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90 /// 30 Days of Wonder
From source to sea, autumn along the Connecticut River is a four-part, month-long ride through the very heart of New England. by Daniel Sullivan & Eileen Terrill
116 /// The Conscience of a Chief
When a tragedy rocked the small town of Hinesburg, Vermont, police chief Frank Koss decided to break the rules of what you’re supposed to do and say. by Geoffrey Douglas
122 /// A Beautiful Refuge
New England’s covered bridges speak to us of both heritage and safe haven. by Howard Mansfield
124 /// ‘Each One Is Worth Saving’
Third in our “Traditionalists” series: Chris Hadsel of Vermont’s Curtains
Without Borders is on a mission to repair and restore a historic American resource: the classic artistry of painted theater drapes. by Ian Aldrich
128 /// The Two Worlds of Bill De La Rosa
The story of this honored Bowdoin graduate’s journey is now part of the lives of his fellow students in Maine, and none of them will ever look at the world again in quite the same way. by Mel Allen
Since 2009, some 300 retired and rescued draft horses have found shelter, love, and dignity at Blue Star Equiculture, Pamela Rickenbach’s farm in Western Massachusetts. by Suzanne Strempek Shea
When the sun rose, it lit up the landscape. And almost instantly it enlightened the way we looked at the world. Discovering your MaineThing begins here. And almost instantly it enlightened the way we looked at the world.
34 /// Phylum, Class, Order, Family
The five Lam siblings (and their parents) of Upton, Mass., have grown a love of farming and flowers into a thriving business. by Annie B. Copps
40 /// Open Studio
Connecticut blacksmith Nick Moreau keeps a family tradition alive. by Annie Graves
44 /// House for Sale
Yankee visits a modernist home in Ossipee, New Hampshire, with amazing views of valley, lake, and mountain beauty. by the Yankee Moseyer
departments
8 CONNECT WITH NEW ENGLAND
10
DEAR YANKEE, CONTRIBUTORS & POETRY BY D.A.W.
12
INSIDE YANKEE
14
MARY’S FARM Finding Home by Edie Clark
16
LIFE IN THE KINGDOM
A Bittersweet Autumn by Ben Hewitt
20
FIRST LIGHT
Ben Notterman has been the reigning “Pumpking” of East Hardwick, Vermont, since the ripe old age of 6. by Julia Shipley
52 /// The ‘New’ New England Cooking Boston chefs find inspiration in farm-fresh ingredients as they serve up tradition with a twist. by Annie B. Copps
60 /// Local Flavor
In the old city of Brockton, Mass., JJ’s Caffè is an American dream come true. by Amy Traverso
64 /// Could You Live Here?
In western Maine, Fryeburg’s personality comes to life in a fair to remember. by Annie Graves
70 /// The Best 5
Secret fall escapes: New England’s quiet places let you explore autumn’s glory at your own individual pace. by Kim Knox Beckius
72 /// Local Treasure
Hands-on exhibits make learning fun at Vermont’s Montshire Museum of Science. by Joe Bills
78 /// Out & About
Fall celebrations from cranberries to roots music, plus country fairs, harvest festivals, and other don’t-miss seasonal events. compiled by Joe Bills
24
ONLY IN NEW ENGLAND College Move-In Day by Ken Sheldon
26
KNOWLEDGE & WISDOM
Preserving fall leaves, Hurricane of ’38, and expert advice on cooking with apples.
30
UP CLOSE Bill Buckner & the One That Got Away by Joe Bills
156
TIMELESS NEW ENGLAND
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Dear Reader,
The drawing you see above is called For Now and Ever. 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 the the love of two of my dearest friends.
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when you are not a part of me; you hold my heart; you guard my soul; you guide my dreams so tenderly. And if my will might be done, and all I long for could come true, with perfect joy I would choose to share eternity with you.”
SUZANNE STREMPEK SHEA
Western Massachusetts native and New England Book Award winner Suzanne Strempek Shea (“The Promised Land,” p. 108) has written six novels and five books of nonfiction. She directs the writing program at Bay Path University in Longmeadow, Mass., and teaches in the University of Maine’s Stonecoast MFA program. Her newest book is A Year at Blue Star, coming in April 2017 from Levellers Press. suzannestrempekshea.com
GEOFFREY DOUGLAS
Journalist Geoffrey Douglas (“The Conscience of a Chief,” p. 116) is a longtime Yankee contributor and the author of four works of nonfiction. His book The Game of Their Lives: The Untold Story of the World Cup’s Biggest Upset, about the 1950 U.S. soccer team, was made into a 2005 movie starring Gerard Butler. His previous pieces for Yankee include “‘The Town Is Gone’” (July 2014).
ANNIE B. COPPS
Longtime Boston-area chef and former Yankee food editor Annie B. Copps (“Phylum, Class, Order, Family,” p. 34, and “The ‘New’ New England Cooking,” p. 52) is a freelance food, wine, and travel writer. Recent gigs have taken her around our region, across the U.S., and around the world as a consultant and cooking instructor, and she’s a frequent guest on a variety of radio and TV programs. intellibelly.com
CHERYLE ST. ONGE
Photographer Cheryle St. Onge (“The Promised Land,” p. 108) has taught at Clark University, Maine College of Art, and the University of New Hampshire. Her work focuses on the crossover of art and science and photography’s ability to distill our sense of time and curiosity. Born in Worcester, Mass., she currently lives in Durham, New Hampshire, and coastal Maine. cherylestonge.com
KEN SHELDON
Humorist Ken Sheldon (“Only in New England,” p. 24) is a lifelong resident of our region, except for two brief stints when he lost his way and lived in California. (He has pretty much recovered.) As Fred Marple, he’s the author of Welcome to Frost Heaves (Islandport Press, 2015), a humorous collection of stories from “the most underappreciated town in New Hampshire.” kensheldon.com, frostheaves.com
HEATHER PERRY
For “The Two Worlds of Bill De La Rosa” (p. 128), Maine-based photographer Heather Perry traveled to Mexico and Arizona, capturing Bill at his mother’s home and at the home he shares with his father and siblings. She also followed Bill as he interacted with Bowdoin professors and friends on the Maine campus. “Bill’s story was very moving,” she told us, “and it will stay with me.” heatherperryphoto.com
I’ve just finished reading the story of Hurricane Irene’s affects on Wilmington, Vermont [July/August, p. 120]. My husband’s family is from Brattleboro, and we travel Route 9 quite frequently. Many a time while stopped at the traffic light at the intersection of Route 9 and Route 100, we’ve seen the water level recorded from 1938. We’ve often spoken of how hard it was to imagine water that high. During recent trips we’ve seen the new recording of the water level from 2011 and still can’t fathom water that high. Your story highlights the resilience and sense of community of the people in Wilmington, especially in a situation so severe. To overcome such tragedy with a willingness to rebuild and not abandon certainly proves the recent state motto of “Vermont Strong.”
Nancy & Michael Majdak Forestport, New YorkYou bet your arse we’re New England [July/August, p. 112]. We’ve been here from the beginning of our country. Heck, BEFORE the beginning. While even here in Connecticut we deride the “New Yorkers” from the “Gold Coast,” even THEY live in NEW ENGLAND. I always have and will continue to identify myself as a Yankee.
Cathy Harbeson Rocky Hill, ConnecticutAs a Connecticut native, 12 generations removed from when ancestors on both sides settled in the New Haven/ Milford/Fairfield/Westport area, I read Richard Conniff’s story with special interest. I grew up in Roxbury, and if there’s a more quintessential New England town, I have yet to see it, and I can say that, having traveled for
a dozen years as a salesman to most of the nooks and crannies of our six-state region.
Connecticut is a border state, and border states and countries naturally take on some characteristics of their neighbors; in my state’s case, that would be New York City. I grew up a Yankees fan, as they were the closest team (two miles closer than the Giants), so I “boo” the Red Sox throughout the baseball season. Regardless, I think of myself as a New Englander. One needs to leave the I-91 and I-95 corridors and travel the winding two-lane roads to experience the charm that is Connecticut.
John Botsford Coleman Scarborough, MaineWrite us! Send your comments to: editor@YankeeMagazine.com. Please include where you reside. Letters may be edited for length and clarity.
Oaks of autumn shed their shade
And drop a ticker-tape parade
That settles, fluffy and soufflé-like, Leaving streets October day–like.
— D.A.W.
all brings visitors to New England by the tens of thousands. And no, I’m not speaking here about the leaf peepers who tour during the short, spectacular weeks of color, but the more than 60,000 foreign students who come to New England’s colleges each September. And, also, the thousands of other ethnically and economically diverse students from across the United States who arrive to attend colleges and prep schools whose doors, only a generation ago, once opened to only a very few. Today our colleges and private schools actively seek students with different life experiences, knowing that the only way to prepare young people for a complex, diverse world is to start right here, right now. The leaders of these institutions know that as their campuses change, inevitably there will be bumps along the way, stumbles that will demand heartfelt, difficult conversations, student to student, faculty to student.
I mention this because I met a young man named Bill De La Rosa (“The Two Worlds of Bill De La Rosa,” p. 128). He graduated in May 2016 from Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine, and during his four years there his story became part of the lives of his fellow students and teachers. His legacy is still being written, but the people whose lives he touched say that knowing Bill De La Rosa has changed them. While his story may inspire some readers, I know there may be others who will feel that he doesn’t deserve his honors, or maybe even empathy. After all, his mother crossed a border illegally. For me his story isn’t narrowed by politics or immigration laws. I was struck by how he embodied the tenacity that settled New England. When I visited the Bowdoin campus, everyone used the same words to describe Bill De La Rosa: “relentless, determined.” No matter where you travel in our region, you see the accomplishments of people who over the past 400 years have journeyed here, like Bill, from distant places. They too were relentless, no matter what hardships they found on these rocky shores.
From the northern reaches of New Hampshire to Long Island Sound, the Connecticut River spills over 400 miles through the heart of New England. The husbandand-wife team of Daniel Sullivan and Yankee managing editor Eileen Terrill followed the river’s path southward, watching fall unfold along the way (“30 Days of Wonder,” p. 90). What they saw and what photographer Carl Tremblay found makes for an odyssey of beauty, history, and discovery that defines why fall in New England is unlike anywhere else on earth. Come along on their journey. Create your own. Let us know what you find.
Mel Allen, Editor editor@YankeeMagazine.com
live in the town of Harrisville, New Hampshire, a little brick mill village that’s not on the way to anywhere, so its anonymity has been easier to maintain as the great sweep of time has moved from the 18th to the 21st century. The story of this village is somewhat epic. We’ll skip all the drama and go to 1870, when Harris ville seceded from the town of Dublin and became its own entity. During the Civil War, the big woolen mills were booming, belting out material used to make soldiers’ uniforms as well: The bounty of war was not only in munitions. Woolen fortunes rose and fell, but in the 1960s, polyester pretty much replaced wool, and the beat of the looms fell silent; the mills were shuttered. In 1971, instead of a “House for Sale,” Yankee ’s column was retitled “Town for Sale”: The whole village was listed—the bankrupt mill and the buildings and houses that belonged to the mill. A man from New Jersey bought the town in order to re locate his business up here, which he did, but, to avoid paying a fearsome tax bill, he quickly resold (for $1) the houses and all extraneous buildings back to the family that had owned the mills for generations. A lot of the buildings were boarded up and in disrepair; however, the fact that they were mostly brick perhaps saved them—benign neglect. The family started something called Historic Harrisville. Under that umbrella, they gathered the town’s history, creating documentation of this remarkably intact industrial village, which in turn became, over time, a National Historic Landmark. At about that time, my aunt, who lived then in Amesbury, Massachusetts, took my grandmother, who was in her nineties, for a drive. They liked to do that, exploring the back roads of New England. Returning from one of these rambles, my Victorian grandmother was heard to say that they’d been to paradise, where they saw a “fairy tale village.” We all wanted to know where they’d been so that we could go there, too. Nanny described this place, in an almost-operatic aria, as all brick buildings, a lake above and a canal running through and under them, falls tumbling like a ladder through the center of town. But she couldn’t say where it was or how they’d gotten there—just that they’d “happened” upon it. And so a quest began. Instead of the random drives they used to take, Nanny and Aunt Peg would set out to find again this fairytale village. They drove this way and that, and probably had some wonderful crawls past Currier & Ives scenes—but Nanny died at the age of 98 in 1978, never finding paradise again.
