991, Cayford, who was about to turn 50, felt the call to do service work. It was on a stop out West, during a cross-country trip with her husband, Phil, that she discovered her purpose was to work with the Oglala Lakota. She closed her business, spent a year studying Native American culture (“I didn’t want to just come in as some do-gooder”), and carefully forged contacts within the community. She began by helping struggling artisans establish businesses, then worked to set up a bike donation program. During one visit she packed more than 100 bikes inside, on top of, and strapped around her husband’s VW van for the drive to Pine Ridge.
But it’s been the book drives that have fueled her work these past two decades. Through her nonprofit, Friends of the Oglala Lakota, Cayford works with a team of dedicated volunteers from southern New Hampshire to collect and donate thousands of titles each year. It’s a group effort to be sure, but as it’s always been, it’s Cayford who makes it all happen. Every age group is accounted for; every school on the reservation, a recipient. Boxes are packed in Cayford’s retired art room and sent to Pine Ridge throughout the year. Every October, she visits the reservation for two weeks, visiting schools, meeting old friends, and checking in on what kinds of books are needed. Among the teachers and librarians, she’s simply known as The Book Lady.
“It’s in my blood to help these people out,” says the now-75-year-old Cayford, who has expanded her mission to fund small college scholarships for high school graduates. “I love them and I love the land. It reminds me so much of Maine. I’m not going to stop. I continue on.”
Over the last 20 years, Nancy Cayford’s nonprofit has collected and donated more than 50,000 books— as many as 3,000 titles at a single time—to Pine Ridge schools and medical clinics. “It’s in my blood to help people,” she says.
ON OCTOBER 1, 2015, THE CONTAINER SHIP EL FARO SAILED DIRECTLY INTO
THE PATH OF HURRICANE JOAQUIN. WHEN IT SANK IT TOOK THE LIVES OF ALL 33 ABOARD, INCLUDING EIGHT NEW ENGLANDERS.
RACHEL SLADE WANTED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AND WHY. YOU WILL NOT SOON FORGET WHAT SHE FOUND.
By Rachel SladeOPERATOR: Hi, good morning. My name is Sherida. Just give me one moment I’m going to try to connect you now. OK, Mr. Davidson?
CAPT. DAVIDSON: OK.
OPERATOR: OK, one moment please. (click)
OPERATOR: Hi, thank you for waiting.
CAPT. DAVIDSON: Oh, god.
OPERATOR: Just really briefly what is your—um—what is the problem you’re having?
CAPT. DAVIDSON: I have a marine emergency and I would like to speak to a QI [qualified individual]. We had a, a, a hull breach. A scuttle blew open during a storm. We have water down in three-hold with a heavy list. We’ve lost the main propulsion unit. The engineers cannot get it going. Can I speak with a QI please?
OPERATOR: Yes, thank you so much, one moment.
The operator put Davidson on hold and then the line went dead. Captain John Lawrence, the shipping company’s designated person on call, had received a similar voicemail from Davidson just minutes before and was trying in vain to reconnect with his colleague at sea. Seventeen minutes later, three automated distress signals from the El Faro triggered a massive Coast Guard search. After flying and sailing for eight days over 183,000 square miles around the ship’s last known position, the effort turned up an oil slick, a debris field, and a person so battered as to be unrecognizable floating in a survival suit.
When news broke of the vessel’s disappearance, people wanted to know how a modern American ship as big as Boston’s Hancock Building could sink without a single survivor. Why did the captain steer directly into the path of a hurricane? Why did the engines fail? Who’s responsible? Marine experts
pointed to El Faro ’s advanced age, or the company’s alleged greed, or the captain’s supposed arrogance in single-mindedly pursuing what became his deadly route.
In November 2015, a remotecontrolled deep sea explorer launched from Woods Hole, Massachusetts, plunged 15,000 feet below the Caribbean Sea to photograph El Faro’ s bruised, twisted hull. The ship’s bridge had been violently torn from the boat, and lay half a mile away on the ocean floor.
A federal investigation—four weeks of hearings held three months apart in Jacksonville, Florida—was jointly conducted by the U.S. Coast Guard and the National Transportation Safety Board. The proceedings produced copious testimony from former crew members, weather experts, shipping professionals, and shipping company executives. But no clear answers. In August 2016, another deep sea explorer retrieved the ship’s
voice data recorder, which provided audio from the bridge, recorded in the hours leading up to the sinking. On it, you can hear the captain order the crew to abandon ship. It will likely take months before an official report is issued, and even then, we may never know exactly what happened on board El Faro that day.
In the spring of 2016, I became obsessed with shipping and the mystery of the El Faro. As I dove deeper into the tragedy, I began to ask a different question: What forces had brought that ship, and those sailors, including eight New Englanders—Michael Davidson, Danielle Randolph, Michael Holland, and Dylan Meklin from Maine; Jeffrey Mathias, Mariette Wright, and Keith Griffin from Massachusetts; Mitchell Kuflik from Connecticut—to that particular place at the particular moment, when a normally calm sea surged dozens of stories high, rolled the enormous vessel, unseated its cargo, and sent it to the deep?
Few Americans spend much time thinking about the industry, but cheap global shipping is the backbone of 21stcentury life—it’s how we get $300 Chinese-made laptops and $12 Indianmade cotton T-shirts. About 90 percent of worldwide trade travels by sea. Sift through stacks of H&M jeans or walk the shoe aisles at T.J. Maxx and inhale the shipping container’s stale perfume; that’s the scent of commerce.
From an airplane, cargo ships look like steel alligators creeping up brown rivers, or barely visible specks cutting a perfect wake in the open sea. Dockside, they’re awesome and remote— with steel prows rising 30 feet up above the waterline, blue and red containers stacked eight stories high, and enormous propellers below.
The huge boats have their fans, too: With vessel-tracking websites like marinetraffic.com, you can follow ships as they travel around the globe. Each fuel-guzzling leviathan transporting millions of dollars of cargo, crewed by a handful of sailors watching the horizon for pirates or weather, appears on the screen as a small, colored blip. Hobbyist ship-spotters regularly upload time-stamped photos of the boats they’ve seen.