In 1982, I bought a little rundown house in the woods in Chesham, a small section of Harrisville. I’d never heard of either town, but it was near where I worked, and I liked the promise the house held. I had big plans. I gave Aunt Peg directions to come see what I’d bought. When she arrived, she was so excited that she scarcely glanced at my (humble) purchase. “I found it!” she cried out as she entered. On her way she’d passed through Harrisville. “I found the fairytale village again!” We stood in silence, mouths agape. How could it be? I’d managed not only to find that storied village, but, unaware that this was the place for which Nanny and Aunt Peg had searched so long, I’d also made it my home. It’s only gotten better since.
Edie Clark’s books, including her newest, As Simple As That: Collected Essays , are now available at: edieclark.com
The Hewitts’ last fall on their old homestead: As one of the family’s cows grazes nearby, the author’s younger son, Rye, munches an apple beneath a favorite tree.
he cows gather beneath the big apple tree down at the far corner of the field. They’d eat themselves sick on drops if I let them, so I run a short line of electric fence to keep them in check. Every morning, I creep the fence forward a bit, granting them access to a few dozen of the softening fruits, because even a cow needs a treat now and then. I snatch a few of the most promising specimens from the drooping branches and stuff them deep in my pockets. They’re small and scabby but sweet. I’ll eat some of them on my walk back to the house as I follow our two cows, Apple and Pip, to the barn for morning milking. The rest I’ll save for my drive to the job site.
The apples are amazing this year, which is supposed to mean that we’ll have a hard winter, but may just mean that the apples are amazing this year. Part of me wishes for the former; another, slightly larger, part would be fine if it were merely the latter. We’ve had two hard winters in a row now, and, given the complications of our impending move, a minor winter isn’t an unwelcome notion. Though we have to be out of our current home by the end of October, there’ll be plenty more to do to make our new home habitable. We’ll need every break we can get just to have a roof over our heads by winter. Even then, it’s going to be tight.
Already the days are notably shorter. I notice this most in the late afternoons, when I return from a day of framing walls to a landscape that’s already fading into dusk. This daily transition—
As the Hewitts get ready to leave their homestead of nearly 20 years, small details bring back memories.THE NORTHEAST KINGDOM PHOTOGRAPH BY PENNY HEWITT
from building our new home to maintaining our current homestead—has proved to be the most challenging aspect of the entire process. Partly, it’s simple fatigue—the bone-weary reality of chores at the end of what has already been a 12-hour workday. But I think it’s also the strange emotional terrain of working two pieces of land: one that I’ve loved and worked for so long but that will soon pass into other hands; the other that I’m just beginning to know and understand. There are so many surprises in store, and some of them won’t be easy. I know this as certainly as I love my children.
During the hectic evening hours, between chores at our soon-to-beformer homestead, I sometimes slip away. I hop the fence between our land and our neighbor Melvin’s pasture, jog down into the woods, then beeline for my favorite chanterelle stash. It’s been an amazing year for chanterelles; they keep emerging from the forest floor in clusters, an ever-bearing fruit of the soil. So I tell myself I’m going for the mushrooms. But I also know that I’m going because every time I go I think it might be the last time I’ll walk this well-trod path.
We’ve been on this land nearly 20 years; for nearly two decades, we’ve explored the surrounding fields and forest. In a few weeks we’ll be gone. So I keep returning to my favorite haunts: the little hollow in our woods with the split rock, a yellow birch emerging improbably from the split; the chanterelles, of course; the debris hut that Rye built, the one he and I spent a January night in a couple of winters back. I was nearest to the entrance, and slept fitfully in the cold.
I remember telling a friend about my sadness in leaving this place and, more specifically, in leaving everything that makes this place this place. I told her about how I kept trying to imagine how I’d replace all those things: I’d find a new mushroom stash; I’d build a debris hut with my son and sleep in it; maybe I’d even locate a split rock, tuck a birch sapling into that cleft, will it to take root. “You can’t replace those things,” she said. “And that’s hard.
But there will be other things. There will be other experiences that will fill you in similar ways. That’s what life is all about.” A piece of me hoped she was wrong; it felt simpler, safer, more certain, to re-create what I was leaving behind. But I knew she was right.
The weather holds, day after day of blue skies and moderate temperatures. It’s more ideal than we could have dared hope, an improbable stretch of good fortune, and we make tremendous progress. Our new house takes shape: walls, rafters, a roof. It’s small—1,000 square feet—and I’m almost surprised by how quickly it comes together. We install windows—a motley collection of used and overstock units that match in neither color nor style but cost us only pennies on the dollar.
We connect the wood-fired cookstove that will heat the house, our food, and, by virtue of an old copper-range boiler, our water. On cool mornings,
we fill the firebox with scraps of lumber so that we can warm our hands while we work, and the presence of fire does much to transform the shell of our house into something that feels like a home.
Finally, in mid-October, the weather breaks, and, one afternoon, snow begins to fall in the manner of almost all first-of-season snows: tentatively, softly, unseriously. I drive home on the cusp of evening, down the Main Street of a nearby town so small that the road might as well have been named Only Street. By now, the storm has intensified; the wind has picked up, too, and the snow sweeps and swirls across the pavement in complicated circular patterns. I fear that if I look too hard, I’ll somehow become lost in them, so I fix my gaze just above the roadway, guiding the truck not so much by the road itself, but by the features that delineate its edge: Houses. Trees. Utility poles.
I pass two children standing at the forward edge of a lawn covered in the detritus of rural living: cars on blocks with hoods propped like open mouths; a four-wheeler; something that looks like a canoe cut in half longways, but this must be a trick of the mind and the weather. Through a curtained window, I can see the spectral glow of a television in an otherwise-darkened room. Smoke from a stovepipe.
The children are ecstatic. They’re leaping and flailing their limbs, yelling into the squall. They don’t just hold their faces to the storm; they actually push into it, mouths agape, the cold flakes tickling their tongues, the tender spot at the back of the throat. I wave, but their attention is elsewhere, and in a moment I’ve passed beyond their small orbit, the tires of the Ford cutting dark lines through the skin of snow. I turn the heater on high and roll down the window just enough to let in a bit of the storm.
he Pumpking”—that’s what Ben Notterman’s parents call him. Because, after all, here he is on their lawn at dawn, the blue-eyed, freckle-faced, bearded monarch, decked out in his vestments—sweatshirt, grubby jeans, and a crown, a ball cap smushed down on his sleeptousled hair—as he dismounts his ATV to inspect his loyal subjects: 6,000 pumpkins, arranged in tidy rows, like a royal court packed with orange faces. Consider also that Ben, 34, has been the reigning squash king of East Hardwick, Vermont, on a lovely dirt road called (so appropriately) Pumpkin Lane, for more than a quarter-century, growing his business since the ripe old age of 6.
Admittedly, it was his dad’s idea. One day after Ben and his mom had returned home with a trunkload of store-bought pumpkins, Ben’s father asked, “How much did all this cost?” Upon learning the truth, he replied, “I think we’ll grow our own.” So the same year that Ben’s teacher taught him simple arithmetic in school, he also learned that if he planted a 50-cent packet of seeds, tended his seedlings into thriving plants, and then sold his harvest of 24 portly squashes for a dollar apiece from the front lawn, he’d make what we grownups call a great rate of return.
But Ben’s lessons in financial literacy weren’t always so gratifying. When he was 8, he and his father made a sales call. Ben’s dad waited in the truck as Ben hopped out with an armload of inventory; he returned minutes later with a soda in one hand and a candy bar in the other, a triumphant grin all over his face.
“How’d it go?” Ben’s father asked.
“Oh, it went great.”
“Well, if you add up the cost of those pumpkins and compare it with the cost of what they gave you … Think about that.”
Ben did the math. “Whoa!” he blanched.
By fourth grade, Ben was discovering how to keep calm and carry on in customer satisfaction. In the weeks leading up to
A child’s fascination with an orange squash became a life’s pursuit.PHOTOGRAPHS BY MONICA DONOVAN LEFT : Snug Valley Farm in East Hardwick, Vermont, is home to row upon row of “Ben’s Pumpkins,” a patch lovingly nurtured by Ben Notterman, TOP, RIGHT, since the tender age of 6.
Halloween, Ben (dressed as Zorro) had seen many of his classmates sob when ever they dragged their parents over to buy the biggest (hence most prohibi tively expensive) specimens. So Ben began arranging his product in clumps: the $2 pumpkins here, the $12 pump kins there. But the clumps lacked maj esty, and so, since fifth grade, he’s gone linear, organizing them into nice, even price rows—rows that he shifts forward and mows around as the grass grows up around his steel tractor (John Deere), which he drives at unruly speeds, accomplishing everything in third gear, which is why his father also refers to The Pumpking as “Mr. VroomVroom.”
By middle school, Ben had mas tered the tractor and thereby expanded his enterprise from a patch to a field to several fields. Then, as he entered
his business did, too. Raising almost 3,000 plants on nearly five acres, Ben’s
production surged beyond his personal capability, so he began hiring additional labor to help transplant, weed,
1 MARCH FARM
Bethlehem, Connecticut
A fourth-generation family farm with a 10-acre hilltop pumpkin field, o ering views that stretch seemingly forever. The corn mazes and “Hayloft Playscape” for kids are great bonuses. 160 Munger Lane. 203-266-7721; marchfarm.com
2 PUMPKIN VALLEY FARM
Dayton, Maine
Enjoy a hayride out to the four-acre patch and pick from white, red, and traditional orange jack-o’-lantern-worthy pumpkins. Reasonably priced (five pounds and under for $3). The corn maze and friendly farm animals make it an outing. 100 Union Falls Road. 207-929-4088; pumpkinvalleyfarm.com
3 BELKIN FAMILY LOOKOUT FARM
South Natick, Massachusetts
Established in 1651, this family farm is located less than 20 miles from Boston. Choose from 40,000 pumpkins in the expansive patch located right across from the U-Pick barn. Hayrides and a kids’ play area keep the little ones happy. 89 Pleasant St. 508-651-1539; lookoutfarm.com
4 DEMERITT HILL FARM
Lee, New Hampshire
Pick your own from not just one but two patches at this beautiful farm. You can either walk or ride out there, but if you’re in a rush, stop by the store to select a pumpkin. A wide variety of painted pumpkins and gourds are available too. Hop aboard a hayride or hike the trail network for more family fun. 66 Lee Road. 603-868-2111; demeritthillfarm.com
North Scituate, Rhode Island
Pick a pumpkin with a legacy: Gilbert Barden added pumpkins to his grandfather’s orchard in the 1980s, and today you can still snap them right from the vine. A family-friendly farm only 13 miles from Providence. 56 Elmdale Road. 401-934-1413; bardenfamilyorchard.com
Starting the last weekend of September, take a spooky hayride past the three-mile corn maze and through a haunted forest to the PYO pumpkin patch. Take a break at the picnic pavilion to admire your treasure. 277 Lavigne Road. 802-655-3440; sammazzafarms.com —compiled by Kelsey Liebenson–Morse
For a complete list of our favorite pumpkin patches, visit: NewEngland.com/pumpkinpatches
and reap the harvest. Now he was earning a king’s ransom; the orange paperlined “honesty system” cash box, with its “Pay here, thanks,” was always brimming by day’s end.
Most of Ben’s profit went straight into a savings account, but some was spent on the kinds of things young men dream about. Whereas the pumpkin magically afforded Cinderella’s carriage to the ball, the proceeds of Ben’s pumpkins yielded his first snowmobile (royal blue) and then his first four-wheeler. Then, when he graduated from high school, his pumpkins funded much of college: courses like environmental science, forestry, and (of course) finance. However, while acquiring his higher education, Ben missed four sales seasons. In his absence, his mom and dad threatened to rename their front lawn
“Wholesale: Ben’s Parents’ Pumpkins.”
“But I am going to get royalties?” The Pumpking asked, incredulously.
Now a quarter-century after his business sprouted, Ben teaches forestry at the local tech center. He lives next door to his parents, surrounded by hay-
fields and cattle pasture, and his backroad business is still sovereign. What has changed, however, is that these days, Ben’s scepter is his omnipresent cell phone.
When I catch up with him this foggy morning, he’s scrolling though text messages while simultaneously rolling up the ghostly row cover that protects the pumpkins from increas-
ingly chilly nights. Soon the lawn is revealed: a silent crowd of orange faces, 20 kinds, ranging in size from the fistsized ‘Jack Be Little’ to the chunky ‘Howden’ and ‘Long Island Cheese’, right up to the hassock-sized monsters of ‘Dill’s Atlantic Giant’. There’s enough raw jack-o’-lantern material here to gratify every kid in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.
Ben pockets the phone as he stoops to inspect his squashes for soft spots. Aha … Upon finding a few, he clenches each one and, swiveling toward Hunger Mountain basking in the distance, pitches the punky orb across the road to a group of the family steers, black-andwhite Holsteins who wait hopefully in their corral for treats. Soon there’s bright-orange pulp stuck on their dark muzzles as they leer back at him, The Pumpking’s jesters.
Ben’s Pumpkins,Snug Valley Farm, 824 Pumpkin Lane, East Hardwick, VT. 802-472-6185; benspumpkins.com/ bens-pumpkins. More fall fun at: NewEngland.com/PumpkinFestivals
When Ben was 6, he learned that if he planted a 50-cent packet of seeds, tended his seedlings into thriving plants, and then sold his harvest of 24 portly squashes for a dollar apiece from the front lawn, he’d make what we grownups call a great rate of return.
ongratulations! Your child has been accepted at one of the many fine colleges in Boston. As you plan to drop off your little tax deduction, here are a few things you should know, especially if you’re from outside the area.
Boston has many institutions of higher education, largely because early settlers with academic backgrounds decided that the easiest course of action would be to stop right here and establish colleges. People with more useful skills (like farming and meatpacking) pushed westward, where the soil was better and there was more parking.
On college move-in day, more than 200,000 students descend on this historic city to begin classes, learn life skills, and ignore text messages from their parents. As you plan for the big day, be aware that roads in Boston, unlike those in other parts of the country, do not run in straight lines. In the Northeast, thoroughfares were originally laid out by wild game, wandering cows, and Native Americans who didn’t have to get anywhere in a hurry. Later road builders, out of laziness or sheer spite, simply laid asphalt over those paths. They didn’t do it on purpose to confound people from away; that was just an added benefit.
In Boston, the result is a Gordian knot of roadways that city planners have dealt with by helpfully removing most street signs, since they would only confuse outsiders further. (Note that Boston residents have never really recovered from the Big Dig, a multibillion-dollar project designed to
Red Sox bumper stickers on their cars in a bid to earn some consideration, but that doesn’t work; all the serious combatants in Boston have those stickers.
Having located your child’s new domicile, the next challenge will be to find parking less than a mile away. Good luck with that. Much of the parking in Boston is hoseyed (a New England term that means “spoken for”) by residents with parking permits that have been passed from generation to generation along with the silver. On move-in day, you’ll be competing with thousands of other families for the city’s remaining seven parking spaces. It’s basically a citywide cross between musical chairs and a demolition derby.
Once you’ve parked, your next challenge will be unloading your kid’s stuff—usually equivalent to the contents of a well-stocked Ikea—into a dorm room the size of the average prison cell. You won’t discover this until you’ve hauled the stuff up three flights of stairs—in Boston, elevators wouldn’t be historically accurate—at which point you’ll have to carry half of it back down again to the musical accompaniment of your offspring’s tears and/or whining.
Note: If your child is enrolling at your alma mater, do not take her to your old dorm to show her the room you once occupied. In the days ahead, she’ll find plenty of ways to embarrass herself on her own.
ensure that no one would ever know what direction they were headed in. Some residents have been driving around since the completion of the project in 2004 just trying to get home.) Because of all this, Boston drivers have evolved into a fairly aggressive species; Boston is the only city in America where the response to putting on your turn signal is “Oh, you think so?” Some visitors have tried putting
Finally, it’s time to say goodbye. The moment of parting is often fraught with emotion—mostly relief on the part of all involved that you’re finally leaving. Yes, there may be tears, as you realize that you now have to drive out of Boston. Don’t panic—simply take any major route out of the city. Whatever you do, if you’re headed in the wrong direction, do not turn around and go back through the city. There are many highways that will take you around the city by way of Portland, Providence, or Albany, and you’ll save time in the long run.
Once you’ve parked, your next challenge will be unloading your kid’s stuff and hauling it up three flights of stairs—in Boston, elevators wouldn’t be historically accurate.
tart by selecting the best specimens. Pick a sunny day and collect only dry leaves. Avoid leaves with any damage, because these imperfections will be accentuated when the leaves are dry. Try to find at least four or five leaves from each species so that you’ll have a good representation.
Within a half hour of collecting, place each leaf between two layers of paper towel or blotting paper … If you wait much longer, the leaves begin to dry out and lose color. The trick to keeping the colors sharp is to remove the moisture as quickly as possible. Gently put the leaf (with its paper) between the pages of a large book … Keep at least 10 pages between leaves, and don’t put in too many; use a second book if you have a lot of leaves.
Stack at least five more books (at least five pounds of pressure) on top, and let them sit for 10 days or more. Keep the books in a dry room (no humidifiers). For best results, change the blotting paper after the first few days of pressing. —
—Ruth Gordon Jones (born October 30, 1896, in Quincy, Massachusetts; died 1985 in Edgartown, Massachusetts). Although most famous to today’s audiences for her performance in the 1971 cult classic movie Harold and Maude , Ruth Gordon enjoyed a 70-year career as both a stage and film actress and as a noted screenwriter.
OF ’38
compiled by Julia Shipley9/21/1938
date when the most powerful hurricane on record hit New England
mph speed at which the storm zoomed from Long Island up through New England
25,000 homes damaged
26,000 automobiles destroyed
430,000 logging truckloads’ worth of downed timber
10,121 miles of road cleared by the axes and handsaws of the New England Forest Emergency crew
FIVE billion $: adjusted cost of infrastructure repairs
186 mph strongest hurricane land gusts ever recorded
600 estimated lives lost in New England
ONE lighthouse keeper perished: Walter Eberle, swept away when Rhode Island’s Whale Rock Light collapsed
million acres (three times the size of Massachusetts): footprint of the storm’s damage
32–52 years: projected wait until the next catastrophic hurricane hits Rhode Island and Cape Cod
Read more: Thirty-Eight: The Hurricane That Transformed New England by Stephen Long (Yale, 2016)
The lowdown fresh from Yankee’s apple expert, senior food editor Amy
Traverso.
BY JOE BILLS
oday apples have become the world’s third most widely grown fruit, behind only bananas and grapes. Here in New England, apples are an essential late-summer and fall staple. But with some larger orchards now growing 100 varieties or more, it takes an expert just to sort it all out. Amy Traverso, Yankee ’s senior food editor and author of The Apple Lover’s Cookbook , shares her thoughts on getting the most out of apple season.
“The two things that will make the biggest difference in how your dish turns out are the firmness or tenderness and the sweetness or tartness of the fruit,” Traverso says. “It’s good to be aware of where an apple falls along those spectra. A softer apple, like a McIntosh, will dissolve if cooked too long. A firmer variety, like Calville Blanc d’Hiver, can be heated much longer without cooking down.”
In her book, Traverso divides apples into four categories: Firm–tart (Granny Smith, Rhode Island Greening, Northern Spy, Roxbury Russet) work in rich desserts that need some acidity; firm–sweet (Golden Delicious, Braeburn, Ginger Gold, Pink Lady) are best for delicate cakes and savory baked dishes; tender–tart (McIntosh, Cortland, Macoun) are best for sauces and for eating fresh; and tender–sweet (Gala, Fuji) are eaten fresh or used in salads or quickcooking dishes such as pancakes.
In many recipes, Traverso prefers a mix-and-match approach: “Using several varieties of apples from the same category will introduce a spectrum of flavors that will give your dish a unique taste. In dishes like pies or applesauce, the more varieties that are included, the more complex, and delicious, the flavor will be.”
The longer a dish cooks, the firmer the apple should be. “My grandma made apple pie with Macs,” Traverso recalls. “They were delicious, but they were essentially applesauce pies.” She recommends using softer apples for dishes that cook quickly, like muffins, and firmer ones for dishes that cook 45 minutes or more.
Buying straight from the orchard or at a farmers’ market is best, of course. In the supermarket, buying fruit marked “local” gives you your best shot at reasonable freshness. Indicators like color and
firmness often can’t be trusted, because growers and researchers have developed controlledatmosphere storage methods to manipulate the fruit.
Even if you’re limited to supermarket apples, you can still mix and match to get interesting flavors. A combination of half Granny Smith and half Yellow Delicious, Traverso notes, results in a complex sweet-and-tart flavor. Larger grocery stores, however, are likely to carry a varied array of apples in season. Pink Pearl and Calville Blanc d’Hiver are two underappreciated varieties that she recommends keeping an eye out for.
Historically, many apples were prized primarily because they kept well. Technology has rendered that concern somewhat obsolete. If you don’t have a root cellar, Traverso recommends storing apples in a
paper bag in your refrigerator’s produce drawer. “I’ve successfully stored Newtown Pippin and Northern Spy well into spring,” she says. “Also, pies can be made and then frozen prior to cooking. This is a great way to get extended use out of your firmer apples.”
One of Traverso’s favorite recipes for using up lots of apples is apple butter: “It’s easy, and it cooks in a slow cooker overnight. I cook the apples—as many varieties as possible for the most complex flavor—with a little apple cider. Once they’re simmering, I turn the heat down, leave the lid ajar, and go to bed. Some slow cookers run hotter than others, so try this out during the day first and keep an eye on it. But by morning you’ll have apple butter, and your whole house will smell amazing.”
More favorites at: NewEngland .com/AppleRecipes
Keith arrived in our store one winter day in 2014 Stephen, my son, met with him
Keith said, “I make jewelry and my great-greatgrandfather was a clipper ship sea captain from Maine ”
They talked for awhile Keith showed Stephen some of his designs. Stephen was impressed and said, “You’ve got to come back when my dad is here ”
Keith did return, and we delved deeper Keith’s greatgreat-grandfather was Captain John Drew of Hallowell on the Kennebec River Captain Drew made two trips to the Far East as captain of the clipper ship The Franklin Captain Drew carried ice over and brought back sugar and rice What was remarkable was that Captain Drew, in addition to the traditional ship’s logs, kept a personal journal that still survives today, relating daily life on board; the beauty and vastness of the sea, the storms, and challenges of running a clipper ship The journals go deep. The Captain shared his innermost thoughts, his doubts, fears, and longing for family and home
Somehow I always imagined clipper ships in constant motion, sails full of wind, the ship surging forward Captain Drew shares days with his ship becalmed, sails slack on glassy seas, and his concerns for food and water holding out Then the winds return and they are on their way again.
Keith loaned us Captain Drew’s journals, and for two years we transcribed his daily observations We have posted the original pages with our transcriptions on our website We have not changed or edited anything In the history of clipper ships I don’t believe there is anything quite like the Captain’s journals
If you would like a first-hand account of life on board The Franklin, do visit our Clipper Ship Trade Wind Jewelry Collection at www CrossJewelers com/journals
Keith follows a path similar to his great-greatgrandfather Traveling to the Far East every two years to buy gems: rubies, emeralds, and sapphires; then returning home to design and make his jewelry His story of his most recent gem expedition is also on-line, located in our Clipper Ship Trade Wind Jewelry Collection
Cross Jewelers –RHP
In 1986, the Red Sox advanced to the World Series for just the fourth time since 1919. Before the series began, Buckner told an interviewer, “Your dreams are that you are going to have a great series, and win. And the nightmares are that you are going to let the winning run score on a ground ball through your legs …”
The New York Mets were heavily favored, but after five games, Boston led, three games to two, one win away from their first championship in 67 years. Game 6 was tied until Boston scored twice in the top of the 10th inning. Only three outs to go for Boston. The first two Mets batters in the 10th quickly popped out. The Shea Stadium scoreboard flashed a message prematurely congratulating the Sox.