Throughout the spring, I streamed the hearings while driving or doing the dishes. I eavesdropped on chat rooms where professional seamen debated every revelation or news report. I researched the history of international shipping and the U.S. Merchant Marine, and visited the Maine Maritime Academy in Castine where young men and women were preparing to sail to Europe aboard the school’s training ship, the State of Maine. Their excitement was so contagious that I felt the pull to steam across the Atlantic with them. I wanted to experience the vastness of the ocean among confident young sailors and knowledgeable mariners. What was it like to be cut off from the world, focused only on the rigors of seafaring?
Instead, I sat for seven hours a day in the overly air-conditioned Jacksonville convention center-turned-courtroom listening to testimony. Relatives of
those lost occupied the front rows facing the investigative panel, while TV crews and journalists watched from the back. Under oath, experts and mariners answered the panel’s questions with their backs to us; unable to see their faces, I could hear the concern or fear in their voices.
During breaks, many of us escaped the room’s chill to thaw in the Florida sun. That’s where I met Jill Jacksond’Entremont, who’d recently moved from Philadelphia to Florida to be closer to her brother, Jack Jackson, an able seaman. When he was lost on the El Faro, Jill went to clean out his house and found his laundry still in the dryer.
Each lost sailor had stories he or she could not tell. To learn them, I needed to get closer to those they left behind.
Wilton, Maine, is landlocked and rural. To get there, take Route 4 out of Lewiston and follow the trail of used car dealerships, gun stores, and gas stations, over the Androscoggin River (just around the bend from the ailing Verso Paper Mill) to the foot of Wilson Lake, where a hard right gets you to the town of 2,000. Main Street’s offerings: a public library, bank, and post office. This is where Michael Holland lived—raised in nearby Jay, where he played high school football and got his first shotgun at age 16. This is lake and mountain country; the ocean seems worlds away.
Deb Roberts sent two sons to the Maine Maritime Academy. Michael
On October 6, the Maine Maritime Academy in Castine, Maine, where five of the 33 El Faro crew had graduated, became a quiet vigil of hope for students, faculty, alumni, and townspeople, all of whom understand the deep tradition of going to sea and facing its danger. Below, the eight New Englanders whose loss aboard the ship will ripple through their families always. From left to right with their New England hometowns noted.
Michael Christopher Davidson Master Age 53, South Portland, Maine Maine Maritime Academy
Danielle Laura Randolph 2nd Mate Age 34, Rockland, Maine Maine Maritime Academy
Michael Lee Holland 3rd Assistant Engineer Age 25, Wilton, Maine Maine Maritime Academy
Mitchell T. Kuflik 3rd Assistant Engineer Age 26, Mystic, Connecticut Maine Maritime Academy
Dylan O. Meklin 3rd Assistant Engineer Age 23, Rockland, Maine Maine Maritime Academy
Jeffrey Mathias TOTE Services Chief Engineer Age 42, Kingston, Massachusetts Massachusetts Maritime Academy
Mariette Wright General Utility-Deck Engine Age 51, Assonet, Massachusetts
was her oldest. After graduating in the spring of 2012, he went to work in the hot, humid, earplug-and-earmuffs-loud El Faro engine room to finance his life on land.
Southerners send their children to the military. New Englanders send their children to sea. Even before the American Revolution, a 12-year-old Maine boy could work in a ship’s galley and emerge a decade later as captain of his own vessel. After the revolution, the country depended on New England’s maritime prowess to feed its people and
drive its economy. By the late 1700s, 90 percent of federal revenues came from the region’s merchants, so much so that when drafting the country’s first laws, Alexander Hamilton continually consulted with his Essex Junto—merchants who had opened up trade in places as far-flung as Guangzhou, the Pacific Northwest, and Fiji, and were now running large fleets from Salem, Newburyport, and Boston.
Like countless Maine boys before him, Michael had a plan: He’d bought a house in Wilton where he hoped to start
a family, and once he owned the house outright, he would give up his life at sea for a job running a local power plant, just as his football coach had done. To Michael, friends came first, and he had plenty of them. “Michael would just be the first to volunteer, to try something crazy, to live life to the fullest,” Deb says, sitting across from me at her din-
ing room table. “He had no idea that he just had 25 years to do it, but he lived as though he did.”
Behind her, a corner cupboard had been given over to “El Faro 33 ” gifts and mementos, which spilled onto the adjacent sideboard. On a shelf, a photo of Michael next to his first deer kill shows him long and lean—a boy who had suddenly found himself in a man’s body. In his Maine Maritime Academy graduation picture, you can see the wispy hint of a nascent mustache; his white officer’s uniform is snug in the middle where four years in a classroom softened the former athlete.
While Michael was at sea, Deb kept busy. She lobbied Maine legislators for a tax exemption for young mariners, worked as an administrator in the Jay school system, raised her other two children, and went at the weeds in her garden with a vengeance.
Michael preferred doing rather than pondering, just like his mother. “I never really got into a lot of conversations with Mike about the nitty-gritty details of shipping,” Deb says. “When he was home, it was about, What you making for dinner, mom? You got any leftovers? Did you go hunting? Did you go fishing? Did you catch any fish? Did you go to camp? You know, those types of things. We never talked shop, just the big things.”
But Deb noticed a change in Michael
“Then I gave him a hug and a kiss, told him I loved him, and to have a great trip and I’d see him in November.”
over his final summer. “We saw him more than we had seen him at all before,” she said. “You know, he lived 10 minutes away and we’d hardly ever see him. He was a single guy and when he was off on his Saturdays, he was off having fun.” Now that Michael had starting dating a nurse from Jay named Kelsea who worked in Farmington, Deb says, “I saw him settling down. I really did—I saw him becoming a grown-up.”