Three singles and a wild pitch later, the score was tied, celebrations on hold. When Mets outfielder Mookie Wilson chopped a slow drive down the first-base line, Buckner, mov ing slowly on injured legs, got into position, but the ball rolled past his glove and into the outfield, letting the winning run score. Two nights later, the Mets won Game 7 and the World Series. The dreaded Curse of the Bambino not only lived on but had a new poster boy: Bill Buckner.
In 1999, when The Sporting News ranked the 25 greatest moments in baseball history,
Buckner’s World Series miscue ranked eighth.
The Red Sox released Buckner in 1987, but he returned as a free agent in 1990. When he was first introduced, Red Sox
In 2008, during a hearing on the economic crisis, Representative John Yarmuth of Kentucky ridiculed former Federal
Actor Charlie Sheen purchased the “Buckner Ball” at auction in 1992 for $93,000. It was later purchased by songwriter Seth Swirsky, who loaned it to the Mets for display at their team museum. In 2012, Swirsky sold the ball for $418,250.
Buckner declined an invitation after the Red Sox finally won a championship in 2004, but three years later he received another four-minute standing ovation, throwing out the first pitch
defined by the biggest play he didn’t make.
Where is it written that the adventurous soul should suffer aching feet? Our shoes are lovingly crafted with soft leather and firm support, to keep you happy as you roam.
When was the last time you considered “60” as old? Today’s 60- and 70-year-olds are running marathons, starting second careers, and generally bashing the traditional idea of “aging.” Yes, it’s finally happening —our youth-focused culture is acknowledging that there is a lot of life in what many call “the third chapter,” or retirement.
Part of the reason for this trend is the “silver tsunami” that is closer every year. By 2030, we will have more 65-year-olds than any other time in U.S. history. In addition to the sheer magnitude of people, this group has a longer life expectancy than any prior generation —and will live longer with more complex diseases,
thanks to improved medical care. This means their medical costs will be greater.
Not only that, but this group of retirees has greater expectations of their retirement than any prior generation. After all, boomers have redefined every other social institution they experienced; from marrying later, having children later, moving more often, etc.
Today’s retirees are significantly more active than any previous generation. They are physically and mentally more active, and they want to travel more, start new projects, and find new purpose in life.
To learn more about CCRCs, start by investigating these communities.
Unlike their grandparents, this group can’t count on their children living around the corner. Most adult children are more far-flung than ever, sometimes living across the country. No longer is there the reliable daughter across town—today she may be heading up a company in California. So the traditional 1950s family support model that served for the previous generation is becoming defunct.
Given that people are living longer, and seeking more from their retirement years, and given that social dynamics have changed, how can someone stay independent, and still ensure their health care is covered?
There is one solution that has been quietly operating for the past 100 years in the U.S., whose structure and practices are uniquely positioned for this generation. Continuing Care Retirement Communities (CCRCs) could be described as “retirement communities with benefits.” There are 1,900 across the country, but just a handful in New England, and they are often misunderstood.
CCRCs, which are also called Life Plan Communities, provide three levels of care: independent, assisted living, and skilled nursing. The critical differentiator is that people enter the community when they are independent, and can live safely on their own. They enjoy active, independent lives, free of the worries and time consuming work of home maintenance.
With the addition of housekeeping services, inside and outside maintenance, transportation, a meal program, fitness activities, and 24-hour emergency call service, residents have more time to enjoy life, meet friends, and pursue new interests. They create fast friendships, and enjoy the benefits of community living. Meanwhile, they have the assurance that if
and when their health needs change, they can transition within the community.
Although CCRCs look like beautiful retirement communities, complete with gyms, pools, libraries and arts rooms, moving there is not a real estate decision. CCRCs are an insurance product, and they are governed by each state’s regulatory body. Therefore, a percentage of a resident’s entrance fee and monthly service fee are considered a tax deduction as a prepaid medical expense—a real advantage for many.
Most CCRCs in New England are not-for-profit, and offer a Benevolence Clause, which states that if a resident has outlived their assets (and has not intentionally impoverished themselves) they will not be asked to leave due to lack of funds. The pricing varies by organization, but on the whole, the larger apartment or cottage you prefer, the more costly the entrance fee and monthly service fee.
Within CCRCs there are contract differences. Some are Type A, which are all-inclusive plans, meaning that as you move from one level of care to the next your monthly fee does not increase (except for two additional meals per day). Type B or modified contracts offer targeted insurance, typically providing a portion of your health care fee at a discount off of market price, when you need health care. Type C contracts provide independent living at a lower rate, and then offer health care at full market rate.
The solution that CCRCs offer to the next generation of retirees is clear—peace of mind for you and your family, a home where you can be as independent as you like, where you can build a community of friends, secure in the knowledge that if anything changes in your health down the road, you have chosen where you will receive your care.
HOW THE FIVE LAM SIBLINGS (AND THEIR PARENTS) GREW A LOVE OF FARMING AND FLOWERS INTO A THRIVING FAMILY BUSINESS.
If the flower world is one of fashion as much as horticulture, with varieties competing against rival “brands” for their spots in the bridal bouquet or Instagram still life, then dahlias are surely the “it” blossoms of the moment. Blooming in time-lapse videos, they explode in early fall like fireworks in a stunning range of hues: from scarlets and inky purples to vibrant oranges and yellows to the palest blush pink. In size and shape they come as pompoms and Spirographs, from quarter-size minis to blooms as big as dinner plates, with perfectly shaped, tightly packed, repetitive petal arrangements that draw the viewer—mandala-like—into something of a trance.
Dahlias can be fickle beauties, a bit tricky to grow, but at Fivefork Farms in Upton, Massachusetts, a team of five media-savvy siblings has nurtured a business using sustainable practices to grow head-turning, long-lasting blooms, while bringing a new agricultural model to their customers.
The story of how the Lam siblings came to flower farming begins with one sister’s radical change of course, which led to a familial domino effect. In 2012, Grace Lam jumped ship from her budding career as a stock trader in New York and returned to her childhood home in Randolph, Massachusetts. Heeding an urge to begin growing things, she interned for a season raising vegetables at Dragonfly Farms in Pepperell, and then “ripped up” her parents’ lawn to experiment with selling flowers as a business. Soon, brother Lyh-Hsin, who had just wrapped up work with Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans, took note of her project, as did brother Lyh-Rhen, sister Lyh-Ping, and twin sister Joyce.
The desire to work together and live closer to the land became a gravitational pull for all five, and soon Grace was writing up a business plan. With a few calculated risks, the Lams bought a farm in the rolling hills of the Blackstone Valley—land that the family of cotton-gin inventor Eli Whitney had farmed for four generations— and began growing flowers.
“We knew we wanted to farm, and we considered all sorts of vegetables,” Grace remembers. “We also knew we wanted to grow sustainably and do something healthy for the land and for ourselves. After a lot of research and trial and error, we saw that there was a hole in the market for fresh, locally grown flowers.”
“Almost everything we knew about the wholesale flower business,” Lyh-Rhen adds, “was that [the flowers] were coming from very far away—Holland or South America—and weren’t grown organically, let alone with an eye to sustainability.”
Inspired by the thriving CSA (communitysupported agriculture) model, in which consumers buy upfront shares in exchange for produce throughout the growing season, the Lams saw an opportunity to apply the same model to flowers. Now they’re part of a nationwide “farm-to - vase” movement that encourages people to trade hothouse roses for local blooms.
1 TEMPERATURE: “Planting time is the trickiest. You can’t plant dahlias too early, when ground temps are still too cold. If it’s looking like a very damp, wet stretch, tubers are prone to rot. In the Northeast, early to mid-May is probably the best time, when the ground temp is about 60 degrees.”
2 LIGHT: “Dahlias like sunlight and should be planted in a sunny location: a minimum of 6 to 8 hours of sunlight a day. Any less and your plants won’t yield as many blooms.”
3 MOISTURE: “Because dahlia tubers are prone to rot, it’s important to make sure that the soil isn’t too heavy. It should drain freely and easily; if not, amend it with peat or sand. If the amended soil is damp, you won’t even need to water until the shoots start emerging.”
4 SOURCING: “Dahlia tubers are readily available from many growers online. Tubers are essentially the root stock of the dahlia plant and, once planted, will multiply in the ground every season. A dahlia plant grown from one tuber will yield multiple tubers once dug up in the fall.”
5 KEEPING: “In the Northeast, our winter temps are just too cold, and dahlias’ thinskinned tubers will freeze. Tubers can be pulled each fall, cleaned, and stored in a cool, dark room until next spring. It’s best to dig them up a couple of weeks after a frost, when the tubers have hardened o .” Packing them in peat moss, wood shavings, or vermiculite in a plastic bag punctured with fine holes will keep them clean and dry.
For more information about growing dahlias, contact the American Dahlia Society: dahlia.org
Lyh-Rhen Lam, right, does the flower arranging for Fivefork’s CSA deliveries and some private clients. His creativity is tempered by his respect for the plants he spends so much time with. “I prefer arrangements that aren’t too ‘tight’ but let the dahlias show their wild nature,” he says. He also likes to keep colors within the same general family.
STEP 1: Consider where the arrangement will be displayed, and from what angles it will be viewed. For example, for a dinner-table arrangement such as this one, he suggests a wide vessel rather than a tall one.
STEP 2: To support an arrangement and to give it structure, Lyh-Rhen often forms a ball out of chicken wire, places it in the bottom of the vase, and threads the stems into the holes. Alternatively, he creates a lattice at the opening of the vase using floral tape. “Duct tape will work, too,” he notes.
STEP 3: Next, Lyh-Rhen builds the shape in “pleasing proportions,” as he describes it, with special attention to height. “Imagine placing your bent elbow on the table where the flowers will be displayed,” he says. “The majority of the work should be below the wrist so that you can see your dinner companions.”
STEP 4: Larger blooms go in first, such as the dinner-plate-sized beauty ‘Café au Lait’. Then he fills in the gaps with smaller pompom-sized dahlias, as well as shiso, sage, hydrangeas, rose hips, and geraniums. “The trick is to stop before it gets crowded or busy,” Lyh-Rhen advises. “You want to be able to see each flower.”
Fivefork Farms officially launched in 2012 with production on five of the Lams’ 38 acres. Today, they grow 100 dahlia varieties—the Lams’ star flower—but also provide all manner of blooms throughout the growing season, beginning with tulips and ranunculus in May to summer’s brown-eyed susans, zinnias, foxglove, and sweet william.
Grace, the youngest sibling, is the lead farmer, managing planting and harvesting. She and her father, Daniel (“Papa Lam”), manage their booth at Worcester’s Canal District Farmers’ Market on Saturdays; he handles deliveries, as well, and serves as Fivefork’s de facto brand ambassador.
Grace’s mother, Helen, tends the greenhouse and helps with the seeding and starting of plants. Lyh-Hsin spends most of his days in the field with Grace but also wears the infrastructure-andoperations hat, developing irrigation and fertilization plans. Creative projects and branding go to Lyh-Rhen, who does graphic design and creates arrangements for the CSA and farmers’ markets. Joyce and Lyh-Ping aren’t currently involved in day-to-day operations—they have jobs off the farm—but most weekends they’re in the fields.
“There was definitely a Green Acres vibe when we first started,” says LyhRhen. “This,” he adds, pointing to the many rows of flowers and the hoop house, “is much different from the experiments we did at Mom’s.”
“We’re really happy that our flowers are in demand,” Grace says. CSA shares sell out quickly weeks in advance of each season’s first delivery date. “We work really hard, and it’s stressful,” she notes. “There are so many variables in farming, and you need to be on your toes, responding daily to a host of challenges—some that you can control and others that you just can’t. But we owe a large part of our early success to so many of the other CSAs and small businesses at the farmers’ market that we started with.” Not to mention the power of family and the simple pleasure of a beautiful bouquet. fiveforkfarms.com
Functional yet artistic: A hand-forged music stand is enhanced with graceful tendrils. OPPOSITE : Nick Moreau at work in Woodbridge, Connecticut.
“The heart and soul of blacksmithing is the anvil work and hammering,” he says. “There’s so much beauty in the process.”
ire, heat, tools, noise—it’s like a guy’s dream,” grins Nicholas Wicks Moreau, a Connecticut blacksmith, surrounded by the fruits of this conflagration: music stands twined with metal ivy, a nicely proportioned garden gate, a massive chandelier.
For the past year, Nick, 28, has worked side by side with his friend, potter Trevor Youngberg, in Youngberg’s barn, which Nick helped raise. But the road here—to this post-and-beam beauty in Woodbridge—has been circuitous and curving, not unlike the graceful bottle opener he bangs out while we talk, later imprinting it with the Wicks Forge stamp.
“It was a humbling experience, too,” Nick says, leaning into his great-grandfather’s anvil. “I’d never been so bad at something for so long.”
Though he never knew his great-grandfather, who started Wicks Welding in the 1920s, “there was always a picture of him, working on the pylons for the World’s Fair, in my grandfather’s house in Queens,” Nick remembers. When the family operation moved to Danbury, Connecticut, the next generation continued welding. And when his grandfather, Edward, retired, the tools retired, too—to his grandparents’ garage.
Meanwhile, the arts were slumbering in Nick’s blood: His mother is an artist; his grandfather also repaired violins and cellos; and Nick loved pottery and carpentry. But he’d never worked with metal. “My background is construction,” he notes. “So I like things to be artistic and functional— bringing beauty to handmade objects that are used every day.”
In 2011, while in Scotland studying for his master’s in ecological economics, he decided to hunt up a blacksmith. “I wanted to have an artistic experience,”
he explains. “Blacksmithing is still ingrained in the consciousness there. They’re still listed in the Yellow Pages.” And sure enough, there it was: The Blazing Blacksmith. “The bus dropped me off in the middle of nowhere, and here was this rustic shop, tools everywhere, and I knew instantly this was where I wanted to be.”
“I don’t work with anyone,” Jim Whitson, a master blacksmith, told Nick politely, and then offered him a cup of tea. A week later, Jim changed his mind, and Nick became his appren-
tice in a 3-D environment of handforged gates, furniture, railings, and sculptures. “It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before,” he marvels. Jim started him making 130 ivy leaves for a work-in-progress gate, cutting and grinding each leaf, tooling it for veins, making up to 300 hammer hits per cutout. Then Nick forged his own first item: an ivy-leaf fire poker.
“The heart and soul of blacksmithing is the anvil work and hammering,” he says. “When you start, you’re constantly adjusting how and when you hit, angling the hammer, angling the poker, and if you don’t have that down, you won’t do it properly. Apprenticing was great—I got to put in all that repeti-
For more information go to www.YankeeMagazine.com/clicks
tion, and see how a master approached his craft. Jim is an artist and a craftsman. And he was really patient; by the end of the year I was doing more complex things.”
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When Nick returned to the U.S. and opened his grandfather’s garage, “I could recognize every tool in there” for the first time. But what really motivated him was when someone else offered to clear out his grandfather’s equipment: “That’s when I said, ‘I want your tools, I want them in our family, and I want to use them.’” Nick researched and fabricated his own forge, set up his water bucket, and started making a few little things to sell online, working out of the garage. Word of mouth, his photo on the June 2015 cover of Popular Mechanics for a story about the new generation of “makers,” and growing recognition have led to larger commissions.
Blacksmithing is all of those things that Nick described early on: an elemental synthesis of earth, air, fire, water, and noise. Sparks fly; there’s a rhythmic, timeless clanging that feels as though it bridges the ages; and metal heated up in a 1400° forge and plunged into water practically spits— you can almost hear it exhale.
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Nick sets up a rhythm, flattening the metal against this anvil that’s like a noble, battered old boxer: “I like using my hands, turning raw materials into something you use. Back in the day, that’s what blacksmiths did. No one’s doing it because it’s lucrative but because there’s a passion and a love for it. There’s so much beauty in the process.” He hands me a sinuously curved bottle opener. “Most of my tools are older than both of us put together,” Nick smiles. “They have a life of their own … I think that’s pretty cool.”
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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 turned off Pocket Mountain Road in Ossipee, New Hampshire, onto a driveway that led us down a gentle slope to a one-story, brown-shingled, modern-looking house. After carefully parking next to a huge, expansive deck on the right side, we looked up toward the northwest. OMG! We’ve seen lots of wonderful views during our many years of moseying around New England for Yankee, but, as far as we can remember (we’re sorta old), this had to be among the—or perhaps the —very best. From the deck it starts with a beautifully landscaped lawn extending down to a hardwood forest. Beyond that one looks across a valley to Lake Ossipee in the far distance. And we could identify the pointy summit of Mount Chocorua on the horizon.
While we stood gaping outside our car, we were joined by owners Stephen Walker and his wife, Romaine (“Romie” to her many friends). Stephen communicated his cordial greeting to us via a battery-powered speaker that he pressed against his throat, this as a result of a cancer operation years ago. But thanks to his vibrant, engaging, and fun personality, readily apparent to us, we soon pretty much forgot about it.
A few minutes later we were settled in the gorgeous, spacious living/library/dining/kitchen area with Romie on a flower-print sofa that, despite appearing in great shape, was once in the Colorado Springs home in which she grew up. “I used to constantly jump on this couch when I was a little girl,” she said. Then we learned that Stephen was from Concord, Massachusetts, graduated from Harvard in 1954, worked for a Wall Street firm for
Definitely. And available this month at a surprisingly reasonable price.
OPPOSITE , BOTTOM : Owners Stephen and Romie Walker, who designed their New Hampshire “dream house” themselves 10 years ago.
OPPOSITE , TOP : The “OMG” view from the front deck. THIS PAGE , FROM TOP : Approaching the house from the driveway; the home’s comfortable living/dining area. Most of the furniture is also available for sale.
many years—work that took him around the world—and enjoyed sailing from their oceanside Connecticut home. So how in the world did they ever meet? we wondered. Well, one fine day in 1957, when Romie was visiting relatives on the East Coast, “we met at a party at the Club of Odd Volumes in Boston,” she said, laughing. “We married a few months later and proceeded to have our four now-grown sons within the next six years.” (Incidentally, the Club of Odd Volumes still exists; it’s on Beacon Street.)
After Stephen retired and successfully confronted his medical situation, they began looking around New Hampshire for a quiet getaway, finally settling on this property in Ossipee. “One look at the view did it for us,” Romie said. “And we loved the peace and quiet.” So they designed their “dream house” themselves and then,
in 2007, hired a contractor to build it for them.
But now, 10 years later, with both of them in their eighties, they’ve decided to settle into an Exeter retirement community (Riverwoods) and put their gorgeous Ossipee property on the market. “Do you think our $500,000 price is too low?” Romie asked us at some point. We did—and do—but didn’t feel it was appropriate for us to say so. Incidentally, they’d probably sell their furniture, too, and it’s gorgeous.
As to the seven rooms (plus a separate garage and eight acres), the kitchen has cherry cabinets, granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, a builtin breakfast area, cherry flooring … Oh, it’s “the nuts.” So are the master suite (can you imagine waking up every morning to that view out your bedroom’s glass doors?), the family room, the office, three bedrooms in a wing
that can be closed off, the three fireplaces … and, well, the entire house is truly special. If you bought the furniture, you could move in tomorrow and not change a thing.
Before taking our leave, we had to walk out on that deck again. By the time this issue is in your hands, the foliage colors out across that view will be breathtaking. Might we say that it’ll be the best view of fall foliage in all of New England?
Well, we’re not enthusiastic about always proclaiming “the best” this or that, as most magazines, including this one, do these days. But, well, in this case … OMG yes!
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Shucking oysters at Summer Shack in Cambridge, Mass. OPPOSITE , FROM TOP : Chef Jasper White; White’s classic Oyster Stew; White’s Summer Shack restaurant in Cambridge features a casual, rustic ambience.
Shucking oysters at Summer Shack in Cambridge, Mass. OPPOSITE , FROM TOP : Jasper White; classic Oyster Stew; White’s Summer Shack restaurant in Cambridge features a rustic
by Annie B . Copps
or too long, New England cuisine has suffered an identity crisis—or, more specifically, a split identity. On the one side, the pride of the region: fried clams, lobster rolls, and a perfect bowl of chowder, made all the more delicious by the patina of history. On the other side, a culinary punch line of underseasoned fish and overcooked potatoes. The resourcefulness and frugality of early New Englanders inspired cod cakes and Indian pudding—but compared with the culinary glories of, say, France, which at that time was enjoying the splendors of the Ancien Régime, our food was decidedly plain and practical, the product of a harsher climate than Europe’s or even the American South’s.
“While the New England culinary profile was framed by climate and geography—short growing season, poor soil, proximity of the ocean— the moral culture was dictated by the Puritans and their Boston Brahmin descendants,” says Professor Merry White, a food anthropologist at Boston University. Plain food wasn’t just practical; it was a safeguard against the perils of sensuality. As the country grew and the population began to diversify, early attempts to broaden the local diet were met with resistance. “Italians who immigrated to Boston were ‘processed’ in settlement houses where the cooking classes trained oil and garlic out of their repertory,” White says. “Boiling was the only moral cooking method. One young social worker at the turn of the 20th century wrote in her casebook about a particularly recalcitrant family: ‘Still eating spaghetti; not yet assimilated,’ she wrote, despairingly.”
And so New England cooking mostly retained its rather plain reputation through the end of the “Continental” cuisine era of the 1970s. Meanwhile, the tides were shifting in the South and in California, where chefs began to explore the notion that, just as in Europe, America could produce legitimately praiseworthy regional food at the fine-dining level. In New England, we saw Chinese, Portuguese, and Italian cuisines work their way into the mainstream, but it took another decade before a few young chefs— most notably Jasper White—escaped from the rut of heavy sauces and overly fancified French cuisine. In the early 1980s White began reexamining our
WELCOME TO THE NEXT LEVEL OF “EATING LOCAL.” IN BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE, A GROWING GROUP OF CHEFS IS FINDING INSPIRATION NOT JUST IN FARM-FRESH INGREDIENTS BUT IN TRADITIONAL, AND SOMETIMES LONG-FORGOTTEN, NEW ENGLAND RECIPES.
regional heritage at restaurants such as Jasper’s and Seasons. He hedged his bets that New England cooking could stand on its own; he made the seasonal ingredients of the Northeast his muse, turning out elegant recipes with a respectful hand. His first cookbook, Jasper White’s Cooking from New England , published in 1989, has become a classic.
With White leading the movement, other chefs followed. The availability and quality of local ingredients began to change as producers partnered with chefs. Mussel, clam, and oyster “farms” soon dotted the coastline. Farmers’ markets sprang up, with their fresh herbs and heirloom tomatoes, and long-shuttered gristmills began grinding whitecap flint corn again.
Thirty years later, Jasper White is still going strong, shifting from fine dining to his large, family-friendly Summer Shack restaurants (in Boston, Cambridge, Dedham, and Connecticut’s Mohegan Sun casino), yet he’s still cooking contemporary renditions of the classics. And now a new crew of Boston-area chefs is approaching our heritage as a source of inspiration rather than something to resist. Not content to merely source their ingredients from local farms, they’re returning to traditional dishes and reworking them in their own ways.
It’s a turning point for New England food, and it’s certainly not limited to the Boston area. But there’s a particular sense of momentum there. In addition to Jasper White, we spoke to four other chefs who have embraced what we’ll call the “new New England cuisine”: Marc Sheehan of Loyal Nine; Jeremy Sewall of Island Creek Oyster Bar and Row 34 (which has a second location in Portsmouth, New Hampshire); Mary Dumont of the newly opened Cultivar; and Will Gilson of Puritan & Company. And we also came away with five easy-to-make recipes that proudly serve up tradition with a twist.
JASPER WHITE’S OYSTER STEW
TOTAL TIME : 45 MINUTES ; HANDS- ON TIME : 40 MINUTES
Here’s a classic that needs no updating. Briny oysters, a bit of onion and celery, and cream make a perfect trio. The recipe is adapted from the The Summer Shack Cookbook: The Complete
Guide to Shore Food by Jasper White (W.W. Norton, 2011). White loves serving this dish with some fino (dry) or amontillado (medium-dry) sherry on the side: “It’s a nice complement to the brininess of the oysters.”