On Tuesday morning, September
get pulled north toward Atlantic City by a low-pressure system. This forecast proved dead wrong.
Even with all our technology, predicting the weather is still very much an art form. It begins with plugging raw data—temperature, barometric pressure, and regional systems—into dozens of computer models, which then generate various storm trajectories and strengths. The models rarely show identical storm paths and intensities,
ship-to-shore reporting, and weather balloons.
Storm intensity and trajectory are notoriously difficult to predict in the tropics. Due to winds, ocean temperatures, and changing currents, systems bounce around in confounding ways. Tom Downs—a professional meteorologist for Weather Bell, a private service that independently analyzes raw data and comments on the official forecasts—compares predicting tropical storms to trying to follow the end of an uncontrollable fire hose.
Oct. 1, 2 a.m. Five hours later, a distress call indicated the ship was in dire shape. Soon after, there was only radio silence and a frantic search for survivors began.
But on Tuesday, September 29, at 6 a.m., 15 hours before the El Faro left Jacksonville, Downs and his fellow Weather Bell analysts saw enough in their models to challenge the NHC forecast. They sent their clients a warning that the nation’s weather prediction was wrong: “While acknowledging this is tricky and not as obvious to me as Sandy,” the report said, “I am not just winging it … to be blunt it really has an ugly idea and is farther to the west than NHC. Given what is setting up in front of this (with the rain and easterly flow), this would be a disaster.”
15, Michael flew down to Jacksonville to join the crew of the El Faro for its final Puerto Rican run. Kelsea drove him to the Portland airport. The evening before he left, Deb brought him his favorite Greek pizza and reminded him to work on his Christmas list and text it to her so that she could start shopping for him. “Then I gave him a hug and a kiss, told him I loved him, and to have a great trip and I’d see him in November.”
Hurricane Joaquin began as a tropical depression in the Atlantic Ocean on September 28, the day before the El Faro left Jacksonville. The National Hurricane Center (NHC) predicted that as it intensified, the storm would
but often, a pattern emerges. Specialists analyze these patterns using their knowledge of past storms to guide them. By the time an NHC forecast is published, the data on which it’s based is at least six hours old.
More information increases accuracy. On land, data is in abundance. Every city, town, and airport across the country constantly records and reports minute changes. At sea, information is spottier; raw data comes from aircraft,
That evening, Captain Eric Bryson, a ship’s pilot for Jacksonville Port, was waiting at home when the call came: The container ship El Faro was ready to leave port for its usual run south to Puerto Rico. At 7:30 p.m., he walked up the gangway of the ship to the top deck, then up several flights more to the bridge, where he met with the ship’s master, Michael Davidson. After a cup of coffee, Bryson stepped out into the night air on the port-side balcony. It was a balmy 80 degrees and calm under mostly cloudy skies. Looking up St. Johns River, Bryson prepared to guide the huge ship from the busy port east to the sea.
As a pilot, he was familiar with many of the El Faro’s crew, and had a special fondness for second mate Danielle Randolph, whom he’d known since she was a cadet working on the sister ship, El Morro, 12 years before. “On the bridge, she was always happy and friendly, and certainly all business,” he told me over the phone. That evening, he had heard Danielle on the walkie-talkie reviewing the cargo—294 cars, trucks, and trailers
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below deck, as well as 391 containers on its top deck. Remembering her, Bryson said, “She was uncommonly nice.”
Danielle spent her childhood in Rockland on the Penobscot Bay, determined to work on the ocean. Her passion started early: “I remember taking Danielle to kindergarten,” her mother Laurie Bobillot tells me, “and, you know, being my oldest, when I took her to school I was bawling my eyes out. I said to her, ‘Oh, I don’t want you to go to school.’ And Danielle goes, ‘Mama! I want go! I want to learn about the water!’ And I’m thinking, ‘Wow, this is just kind of weird.’”
In the summers, Danielle worked on the docks of Port Clyde for her aunt’s lobster business, and at the O’Hara Corporation—a fishing consortium and marina in Rockland. In the fall of her senior year at Rockland High School, Danielle only applied to the Maine Maritime Academy. That’s not how it works, her mother counseled her. You apply to a lot of schools and hold your breath. Danielle replied, “Mother, I’m going to MMA and that’s that.”
During her freshman year at the academy, Danielle phoned home to ask Laurie, a hairdresser, about hair loss. Was it normal to clog up the shower drain? Sure, she answered. Everyone sheds. When Laurie saw her daughter that spring, she was alarmed to discover that the stress of college had created bald patches in Danielle’s thick blonde locks. Her daughter shrugged it off. That was her way: She soldiered through.
Later, as a deck officer aboard container ships for TOTE Maritime, Danielle earned a reputation for holding her own as a cheerful, wisecracking, hardworking woman in the largely male industry. Still, she painted her stateroom pink and decorated the drab ships’ interiors for Easter and Christmas. As soon as she returned to Maine from each tour of duty, she’d shop for shoes and vintage ’50s dresses and snuggle with her calico cat, Spot.
For 10 years, she worked several sto-
ries above where engineers like Michael Holland labored in the engine room. She calculated loads, watched the weather, carried out orders. She was busy, and liked it that way.
But months-long stints away, hampered by limited cell and Internet service, made it difficult to maintain friendships. Danielle tried dating
Though Danielle and her mother were close, she rarely talked about her life at sea. But lately, Danielle found herself serving under a steady churn of new masters. Some were hands-on— walking the decks and running daily drills to keep the crew up-to-date, alert, and engaged. Others disappeared into their staterooms and let the ship run itself, trusting their mates to be their eyes and ears.
Technology may have transformed the industry, but the captain still sets the culture aboard ship, just as he did in the 19th century. When Captain Ahab appears three days into the Pequod’s voyage, Melville writes: “Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye.”
another sailor, but ended the relationship when she feared that settling down would ruin her career. When Danielle did reach out to her family while she was at sea, her messages were brief, impersonal, signed with a simple, brisk “-D.”
As a deck officer in a quasi-military industry, Danielle was trained to follow commands and avoid questioning her superiors. If she had concerns, her style was to walk away and think over the situation in private rather than confront it directly. Her stoic nature dovetailed well with the merchant marine, where life is about order, checklists, protocols. It’s an industry that attracts people who prefer solving problems with a wrench. Many mariners speak wistfully of the peace they find on board, where they are temporarily cut off from the noise of the world.
In May, TOTE had forced the resignation of Captain Jack Hearn, who’d served the company on and off for 28 years, 25 as master. Same with Captain Peter Villacampa, who had originally hired Danielle. Steven Schultz, the first mate on the El Faro ’s final voyage, had only been with the company since August. There was barely time for each new captain to establish a rhythm, and there was even less job security. Nearly everyone was considered temporary.
In shipping, where you learn on the job, turnover can lead to a critical loss of knowledge. Some former El Faro crew members testified that they gleaned more about the aging boat they served by stumbling onto manuals on board. At the hearing, former Captain Hearn testified, “When I first transferred [to TOTE], there was tremendous experience on the specific run. After 10 years in the company moving up through the ranks, they knew their job, and they had a good mentoring program. By the time I was leaving [in 2014], that was changing. There was less experience both on the deck and in the engine room.”
Thousands of containers are lost at sea every year because they weren’t
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securely fastened. When a storm batters a boat, improperly tied cargo can crash onto the decks or slide around in the hold, compounding a ship’s roll. Hearn described using a tool for testing the “button”—the latch on the deck floor to which lashings were fixed. Later, a TOTE chief mate claimed that he’d never heard of the tool. Marine architects specified that El Faro’s cargo lashings should come from the button at a 45-degree angle, but some crew members said they didn’t know why that angle was important, or even how to test the lashings. Lashing tension—critical to its performance—was tested on board by feel. At sea, knowledge can be the difference between life and death.
Privately, Danielle hinted to her mother that she might be over it. The culture at TOTE had changed. She considered going back to school to study maritime law, or working on an oil rig.
On September 28, as she was preparing to fly down to Jacksonville for yet another tour on the El Faro, Danielle hemmed and hawed. It wasn’t like her. “She just felt that something wasn’t right,” Laurie says. “She didn’t want to
go out shipping this past September, which was really weird. That was the first time ever, ever, that we heard the kid say, ‘I really don’t feel like going.’”
By 8:25 on the evening of September 29, the El Faro’s crew dropped the last of its lines and Captain Bryson guided the boat down the river. While he worked, he chatted with the ship’s master, Michael Davidson, and Jack Jackson. The men discussed the usual things, Bryson testified, including water traffic. They also touched on the tropical weather system building in the Atlantic. “I don’t recall what I saw or said,” Bryson told the investigative panel, “but Davidson said, ‘We’re just gonna go out and shoot under it.’ It was audible to everybody. No one reacted.”
An hour later, Bryson had navigated the El Faro to open water off the coast of Florida and prepared to disembark. He climbed down the side of the cargo ship by rope ladder and onto the tugboat. At 9:30 p.m., the tug turned and headed back to land. Bryson would soon be the last person alive to have stood on the El Faro ’s decks.
Through the night and into Wednesday, the tropical storm lumbered stubbornly along its southwestern path, just as Weather Bell predicted, slowing down and gaining intensity. By daybreak on September 30, the NHC declared the system a Category 1 hurricane named Joaquin, with a center located approximately 125 miles north of the Turks and Caicos Islands, but the forecast didn’t alter its predicted path. The El Faro sped down the Florida coast along its usual southeasterly route.
Captain Davidson had graduated from Maine Maritime Academy more than a decade before Danielle and Michael. Slim with salt-and-pepper hair, 53 years old, he had grown up on the Maine coast, where reminders of a glorious maritime past haunt every
El Faro was over 40 years old; in maritime shipping years, an ancient warhorse. If it had survived Joaquin, the ship was scheduled to be dry docked and overhauled. On its final voyage to Puerto Rico, it carried 294 cars, trucks, and trailers, and 391 containers—any of which could come loose in extreme conditions.
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corner; where majestic inns are named for sea captains, like Camden’s Captain Swift Inn, Searsport’s Captain A.V. Nickels Inn, and the Captain Jefferds Inn in Kennebunkport; where official town welcome signs often depict schooners at full sail. Even the names—Searsport, Bucksport, Kennebunkport—speak to their nautical importance. This is where, for generations, boys went to sea to support their families through shipping, whaling, or fishing. Some never came back.
Davidson had spent his youth on the water. He’d mastered boats for Casco Bay Lines along the Maine coast and tankers in the Gulf of Mexico for ConocoPhillips before joining TOTE Maritime in 2013 to tagteam the Puerto Rican run. He made a good living, enough to maintain a 4,100-square-foot home on a cul-desac outside of Portland for his wife, Theresa, and his two athletic daughters. Now that the girls were in college, expenses were high. Fortunately, mastering container ships paid well, if you could get the work.
The day before, TOTE had offered Davidson time off. He declined, saying that he didn’t want to lose vacation days because he wanted to complete his shift in time for his 25th wedding anniversary.
The El Faro was 28 years older than the average cargo ship docking in American ports, ancient by international shipping standards. It had already lived several lives since it had been built in Pennsylvania during the Nixon administration. Originally christened the Puerto Rico, it was one of the last vessels produced by Sun Shipbuilding & Drydock Co. before the yard shut down. For nearly two decades, the ship carried cargo between San Juan and the East Coast of the U.S. for a Puerto Rican outfit. In 1991, Saltchuk, the Seattle-based parent company of TOTE, assumed ownership. The boat was conscripted to transport military cargo for two wars, and after being lengthened 90 feet in 1993, served in the rough Alaskan waters as the Northern Lights before traveling through the Panama Canal one last time to do the
When news of the El Faro ’s disappearance hit, a handful of Sun retirees reminisced on online message boards about building it. After the accident, Deb Roberts received a ship in a bottle handmade by a former Sun shipbuilder named John Glanfield, who said he had worked on the El Faro ; he still felt a connection to the boat he’d help construct so many years ago.