NOTE: If you’re not comfortable shucking oysters yourself, ask your fishmonger to do it. Just be sure to save the liquor (natural juice).
1 pint freshly shucked oysters (12 to 16 oysters, depending on size) in their juices (see “Note,” above)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 small leek, white parts only, finely diced (or 1/2 small yellow onion, finely diced)
2 small ribs celery, finely diced
1 1/2 cups milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Garnish: finely minced chives and leek (pale-green part, optional)
Strain the oysters from their liquid; place each one in a separate container and refrigerate.
In a 4- to 5-quart heavy-bottomed pot over medium-high heat, melt the butter until it begins to foam. Add the leek and celery and cook, stirring often, until the vegetables are thoroughly softened, but not browned, 8 to 10 minutes. Reduce heat to medium; stir in the milk, cream, and oyster liquid and cook until hot; add the oysters and poach until they begin to curl at the edges, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Remove from the heat and let the flavors meld for a few minutes before serving.
Reheat the stew if necessary, but don’t boil it. Divide among bowls and sprinkle with chives and leek. Serve with sherry (optional). Yield: 4 to 6 servings
In a November 2015 review of Loyal Nine in Boston magazine, food writer Corby Kummer pondered the phenomenon of “Boston’s braver chefs” who are in the “process of reinventing New England’s culinary vernacular.” Kummer was somewhat skeptical, while supporting the idea in theory. “Whether [Sheehan] can summon food that’s tasty, rather than just an academic exercise,” he wrote, “is the real question.” And it’s true that Sheehan and his earnest team are digging deep into the history of early America, serving thoughtfully prepared and thoroughly researched food that takes inspiration specifically from Colonial coastal Massa-
It’s a turning point for New England food, and it’s certainly not limited to the Boston area. But there’s a particular sense of momentum there.
chusetts. It’s as didactic as it sounds, but the fried soldier beans, served as a bar snack, are hard—no, impossible —to stop eating, as are the whole roasts, whether rack of pork or bluefish, served family-style, in the colonial style.
“As a kid,” Sheehan confesses, “I was a picky eater.” But he couldn’t resist the sweet smell of molasses, salt, pork, and onion that wafted through his childhood home. The intoxicating aroma came from his dad’s baked beans, made from scratch—old-school: “My dad would soak the beans on Friday, bake them on Saturday, and on Sunday they’d get served with dinner. No one could wait for Sunday for a taste—the aroma was everywhere in the house—so on Saturday, he’d pull the onions out of the pot and we’d eat them on toasted rye bread.” Slow-cooked onions stolen from classic New England baked beans, slow-cooked in a traditional beanpot: A recipe like that doesn’t need any updating.
TOTAL TIME : 3 HOURS 30 MINUTES ; HANDS- ON TIME : 30 MINUTES
“I didn’t love beans when I was young, but this dish gave me all sorts of great flavors in one fell swoop,” Marc Sheehan says. In his kitchen, Sheehan cures pork jowl and uses it instead of salt pork in this dish; however, store-bought salt pork works well. He also makes a rich, flavorful broth out of roasted pork bones, but homemade chicken stock (or store-bought reduced-sodium stock) is a fine substitute. These onions are terrific next to, or on top of, roasted beef or lamb— or enjoy them the way Sheehan did as a kid, on a slice of rye bread.
1/4 pound salt pork, rinsed of excess surface salt and patted dry
1 1/4 pounds creamer or pearl onions, peeled
1–2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste
1/4 cup firmly packed light-brown sugar
2 tablespoons molasses
1 teaspoon dry mustard powder
3–4 cups warm pork or chicken stock
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
Garnishes: freshly grated horseradish and chopped chives
Preheat your oven to 300° and set a rack to the middle position.
Cut the salt pork into 1-inch squares; then add half to a medium-size Dutch oven over medium heat. Cook until the fat begins to render but doesn’t brown, about 5 minutes. Increase the heat to high, add the onions, and sear on one side until golden brown, another 5 minutes; season with 1 teaspoon salt and the pepper. Add the brown sugar, molasses, and mustard with enough warm stock to cover (start with 3 cups and work up as needed). Add the remaining salt pork. Pour the contents into a beanpot (or keep it in the Dutch oven); cover and bake 2 hours.
THIS PAGE , FROM TOP : Baked Clams with Apple & Bacon; the dining room at Island Creek Oyster Bar in Boston features a mural by mixed-media artist Stephen Sheffield; chef Jeremy Sewall shucking clams.
OPPOSITE , FROM TOP : Chef Mary Dumont of the newly opened Cultivar in Boston; Dumont’s tender Cider-Braised Yankee Pot Roast.
NEXT SPREAD, FROM TOP : Chef Will Gilson of Puritan & Company in Cambridge’s Inman Square neighborhood; Indian Pudding Panna Cotta with Maple Whipped Cream.
Use a slotted spoon to transfer the onions from the pot to a serving bowl. Reduce the liquid over medium-high heat until thickened. Add the vinegar, and season to taste with additional salt and pepper as needed. Pour the sauce over the onions and garnish with horseradish and chives.
Yield: about 6 servings
And now we tackle pot roast, that mainstay of the Yankee Sunday dinner. It has certainly never lost popularity— it’s comfort itself. But the stuff of fine dining? Chef Mary Dumont takes her cue from the original, but bathes a chuck roast in equal parts broth and apple cider for a hint of sweetness and acidity to balance out the richness of the meat. And rather than leave the vegetables in the liquid to cook for hours, she adds them toward the end of the braise, preserving their texture and individual flavors.
The entire menu of her new restaurant in Boston’s Ames Hotel expresses a love of New England, particularly in the fall. “I grew up in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire,” Dumont says. “It was all apple orchards and farms—literally and figuratively ‘apple county.’ It was Ladies’ Auxiliaries, hayrides, hot apple cider, cold apple cider, hard apple cider, apple-cider doughnuts—apple-cider everything.”
HOURS 30 MINUTES ; HANDS- ON TIME : 30 MINUTES
“I grew up in a big family,” Mary Dumont says, “and my mom was really good at making one-pot meals.” The use of apple cider and the technique of keeping the vegetables crisp-tender, rather than overcooked, separates this from other braises.
5 pounds prime chuck roast, trimmed of excess fat
2 tablespoons kosher salt
1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cups pearl or creamer onions, peeled and halved crosswise
3 carrots, peeled and cut into 2-inch batons
3 parsnips, peeled and cut into 2-inch batons
8 red bliss potatoes, washed and quartered
1/
4 cup tomato paste
3 cups apple cider
3 cups beef stock
2 sprigs fresh rosemary
2 fresh sage leaves
Garnishes: shaved radish, nasturtium leaves and flowers or other edible flowers, or fresh herbs (optional)
Preheat your oven to 350° and set a rack to the middle position.
Pat the meat dry with paper towels. Season all sides liberally with salt and pepper.
Add the oil to a large (5- to 7-quart) Dutch oven and set it over medium-high heat. Add the meat and brown on all sides, about 4 minutes per side. Remove to a plate. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until golden-brown and fragrant, about 10 minutes. Add the carrots, parsnips, potatoes, and tomato paste, and cook 10 minutes.
Add the cider and stock to the vegetables, and scrape up any browned bits on the bottom of the pot. Using a slotted spoon, remove the vegetables from the pot and set aside. Place the roast back in the pot and bring the liquid to a simmer. Cover and transfer to the oven for 2 hours.
Remove the pot from the oven and nestle the vegetables around the meat with the herbs. Return the pot to the oven for 30 minutes or until the vegetables are fork-tender.
Remove the roast and vegetables from the braising liquid and cover to keep warm. Place the pot on the stove and bring the liquid to a boil, reducing it to your desired thickness, 8 to 12 minutes. To serve, slice the meat against the grain and arrange on a plate. Divide up the vegetables and spoon the sauce over all. Garnish with fresh herbs or edible flowers as desired. Yield: 6 to 8 servings
Childhood memories also inspire Jeremy Sewall’s food. In fact, the history of this region is in his DNA. His ancestors go back centuries—chances are there’s a Sewall Road or a Sewall Bridge or a Sewall Hill near you, if you live in Massachusetts or Maine.
Sewall spent his childhood summers in southern Maine, where his uncle worked as a lobsterman. “What New England produces is amazing,” he says. “The farming, the fishing, the cheesemaking, and the artisanal products that are being made here … Just the last 10 years have shown such a dramatic increase in the quality of what’s available.
“The cooking part is simple,” he laughs. And with more access to quality ingredients, there’s more room for creativity—all of which is evident in his book The New England Kitchen (Rizzoli, 2014).
Take baked clams, long a regional staple, particularly the giant stuffed quahogs that Rhode Island is known for. We’ve all had renditions in which the clams are tough from overcooking and overpowered by bread. They might still taste good at a clam shack by the sea, but in Sewall’s hands, the clams aren’t hidden; they’re given texture with minced apple, which, as with Dumont’s pot roast, brightens their flavor. Same historic ingredients, different era.
TOTAL TIME : 2 HOURS 30 MINUTES ; HANDS- ON TIME : 2 HOURS
Shucking clams takes some finesse—there’s no shame in asking your fishmonger to do it for you.
12 cherrystone clams
1/2 cup finely diced bacon
2 tablespoons minced leek (from 1 small leek), white part only
1 tablespoon ground paprika
1 medium-size apple, peeled and diced small
1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon
1/2 cup plus 1/4 cup Panko breadcrumbs
1 teaspoon fresh lemon zest
1 tablespoon lemon juice
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
To serve: 2 cups kosher salt and 2 tablespoons water
Shuck the clams, reserving the meat and one half of each shell. Thoroughly clean the reserved shell and set aside. Rinse the clams to remove any sand and chop finely. Keep cold until ready to use.
Preheat your oven to 400° and set a rack to the upperthird position.
In a medium-size skillet over medium-high heat, sauté the bacon until browned. Using a slotted spoon, remove the bacon to a plate lined with a paper towel. Discard all but 1 tablespoon of the rendered fat and reduce heat to medium. Add the leek, paprika, and apple to the pan and cook 2 minutes, stirring often, being careful not to burn. Remove from the heat and fold in the clams, tarragon, ½ cup of the breadcrumbs, lemon zest, and juice; season to taste with salt and pepper.
In a medium-size bowl, combine 2 cups of salt with 2 tablespoons of water to form a stiff paste. On a rimmed baking sheet, use half of the salt paste to create two 1-inchhigh “strips” to hold the clams in place as they cook.
Fill each shell loosely with the clam mixture. Sprinkle the remaining ¼ cup of breadcrumbs evenly over the clams, nestle them into the salt strips, and bake until they’re just beginning to sizzle, 8 to 10 minutes. Raise your oven’s temperature to broil and cook an additional minute or until evenly browned.
On a serving platter, use the remaining salt paste to prepare a second set of mounds and nestle the cooked clams on top. Serve warm. Yield: 12 pieces
Just down the street from Loyal Nine, the dining room at Puritan & Company has a modern/vintage vibe that
telegraphs a certain comfort with the past: a mason-jar chandelier; barnboard wall panels; an early-20thcentury Glenwood stove, which serves as the host stand. Chef Will Gilson says that it hasn’t always been easy to sing the praises of regional cooking among his peers.
“I feel as though I’ve spent so much time defending New England food,” he says. “It was exhausting. Now I just cook what makes sense to me.”
Gilson’s menu can span several continents for inspiration but always circles back to his home turf.
And how could it be otherwise?
Gilson grew up on the grounds of his parents’ Herb Lyceum, a farm and education center, in Groton, Massachusetts, where he was exposed to the classics and learned to respect the rhythm of the seasons. He went to culinary school and worked his way through several restaurants in Boston before opening Puritan at the age of 28.
He understands all too well that some original recipes, no matter how respectfully prepared, don’t always translate to a modern audience (eel-and-oyster pie, anyone?).
For Gilson, it’s about rethinking an abundant local ingredient such as bluefish, labeled “too fishy” by many, and working that strong flavor to his advantage, coaxing it into a silky pâté that will erase memories of every badly broiled dinner. And his lamb belly, slow-cooked with Moxie (yes, the soda from Maine) until it forms a rich glaze, is sublime in flavor—a wink and a nod to the classics. Finally, practical, cozy Indian pudding assumes a more-refined air when prepared as a panna cotta.