The El Faro flew the American flag, and this is significant. One of the earliest acts of the U.S. government was to protect its maritime interests by forbidding foreign ships from participating in the country’s coastal trade. Some 200 years later, vessels hauling cargo between American cities must be domestically registered, built stateside, and crewed by citizens—members of the unions—following American labor laws. This legislation, known as the Jones Act, is designed to ensure that the U.S. isn’t forced to depend on a foreign entity for transporting goods, cargo, or troops during wartime. It also guarantees that America retains a certain level of nautical knowledge, should it ever find itself globally isolated.
And yet, the laws plague American shipping. Because U.S.-built vessels cost at least twice as much as those made in Asia, shipping companies often keep their woefully outdated boats longer than they should. It’s simply too expensive to upgrade their fleets. Many of the El Faro’ s components, including its open lifeboats—just like those you’d find on the Titanic —were grandfathered in. Its power plant was also ailing. A compliance agent testified during the hearings that she wouldn’t bring its boiler up to full pressure because, well, it was old. In fact, one of two boilers on the El Faro ’s steam plant had been shut down for inspection just before its fateful run, and was found to have significant problems. For this reason and others, the Coast Guard put the boat on a watch list; the El Faro was scheduled to be dry docked and overhauled in November before going back to Alaska.
At its peak, the American merchant
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marine moved 40 percent of the world’s trade. Then shippers began registering their boats in foreign countries to get around Jones Act requirements. Now the American merchant marine carries just one-half of one percent of global trade.
An ever-diminishing fleet means fewer job opportunities. Often, captains will take a first- or second-mate position on a boat to earn a paycheck. When oil prices dropped last year, petroleum companies reduced output, requiring fewer tankers and barges, and fewer crews to helm them. Mariners took another hit; good-paying jobs in the merchant marine protected by American labor laws are scarce indeed.
In this climate, Davidson was angling for a promotion. To comply with new emissions regulations in the Caribbean, TOTE had ordered a pair of liquid natural gas ships to replace its three aging vessels— El Morro, El Yunque , and El Faro —and Davidson hoped to captain one of these. He interviewed for the position in May, and was awaiting an answer when he arrived in Jacksonville in September. If Davidson didn’t get the promotion, he would probably follow the old boat through the Panama Canal back to Alaska, where it was slated to do the Northwest route once again. Michael Holland had already been told that he’d join the El Faro on its West Coast run in the spring of 2017. That was a long way from Maine.
In fact, TOTE wanted younger captains to helm its gleaming LNG Caribbean fleet. That makes sense, a veteran mariner tells me. “I’ve seen it’s much harder to train experienced captains for these vessels. What you need is video game experience. With non-feedback of a vessel, it’s more intuitive.” Besides, he adds, “knowing how to run an antique steam plant, not many captains can handle that kind of vessel. TOTE probably decided Davidson was more valuable in Alaska.” TOTE had identified its LNG captains, but probably hadn’t yet notified Davidson that he was not one of them.
On Wednesday afternoon, a day after the El Faro left port, former second mate Charles Baird was at home in South Portland watching the Weather Channel, and what he saw of the developing storm worried him. He texted his concerns to Davidson, who at that point was still close enough to the coast to get cell service. Like all deck officers, Baird knew that captains ultimately decide the route, but there’s often room for debate. Charlie Baird was navigating when Davidson took the same inland route during tropical storm Erika. A former first mate of the El Faro told me, “He was the one who’d convinced him to go inland.” He adds, “I challenged the
inched southwest while escalating to category 3—a major hurricane with winds up to 129 miles per hour—while the El Faro continued on its collision course with the storm. Now the ship was east of the Bahamas as Joaquin closed in.
Captain Kevin Stith was steering El Faro ’s sister ship back up to Jacksonville and didn’t like what he saw. He was on the other side of Joaquin, closer to Puerto Rico, when he sent an email via satellite to Davidson to report that he’d just recorded 100-mile-per-hour winds. He warned him about the errant NHC forecast, and asked about his plans.
In his testimony, Stith said that Davidson replied that he had been watching the storm, had altered his route southerly; he expected to be on the back side of the hurricane in a few hours. But GPS tracking later revealed that Davidson hadn’t changed course. In fact, Davidson continued full steam ahead on a straight southeastern course up to the end.
masters all the time. I said, ‘Captain, you need to take the old Bahama channel.’ I said, ‘I’m putting it on you.’ You gotta threaten them.”
This time, on land and off-duty, Baird’s powers of influence were limited.
Davidson assured Baird that he was aware of the storm. Hurricanes were almost always pulled north at some point before hitting the Caribbean island chain, and a Category 4 hurricane hadn’t tracked through the Bahamas since 1866. But Joaquin was taking its time; its path defied the odds.
Later that day, an increasingly concerned Baird texted Davidson again: What was the captain’s plan for avoiding the storm? Davidson replied that he was heading along the normal route at full steam (20 knots), and would sail under the system. Baird followed up, reminding Davidson of the escape routes available to him—the channels cut between the islands that would get him to the lee side if he found himself in trouble.
Twelve hours later, Joaquin had
During the hearings, Davidson was described by those who worked with him as conscientious, if not hands-on. He wasn’t deeply involved with the minutiae of ship operations; like many captains, he relied on the other deck officers—like Danielle— to be his eyes and ears. Stith, who frequently served as Davidson’s first mate before becoming master of the El Yunque, testified,“I did not see him on deck often. Maybe twice during my time with him.”
But Davidson’s cautiousness may have gotten him into trouble with employers in the past. Some news services reported that he had lost his previous petroleum company job because he’d elected to have his ship towed to port when it developed steering problems. Just a month before his final voyage, he’d rerouted the El Faro to avoid Tropical Storm Erika. After the El Faro sunk, experienced mariners online often theorized that TOTE had chewed out Davidson for this longer voyage, which would have cost the company time and fuel.