PANNA COTTA WITH MAPLE WHIPPED CREAM
TOTAL TIME : 1 HOUR 30 MINUTES ;
HANDS- ON TIME : 30 MINUTES
Will Gilson concedes that he finds most recipes for Indian pudding “cloying.”
Here he honors his love for cornmeal and molasses with a dessert that’s sweet and rich, but with a unique texture.
FOR THE PUDDING:
2 1/2 tablespoons (about 2 2/3 packages) powdered gelatin
1 cup cold water
3 cups milk
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus more for ramekins
1 1/2 cups cornmeal
2 tablespoons molasses
1/3 cup maple syrup
1/4 teaspoon table salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 large egg, beaten Garnish: freshly grated nutmeg and cornmeal cookies (optional)
FOR THE WHIPPED CREAM:
1 cup heavy or whipping cream
1 tablespoon maple syrup
Grease six 8-ounce ramekins with butter and set aside.
In a small bowl, pour the powdered gelatin over 1 cup of water and let it soften. Set aside.
In a 4- to 5-quart saucepan over high heat, bring the milk and 2 tablespoons of butter to a simmer. Whisk in the cornmeal and reduce the heat to low; simmer, whisking continuously, until the mixture begins to thicken, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat and whisk in the molasses, maple syrup, salt, cinnamon, egg, and prepared gelatin. Pour into the prepared ramekins and refrigerate until set, at least 1 hour and up to overnight.
Just before serving, beat the heavy cream with the maple syrup until soft peaks form. Top the pudding with whipped cream, garnish with a pinch of nutmeg (at the restaurant, pastry chef Marissa Rossi also adds cornmeal cookies), and serve. Yield: 6 servings
BY AMY TRAVERSO
he first clue that the man behind the Formica counter isn’t your typical line cook is the crisp white chef’s toque perched atop a handsome head of salt-andpepper hair. His chef’s coat is neat; his workstation immaculate.
Then there are the precise movements; the way he deftly lays a slice of cheddar on the flat-top grill for just a second so that it wilts over the meat on contact. His hands are graceful. He’s only making a burger, but there isn’t a crumb out of place. This is a chef with training.
The final proof is hanging on the south wall of this 33-seat café: photos of Justin (JJ) Fernandes in formal whites and that ever-present toque standing next to Al Gore, Tom Menino, George H. W. Bush; a certificate of appreciation from the White House communications office. That wall tells the story of an American dream made real, of a 25-year-old immigrant from Cape Verde who took a job as a dishwasher at the Boston Sheraton in 1981 and worked his way up through every station in several hotel kitchens to become executive chef at the Park Plaza Hotel.
After 30 years of 12-hour days, he and his son, Nelson, went back to their hometown of Brockton, Massachusetts—home to the country’s largest Cape Verdean population—bought a small retail building on the north side of town, and opened a restaurant.
THIS PAGE , FROM TOP : Crème brûlée French toast, a refined and irresistible spin on a breakfast favorite; “The Champ Burger,” perfectly prepared on a brioche bun. OPPOSITE : Chef JJ Fernandes (seated) with his son and Caffè general manager Nelson Fernandes.
From the start, they knew they’d serve breakfast and lunch. The dearth of great breakfast joints—not bakery/ cafés, not $50 power-breakfast hubs— was a dilemma that Nelson had come to know all too well as a concierge at the W Hotel in Boston. “Customers would ask, ‘Where should I have breakfast?’” he says. “And there weren’t enough to recommend because the rent is so high and the average breakfast check is so low.”
Brockton needed a breakfast place, too, and here, they could afford to open one. Home of boxing greats Rocky
ting it into my own place, whereas working at the hotel for 70 or 80 hours a week, you’re just making someone else rich.”
With JJ at the helm, a simple menu of comfort-food classics punches far above its class. “The Champ Burger,” named after Brockton’s boxing greats, is moist and perfectly seared on a brioche bun with caramelized onions, mushrooms, bacon, cheddar, and chipotle mayo. Crème brûlée French toast starts with the usual thick slices of bread in a rough custard and tops them with a more-refined pool of crème anglaise and a bruléed sugar crust.
Then there are the other little details: fresh flowers in bud vases, and a large waitstaff (mostly family), ensuring that you won’t have to wait more than a minute for a coffee served with a “Here you go, hon.”
Across the counter, a regular named John tucks into a plate of homemade banana-bread French toast with fresh fruit on the side. “I’m trying to get a little more healthy,” he says.
Nelson knows about 80 percent of the customers by name. Then there are the newbies who come via word-ofmouth or on recommendation from the nearby Fuller Craft Museum. These folks tend to wrap up their meals with the same exclamation: I can’t believe there’s food this good here! In Brockton?
Marciano and Marvin Hagler, it’s a city on the edge of middle-class stability, struggling, like many southeastern Massachusetts communities, with a heroin crisis and attendant crime. The north side is quieter, the houses well kept.
Nelson, 33, relishes the opportunity to own a share of this dream. He manages the staff and books and cooks during the lunch rush because, just as in Boston, good line cooks are in short supply. Father and son still work 12-hour days, seven days a week, with just a single week off in July.
“I probably work more hours than I did before,” Nelson says, “but I’m put-
Toward the end of the shift, a woman walks up to the counter to greet JJ. She’s a former co-worker from the Park Plaza, come down to see how he’s getting along. “My son’s 13 now,” she tells JJ.
“No!” he replies, shocked. She’s out of the hotel business now, too, she says, and for a moment, they exchange that look of shared understanding, like two veterans at a reunion.
“Glad to see you’re doing so well,” she says.
JJ’S CAFFÈ601 North Main St., Brockton, MA. 508-510-4227;
jjscaffe.com
In Brockton, Massachusetts, home of boxing greats Rocky Marciano and Marvin Hagler, a simple menu of comfort-food classics punches far above its class.
BY ANNIE GRAVES
he Fair is everywhere, even where it isn’t.
On Main Street, Fryeburg’s public library is “Closed Due to Fair Traffic,” a masterful synopsis of the vehicles stretching to the horizon. (Too bad we’ll miss the library’s Hopalong Cassidy tribute to creator/resident Clarence Mulford.) A quarter mile away, Weston’s Farm posts a “Welcome Fair Business” sign; George Weston has just returned from helping kids with 4-H. The Congregational Church Thrift Shop (closed) invites you to “Come See Us at the Milking Parlor.” And Ray Ryan, owner of Spice & Grain, is leaving his natural-foods store to play electric guitar in a small gazebo near the harness-racing track.
All in all, the 165th Fryeburg Fair is omnipresent. It runs for eight days at the beginning of October, and on this particular Saturday, the previous day’s rain has polished the Maine foliage, the sky is scrubbed blue, and traffic is funneling toward the 185-acre fairgrounds just beyond the village center.
If you walk there (“It’s exactly a mile from here to the gate,” says Margaret Cugini, innkeeper at Main Street B&B), you’ll avoid the logjam and see a few more Fryeburg highlights. Fryeburg Academy, a brickwrapped private school that’s been around since 1792; local students can attend free. A wide, pleasant Main Street with a few fine restaurants tucked around large antique homes. Creative parking in action: Those who live close enough to the Fair sell lawn space and bottled water. What you won’t see (though you may hear grumbles) is a place called Evergreen Spring, the source for Fryeburg’s clear tap water— the very same water that Poland Spring buys, bottles, and sells.
In the foothills of the White Mountains is a town whose personality comes to life in a fair to remember.FROM TOP : Gabby Mendez, 11, of Kittery, with her rooster; Jacob Irish, 4, of Peru, with his pet duck; Lucas Eves, 8, of North Berwick, with his goat, “Sprinkles.” OPPOSITE : Since March 1851, the Fryeburg Fair has grown to become the state’s largest agricultural event. PHOTOGRAPHS BY TRISTAN SPINSKI
On the one hand, Fair Week may not be the best time to ask, “Could You Live Here?” It’s not as if 300,000 people descend on Fryeburg (population 3,349) routinely. But this once-ayear event—the largest fair in Maine, and second-largest in New England—
reveals something about Fryeburg. This town knows how to celebrate farm life and good times. Hard work pays off in blue ribbons, and spectators gather to cheer skillet tosses or place their $2 bets at the track. Clint Black performs to record-breaking crowds. And some-
how a little village pulls off something monumental, year after year, with great good grace. That says everything we need to know.
Fryeburg, settled in 1763, bumps up against New Hampshire, with 750,000-acre White Mountain National Forest in its backyard. The Saco River snakes through, with beaches and calm waters perfect for paddling (rent at Saco River Canoe & Kayak). You can see Mount Washington and a full panorama from the top of Jockey Cap, after a 15-minute scramble up the hill behind Quinn’s Jockey Cap Motel & Country Store on Route 302. This pretty foliage road-
way meanders to Bridgton, crossing Moose Pond below Shawnee Peak, the longest-running major ski resort in Maine. Just off Main Street, farmland spreads along Route 113, a State Scenic Byway that passes Weston’s Farm.
The stately brick of Fryeburg Academy holds a diverse student body of tuition-free locals and international students. “I was looking for a beautiful setting and a community with a school that would bring people to town,” says Cugini, who opened her B&B in 1997–98 and also works at the Academy’s library. The school’s 380-seat state-of-the-art Leura Hill Eastman Performing Arts Center hosts live performances as well as the Met Opera’s HD Series, and The Pace Galleries of Art display curated exhibits. Daniel Webster taught there, too, so the provenance is good.
The Oxford House Inn, owned by Natalie and Jonathan Spak, a Culinary Institute of America–trained chef, transforms local produce into memorable meals such as butternutsquash fried rice with curry korma. “We’ve been here eight years,” Natalie says. “Town has been very welcoming.” And no wonder. The vegetable fritters are outstanding in a little puddle of sauce. And the apple–cranberry skillet crisp is a happy no-brainer. For casual goodness, 302 West Smokehouse & Tavern is buoyed by good vibes and a friendly Cheers atmosphere, plus a smoky chicken Caesar that would be a go-to favorite.
Weston’s Farm, a fifth-generation beauty, fulfills all the aesthetic requirements of a bustling farm stand,
Over
(207) 935-3268, info@fryeburgfair.org
with Maine-made gifts, mounds of gourds and squashes, and superfriendly banter. But it’s also woven into the fabric of Fryeburg: George Weston’s family has been here for 215 years. “I was born in the yellow farmhouse,” he nods at the house next door,
“and my mother, who’s 104, still lives there.” Son John spearheads the organics and is a Nordic ski coach at Fryeburg Academy. Naturally, its ski trails crisscross their fields. “I like to think we’ve been good stewards of the land,” George says. “That I’m passing it on to
my son in good condition, and he’ll do the same.” A few more shops, like Spice & Grain and Trumbulls Hardware, serve the locals, and Northeast Gems specializes in locally mined gemstones. Just 10 miles away, bargain hunters flock to Settlers Green Outlet Village in North Conway, New Hampshire, for tax-free shopping at more than 60 outlet stores.
Besides four gloriously beautiful seasons in an area sought after by vacationers, hikers, and shoppers—plus pure spring tap water and a free private-school education for your teenagers—it’s obvious: the Fair. You don’t have to be a farm expert to appre-
ciate a soulful look from a Jersey cow, chow down on fried-onion blooms the size of dinner plates, or covet multicolored alpaca yarns. But sometime during the eight-day extravaganza, maybe thank the West Oxford Agricultural Society for hosting 300,000 folks, maintaining 3,000 campsites, and making it all look easy.
You’ll find evidence of one-time resident Admiral Rober t E. Peary on top of Jockey Cap, where a bronze monument identifies the surrounding mountains using the explorer’s original survey from when he lived in Fryeburg in 1878–79. Hopalong Cassidy’s creator lived here, too, in 1904, and Spaulding Gray attended Fryeburg Academy, where Daniel Webster taught—and wouldn’t that have been an interesting overlap?