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Joaquin was the slow and powerful storm all mariners dread. As the El Faro approached the hurricane, the crew tried to hang on.
TOTE needed to be profitable. In the early 2000s, it played a cutthroat game of chicken with two other U.S.-flagged transportation companies to monopolize the Puerto Rican route, a major run protected by the Jones Act. In an attempt to bankrupt each other, the three carriers deliberately cut their shipping prices to unsustainable levels, and TOTE, along with Horizon, emerged victorious.
Eliminating the competition wasn’t enough to satisfy TOTE’s executives. In 2008, a federal antitrust investigation uncovered a years-long price-fixing scheme that the two surviving companies had worked out to ensure that each made money from the Puerto Rican route. Both companies pled guilty and paid millions of dollars in fines. High-level executives from TOTE and Horizon went to jail. TOTE restructured and cut management.
It’s possible that this history, combined with his need to impress TOTE, colored Davidson’s judgment when confronted with a storm as he steamed south in the Atlantic Ocean.
Then again, it’s possible that Davidson didn’t understand what he was up against. Stith says that when he served as Davidson’s first mate, he observed that the captain relied heavily on the Bon Voyage weather reporting system, a proprietary service paid for by TOTE. “I think that was probably his primary resource; it had been proven over the years reliable,” he said during his testimony. “I think in our conversations he had full faith in that Bon Voyage System.”
At the hearings, Bon Voyage representatives revealed that they generally repackaged National Weather Service forecasts, a data-inputting process that took several hours after the original report had been issued. Their predicted trajectory for Hurricane Joaquin, sent out on September 30, was as much as 21 hours old and 500 nautical miles off.
Slow-moving hurricanes are hell for mariners. With hours and hours of high winds and high seas, even the saltiest
sailors get seasick as the enormous boat rolls, dips, rises, and slams down into the troughs of the waves. “It’s a big danger,” testified Hearn, who’d been at sea during Hurricane Sandy. “When you’re in the grip of heavy seas for a longer period of time than a front, my experience is, once you start fighting weather, cargo lashings come loose, and there’s the fatigue of crew. More than 24 hours of that, the cargo is in danger. It’s a hazard to go out because the cargo is heavy and could crush a person.”
One former El Faro first mate told me, “In rough conditions, the first thing you do is throw up. All get seasick, plus you’re scared, as the seas are breaking over, with the ship rolling, making its
doubtless labored with his fellow engineers to keep the old plant running, trying not to get knocked into the hot steam pipes all around him as the ship’s prow rose and then plummeted. One problem they faced was clogging of the fuel lines. During voyages, chunks of the asphalt-like fuel, called bunk, settle to the bottom of the fuel tanks, and that sediment can get shaken free by the sea’s churn. It’s likely that someone in the engine room spent a sleepless night clearing the fuel-line filters dozens of times an hour. It might have been impossible to keep up. At some point near dawn, the engine went out.
own wave.” He’d worked with Danielle—he was very fond of her, called her Dani—since she was a cadet. He was furious that the El Faro had taken her into the storm.
Joaquin was the slow and powerful storm all mariners dread. As the El Faro approached the Category 3 hurricane, Danielle and the crew tried to hang on as the vessel rose and fell, struggling to power through the high seas, straining cargo lashings to the point where some may have given way.
In huge swells, its massive propeller would have come in and out of the waves, putting excessive strain on the 40-year-old steam engine trying to keep pace. Hearn said, “If you’re slamming your stern out of the water, then the boat settles in the next trough of a wave. With the force of tonnage, it slams. It’s a pounding that could be catastrophic to the machinery.” Hearn describes a dire scene: “If your stern is slamming, you need to get into a head sea and reduce the speed. You risk [propeller] decapitation if the prop comes out of the water. You can feel the vibration when it does.”
Down in the engine room, Michael
Without propulsion, the enormous El Faro was at the mercy of an angry ocean, slammed by waves, thrashed by winds. It was particularly vulnerable because it had been designed with a broad lower deck that served as a parking lot for the cars and trucks it carried. If water got down there through an open hatch, or worse, through the enormous door cut in the hull for roll-on/roll-off loading, she could quickly destabilize and sink.
At 7 a.m. on October 1, Davidson made the emergency call to shore. His voice on the recording is eerily calm. They’d lost propulsion. They were at a 15-degree list. They were taking on water. There was a breach in the hull. About half an hour later, the black box recorded Davidson calling for his crew to abandon ship. But they had little chance for survival in open lifeboats and rafts.
On land, the Coast Guard and TOTE’s designated contact discussed the severity of the El Faro’s situation. No one at TOTE had been following the El Faro ; Davidson’s emergency call came out of the blue. Plotting his position, the U.S. Coast Guard was alarmed to discover that the ship was just 20 miles from Joaquin’s eye. The storm would soon escalate to Category 4.
But that, and the automated distress calls, were the final messages from the El Faro.
In the wee hours of October 1, Danielle sent her mother an email. She’d told Laurie about harrowing hurricanes
At 7 a.m. on October 1, Davidson made the emergency call to shore. His voice on the recording is eerily calm.
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before, but always after the fact. This time, she wrote, “Don’t know if you’ve been hearing, we’re in really bad seas and really bad wind and heading straight for the hurricane.”
Then she wrote, “Give my love to everyone.”
“As soon as I read that, I knew we were done for,” Laurie tells me. “She never, ever, ever, ever would write Love, Danielle or anything like that. She wasn’t cold-hearted, she just had a really hard time saying—like I always had to finish the phone call, ‘Love you,’ and she’d say, ‘Love you, too.’ She would never be the one to generate the Love you, Mom type thing, you know what I mean? And for her to write on the email, ‘Give my love to everyone,’ I knew we were, we were, we were screwed.
“So when I got the phone call saying that they’d lost communication with the ship, ‘We’re sending people to look,’ I knew then and there that the ship went down. There was no doubt in my mind.
I didn’t have to wait the seven damn days of them searching. I knew damn well that the ship went down.”
Strong and resilient, like so many parents of New England mariners before them, Michael Holland’s mom, Deb, and Laurie were among the first relatives of the lost crew to accept that the El Faro had been lost. During the agonizing week in Jacksonville while the Coast Guard combed the ocean for the survivors—and then any evidence of the enormous ship—they became the public face of maritime grief.
They worked with the Red Cross to set up a Facebook page with regular updates for anyone connected to the El Faro. They gave TV interviews to ensure that the human side of the tragedy wasn’t lost in its telling. Pictures of
Michael, and Danielle—smiling in her crisp white uniform, her hair tucked beneath her hat—appeared everywhere.
After the final meeting in Florida, when relatives were told that the search was finished, Deb, her husband, and Kelsea navigated rush-hour traffic to get to the beach. Eight years before, Deb had driven to Castine to see Michael off before he sailed to Europe aboard the Maine Maritime Academy’s training ship. Now she was saying a different goodbye.
Holding her shoes, she walked to the water to be closer to her son. She said, “We had this beautiful moment on the beach where Kelsea and I just felt Michael.
“We went in the water, and obviously just lost it, and cried and hugged. I was crying, really crying hard,” she says. “And I was leaning down and then this huge wave came and got us soaking wet. And I was like, All right, Michael, I get it, I get it. OK, I’ll stop.”
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“Look who made his first road trip to see the Lady Danes victory!” Celia wrote.
The “trip” was a solo, 300-mile round-trip to New Haven, Connecticut, in a borrowed 2001 Volvo. It might not have been the smartest idea. But when word of the journey spread to friends and family there was a consensus response: knowing smirks. The old Todd—the goal-or-bust nut who once played in a middle school basketball game with what turned out to be scarlet fever—had unexpectedly surfaced.
The next day, I dragged down the wall calendar again and added road trips to Albany, Stony Brook, and Burlington, Vermont —meaning I’d see every one of Celia’s games in October, her final month of the final season. Unfortunately, my presence didn’t spark a storybook run. The team’s early-season promise vanished with a string of tough conference losses, including a crushing late defeat to rival Hartford.
Henry’s team followed the same trajectory—some solid early-season victories (including a rousing 3-2 win against rival BU in front of 8,000-plus fans) followed by dispiriting conference losses. If anything special was going to happen for either team, each would have to pull off late-season upsets—Celia’s team at Burlington and Henry’s against nationally ranked Syracuse.
My progress wasn’t dramatic in the same time period, but I did notice behavior shifts. Before a game at UNH —where a sizeable friends-and-family contingent came out for Celia—I swapped out two forearm crutches for a single StrongArm cane for the first time. I baked the coconut oatmeal cookies everybody liked for the tailgate.
I’d done none of it. In showing up to games in September and early October, I wasn’t setting the world on fire, but I wasn’t hiding either.
The spate of doctors I’d seen in recent weeks—a neurologist, a physical medicine specialist, a nerve surgeon— all agreed that I was making strides. Even the disappointing doctor who’d operated on me made an impression, wondering if I realized that 15 percent of the patients with my severity of chordoma died on the operating room table. Maybe Patty was right, that the hallmark of my experience wasn’t a “complication” that paralyzed me, but survival.
cally on the sideline when I wasn’t walking well. “We don’t have to stay for the whole game,” she’d sweetly lie.
The Vermont game featured biting gales and intermittent snow flurries, but Celia’s Albany team summoned their best performance of the season in a 2-0 victory. It was the start of a five-game win streak, including two games in the playoffs. Against Hartford, they scored two goals in the final minutes to win the first conference championship in school history.
When I’d thought about recovery prior to surgery—and it wasn’t much —I’d imagined an exceptional one. Of course I knew there would be a few slow months, but I’d taken care of that with a file I called “What Will Todd Do
Our marriage was nearing 30 years. We’d once differed over soccer and how I’d allowed it to take over our family lives; holidays like Easter and Thanksgiving were travel tournament times. Club soccer cost time and more money than we had. I worried too intensely about their rise in a sport that was often cutthroat and all-consuming.
The file was filled with quirky, longset-aside pursuits —learning an instrument, adding a language. And then
Now, though, Patty sensed an opening and made sure we prioritized the games. She brought extra pillows, soft blankets, and enough snacks for an overnight. In the beginning, we sometimes arrived a few minutes late to slip into the crowd more anonymously. At the UMass game, she parked practi-
Henry’s team defeated Syracuse 2-1 at BC’s home field, a victory that would earn them an invitation to play in the NCAA tournament. Of the nearly 400 Division I schools to start the year, BC would be one of only 64 invited to play for a national championship. He was happier than I’d ever seen after the game. They’d go on to win their first three games in the tournament including an upset of Georgetown, the topranked team in the nation.
Watching that game and Celia hoisting overhead the championship trophy within a few weeks of each other gave me chills. I reminded myself that my children’s exploits had nothing to do with me, that a season is just a season, sports just sports. I wasn’t the benefac-
tor of some compassionate cosmic nod, one that had assessed my tough run of late and my vast dad dreams, took it upon review, and said, in effect, “Let’s throw this poor guy a bone.” But then, I looked at the calendar and realized the soccer Final Four coincided with the anniversary of my surgery. I did wonder. BC was a win away.
Alas, the team’s journey ended the following weekend in the “Elite 8” round, to ACC champion Syracuse. Maybe it was for the best. We were exhausted. Both Celia and Henry had made long trips to see the other play in the middle of their semesters. We’d driven to Penn State, Washington D.C., and Syracuse —twice. I’d gone to nine games in September, another 18 in October and November.
In taking stock of the journey we’d been on, I realized the games, intentionally or not, had become rallying points for my recovery. Each one was an opportunity for a touch, hug, or laugh. The night before Henry’s Syracuse game, I’d joked with an old friend living in Cleveland that the game was right around the corner. Minutes later he texted, “I think I’m in.” Dan was in the parking lot waiting for us when we arrived.
The kids’ gift to me wasn’t a conference championship or an Elite 8 “run,” but a providential, long-running show where others could readily find me. When you feel diminished, it’s easier to feel so alone. As the season unexpectedly lengthened and gained steam, I was inexorably drawn back into my life.
On New Year’s Day, a few weeks after the greatest season we’d all ever been a part of, I had what in the old days they might have called a breakdown. Both kids were home from break, the same tensions were building, me and them and the dad I’d become. For sure, it wasn’t a big deal, the trigger that is. In another household, it could have been a towel forgetfully left in the hallway, dishes in the sink. This time it was my adaptive toilet platform. Celia left it in the middle of the bathroom, roughly set aside. And it set me off. The gesture suggested what I feared most: that in their eyes, I wasn’t measuring up. I’d gotten comfortable with my disability
and they’d noticed.
All of it would be a surprise when I later shared my reaction. All anyone knew was that I buried myself in our bedroom and they left for a crazy midwinter ice cream fix without me. What they also didn’t know until many hours later was what I did in the half-hour they were gone: I threw it all out. All the adaptive gear. Down the side entrance stairs. Out the first floor bathroom window. For a few minutes it was all out in the yard or driveway—the shower seat, the walker, the toilet seat and its platform, the boots that were supposed to do something they never did. I dragged the gear into our barn, shut the door, and returned to my bedroom, my heart pounding.
That night, for the first time, I tried to explain myself, my feelings, the frustrations and grief over the person I no longer was. I went from Celia’s room to Henry’s and back again. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Celia asked—like everyone I’ve loved has asked at one time or another.
I’ve always had a fear about the dad I might be. About making a mistake I couldn’t take back. Our lives aren’t supposed to intrude into theirs. Maybe I didn’t have the proper faith in their resilience, forgetting they weren’t the
fragile ones. What was less wrongheaded, and maybe helpful, was that their place in our lives made me dig deep for my better self. I’ve always been able to dig deep.
After New Year’s Day, we moved forward. I had them dismantle my day bed and I moved upstairs again. In its stead they brought down a large oak desk, so I could write. At the next school break a few months later, the two of them put me on an upright bike and ran alongside until I said it was OK to let go. In the video Patty filmed, Henry is beaming, I’m laughing, and Celia is looking into the camera, both thumbs up.
It’s impossible to know what will come. There are ups and downs in every season, every recovery. I probably won’t ever regain full use of my legs, but I’m active and pushing. In my best moments, I think being an “N of 1” is my biggest adventure. Some 80 percent of my leg strength may be gone, but I look forward to getting the most of what’s left. I like what one paralyzed cyclist said about his success in carving out a place back in the sport he loves: “I haven’t actually changed much; I’ve just learned a lot.”
I aspire to something similar. I think I’m on my way. I know I have the team for it. I love my team.
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(Required under Act of August 12, 1970, Sect 3685, Title 39, United States Code.)
September 22, 2015: Yankee-Bi-monthly, published at Dublin, Cheshire County, New Hampshire 03444. Published by Yankee Publishing Incorporated. Publisher: Brook E. Holmberg., Dublin, NH. Editor: Mel Allen, Dublin, NH. Owners: Christina G. Bell, Dublin, NH: H. Hansell Germond, Dublin, NH: Melanie G. Germond, Dublin NH: Rachel T. Germond, Dublin, NH: Judson D. Hale Sr., Dublin, NH: Beatrix T. Sanders, Dublin, NH: Cornelia T. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH: James R. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH; Philip R. Trowbridge, Dublin, NH.
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Cleans the air you breathe without noisy fans or costly ltersCalvin Coolidge (1872-1933) inspects a campaign truck painted with images of Coolidge, his running mate, Charles G. Dawes (1865-1951), and Coolidge’s birthplace in Plymouth Notch, Vermont. Coolidge, who became president when Warren G. Harding died in 1923, won the November 1924 election to continue as America’s 30th president.
s we close in on the finish line of one of the loudest presidential campaigns in our history, let’s step back and spend a quiet moment with “Silent Cal”—John Calvin Coolidge, farm-born in Plymouth Notch, Vermont, who as vice president, was sworn in by his father by the light of a kerosene lantern at the family homestead on August 3, 1923, upon the sudden death of President Warren G. Harding. Though famous for his taciturn ways, Coolidge became one of our most photographed politicians, and often sought out what today we call “photo ops.” Voters saw him wearing a Native American headdress or mowing his family’s farmstead, posing, in fact, pretty
much any time a friendly camera pointed his way. Here, on the cusp of the 1924 election, he surveys his visage and that of his running mate, Charles G. Dawes, with whom he maintained a frosty alliance, on a campaign truck that would wend its way along the byways of the land, carrying his message to “Keep Cool with Coolidge.” He was victorious and continued as the 30th president of the United States. His Vermont family homestead today is maintained and open to the public as the President Calvin Coolidge State Historic Site. — Mel Allen
WhenCalvin
Coolidgehit the campaign trail, his portrait came along for the ride.
From modern favorites to traditional fare to a brunch that won’t leave you hungry, we serve three holiday menus from the Yankee kitchen that will have you coming back for seconds.
Local cuisine, a historic hotel, and one memorable Nutcracker performance are all on the itinerary as we tour this beloved city.
In fine bakeries around New England, we now see tongue-in-cheek artisanal interpretations of Oreos, whoopie pies, and Pop-Tarts. In this cooking video, we take the Oreo meme a step further, adding crushed candy canes for a little holiday pizzazz.
We step inside the go-to hangout for Dartmouth students, home to some of the most delicious homemade donuts in New England.
We share our favorite shots of the season from our Instagram community.
From the Yankee archives comes this 2007 profile of Mainer Morrill Worcester, who each holiday season honors the sacrifices of those buried at Arlington National Cemetery with thousands of handmade balsam wreaths.