On our visit, avid gardeners could buy a 1909 farmhouse far down Main Street, with business greenhouses and 5 acres of fields and woods, for $350,000. Two seasonal sandy-beach lakefront camps (with three storage sheds) awaited updating on Lovewell Pond for $219,000. A four-bedroom restored 1805 Colonial on Main Street, with gourmet kitchen, was listed at $389,000.
For a small town, there are multiple cozy options, including Main Street B&B (mainstbandb.com) ; the Admiral Peary Inn (admiralpearyinn.com) ; and the Oxford House Inn (oxford houseinn.com).
This year’s fair, the 166th, is set for Oct. 2–9. More photos at: NewEngland .com/Fryeburg. Learn more about the six-state region’s biggest agricultural events at: NewEngland.com/Fairs
hen leaves light up with color and swirl like confetti, New England’s tree-canopied byways fill with admirers, and last-minute lodging in primo foliage destinations may be hard to find. Looking for quieter places away from the crowds? Here are a handful of hidden spots where the leaf peepers aren’t … where you can observe autumn’s emerging hues in relative solitude and focus on your own transformation.
It’s easy to forget that the Ocean State is actually 52 percent forested. Just when northern landscapes are fading, this historic village in Rhode Island’s northwest corner becomes an introverted leaf lover’s paradise. Route 102, the state’s best foliage drive, runs straight through this riverside outpost. A quiet walk along Bowdish Reservoir, or a rugged hike of the most stunning stretch of the North South Trail, awaits within George Washington State Campground; the $14-per-night Rhode Island resident price for a zero-frills RV, trailer, or tent site is hard to beat. There’s penny candy at Brown & Hopkins, one of America’s oldest general stores, and a crackling fire inside Old Stone
Mill Antiques. Don’t leave without tasting Purple Cat Winery’s hard apple cider, the closest thing to fall in a bottle. glocesterri.org; riparks.com
As pristine as any water in the country, Newfound Lake sheds its light layer of summer tourists after Labor Day. “Low-effort, high-reward hikes” abound, says Pete Carey, whose Meadow Wind Bed & Breakfast features Audubon lands in its backyard. You can drive the entire lakeshore, but the Newfound Lake Region Association’s pontoonboat eco tours provide optimal views of the wild, rust-splashed hillsides ringing this deep bowl. NLRA executive director Boyd Smith says that newcomers find that the lake’s pure beauty “touches something inside them from their days of innocence … We’re 20 or 30 years behind the times—thank God.” newfoundlake.org
The West Branch of the Farmington River—famed for trout fishing— surges through Riverton, just as it did in 1825, when it began powering the Hitchcock Chair factory. Then, “Hitchcocksville” was a booming stagecoach stop. Now, Riverton is a village that time forgot. The 107-year-old Riverton Fair on Columbus Day weekend draws thousands of visitors—but midweek, this place can feel like yours alone. Sandwiches from the General Store will fuel you for exploring American Legion and Peoples state forests, or keep you going till an early dinner at Sweet Pea’s or a movie at Pleasant Valley Drive-in. Love the church that houses Peter Greenwood’s glassblowing workshop and gallery? It’s for sale.
So is the 1796 Old Riverton Inn. Until the right buyer appears, owners Mark and Pauline Telford say, “It’s a nice place to be stuck.” rivertonct.com
Rockland, Maine
Why escape to the coast when autumn’s richest golds and rubies are stashed deep in the interior? Rockland is an overlooked launchpad for a fall getaway; pick up meandering Route 17 here, and the northwest drive toward Rangeley is as scenic as any in Maine. But you don’t have to leave the city for color: The new Center for Maine Contemporary Art joins the Farnsworth Museum in cementing Rockland’s status as the Midcoast’s arts capital. Fill fall days with lighthouse walks, day sails, shopping, a hot-seashell massage at RHEAL Day Spa—whatever revs your appetite for lobster, which is abundant and cheaper once summer is over. Save room if you’re staying at Berry Manor Inn, where homemade pie is available on demand. mainedreamvacation.com
Sandwich, Massachusetts
The same autumn light that enchants artists adds rich radiance to the Sandwich Glass Museum’s window displays and beams through the stained glass of the abbey of the 1901 Belfry Inn & Bistro, a former church. Thanks to this old town’s sheltered position on Cape Cod Bay, trees—particularly the dense beech groves of Lowell Holly Reservation— remain vibrant late into the season, rewarding last-gasp leaf seekers. And they’re not Mother Nature’s only visual treat: Look for cranberries surfacing atop flooded bogs as you wander historic Route 6A, or admire the glowing amber marsh grasses as you tread the 1,700 lovingly inscribed planks of the Sandwich Boardwalk. sandwichchamber.com
Admire the glowing amber marsh grasses as you tread the 1,700 lovingly inscribed planks of the Sandwich Boardwalk.
BY JOE BILLS
oward the center of the main floor sits a concave table roiling with fog. I can’t resist the urge to try, for the third time this morning, to scoop some into my hand. As the cloud passes through my fingers, I’m startled by the shriek of a young boy somewhere behind me. “I’m doing science!” he proclaims—to a distracted parent, perhaps? I turn, but I can’t pick the boy out. He might be among the group oohing and ahhing over the bubbles exhibit. Maybe he’s one of the newly minted inventors in the tinkerers’ lab. Regardless of exactly who he was, his sentiment summed up the day perfectly: Not only were we all “doing science,” but if smiles and laughter were any indication, we seemed to be enjoying it.
The Montshire is cele brating its 40th year as one of New England’s unsung treasures and has been receiving well-earned attention, including novel tributes from partners such as the Norwich Inn, which has brewed a special Montshire Discovery Ale, and Morano Gelato, which has concocted a new flavor for the occasion. (In case you’re wondering what science tastes like, it’s mint with optional Pop Rocks.)
In the mid-1970s, Dartmouth College shuttered its natural-history museum, sparking a process that would culminate in the creation of the Montshire, so named to reflect the Vermont/New Hampshire state line, where it lives. The new museum opened in Hanover, New Hampshire, on January 10, 1976, in a building that had previously housed a bowling alley. After about 10 years in Hanover, the museum moved to its current location, just across the Connecticut River in Norwich, Vermont.
Exhibits from the Dartmouth museum formed the early core of the Montshire, and
Inn and Restaurant nestled in the village at the base of Mount Equinox. This Small Luxury Hotels of the World member offers 20 spacious rooms and suites with luxurious bedding, elegant baths, antique furniture, fine art and seasonal fireplaces. End your day with a dining experience at the Inn’s 65-seat award-winning restaurant, featuring refined contemporary American cuisine, and alfresco summer dining amid tranquil gardens—also the perfect backdrop for intimate weddings and private events. 800-822-2331 • ReluctantPanther.com
Northshire Bookstore Among the best independent bookstores in the country, the Northshire invites leisurely exploration within its 10,000 square feet. You’re sure to overhear someone say, “I could spend all day in here.” No wonder. There’s so much to discover—from an incredibly broad selection of books, including an entire floor devoted to children’s titles, to inspired gifts and Vermont products. Chat with the knowledgeable and helpful staff; they take pride in helping you find just the right item. 800-437-3700 • Northshire.com
The Manchester Project Ready to plan a visit? Call on The Manchester Project for expert local guidance. Whether you’re looking for a challenging summit, a jaw-dropping view, a homegrown culinary experience, or advice on the perfect accommodations, those who know the region best can help you plan a memorable itinerary. Manchester is home to an array of uniquely New England opportunities to sip, shop, savor, and stay—see what those at The Manchester Project love most about their region. ManchesterVermont.com
Wilburton Inn: A Magical Family-Run Inn
Welcome to a hilltop estate in Manchester Village. Stay in the 11 grand guest rooms in the historic Mansion or chose from 7 homes set amid the 30-acre grounds, each with dazzling views. The homes accommodate 6-34 guests, ideal retreat spaces for family reunions and groups. Pet friendly lodging means Fido can join in the fun too. With an innovative museum and organic farm on site, the Wilburton offers a family run authentic Vermont experience. An added treat is the murder mystery weekend November 4-6.
802-362-2500 • WilburtonInn.com
If you seek a cozy yet luxurious room with sweeping mountain views just outside a private balcony; this is the lodge for you. Cradled by mountains in nearly every direction, Manchester View’s elegant, rustic rooms and family-size suites make for an authentic mountainside vacation. Be sure to enjoy the outdoor heated swimming pool (in-season) before curling up by one of the property’s nineteen working fireplaces. Located close to town, you’ll have easy access to the area’s shopping, fairs, and museums. 800-548-4141 • ManchesterView.com
WHEN YOU GO: Travel along Mount Equinox Skyline Drive and enjoy the view—at 3,848 feet—from the summit. For a presidential connection, tour Hildene, the magnificent estate built by Robert Todd Lincoln. Seeking art and inspiration? Visit the 100+ acre campus of the Southern Vermont Arts Center. In the village, the Manchester Fall Art & Craft Festival is Sept. 30-Oct. 2 at the Practice Tee off Route 7.
some of those treasures remain on regular display. The museum’s trustees and directors, with a team of some 30 regular employees and 100 dedicated volunteers, have worked diligently to establish the Montshire as one of the country’s best independent science centers. Above all else, the museum celebrates inquisitiveness. Whether you’re aware of it or not, you like science. No matter what you love, there’s a fascinating science behind it. And the Montshire Museum will prove it to you.
A quick stroll through the museum’s interactive exhibits highlights the omnipresence of science in our lives: from light and prisms and how we see to the how and why of soap bubbles. There’s an aquarium, as well as x-ray exhibits and displays that’ll take you inside beehives and anthills. You’ll learn about fog and moose and reptiles and more. Even the elevator and the on-site exhibit workshop are open-concept, so that you can see how the machinery works and how a display comes together. The museum store is loaded with smart toys and fun experiments to take home.
And for those days when it’s just too nice to stay inside, the Montshire, which also serves as the visitor center for the Silvio O. Conte National Fish & Wildlife Refuge, is located on 100 waterfront acres featuring multiple trails, a woodland garden, a nature park, and even a musical fence that’s played by the wind. As the anniversary celebration continues, a dinosaur maze and an exploration of the science of music and instruments will be unveiled this fall
Some 30,000 young people visit each year, but it would be a mistake to write the Montshire off as just a children’s museum. The line between fun and learning is erased here. This is the kind of get-your-hands-dirty science we shouldn’t ever outgrow.
MONTSHIRE MUSEUM OF SCIENCE
1 Montshire Road, Norwich, VT. 802-649-2200; montshire.org
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OCTOBER 8–9
Celebrate 200 years of cranberry growing in Massachusetts at the 13th installment of this Columbus Day Weekend festival, which attracts some 30,000 visitors from all over the world each year. Witness all phases of the traditional dry harvest (for fresh fruit) and the colorful wet harvest (fruit destined for juice, sauce, drying, and so on), and learn how cranberries are incorporated into cooking and crafts—plus live music, a farmers’ market, and more, all hosted by the A. D. Makepeace Company, the world’s largest cranberry grower and a founder of the Ocean Spray growers’ co-op. Wareham, Massachusetts. admakepeace.com
OCTOBER 2
With participants from every New England state and beyond, Chowdafest, now in its ninth year, has become one of the largest culinary competitions in the Northeast. Vote for your favorites at Sherwood Island State Park as 40 award-winning chefs and restaurants compete in four categories: “Classic New England Clam Chowder,” “Traditional Chowders,” “Creative Chowder,” and “Soup/ Bisque,” with proceeds benefiting local charities. Westport, Connecticut. 203-216-8452; chowdafest.org
SEPTEMBER 22–25
This community celebration of Acadia’s incredible, largely lightpollution-free sky has to be seen to be believed. Take a guided night hike; attend an educational presentation, film, or workshop; or take a boat cruise, with photography and stargazing opportunities galore at multiple locations within Acadia National Park. Bar Harbor, Maine. 207-8012566; acadianightskyfestival.com
SEPTEMBER 29–OCTOBER 2
This time-honored tradition of agricultural family fun returns to the Deerfield Fairgrounds to celebrate 140 years of livestock competitions, entertainment, musical performances, midway rides, and more, plus a demolition derby, educational exhibits, and all the classic fair food you could dream of. Deerfield, New Hampshire. 603-463-7421; deerfieldfair.com
SEPTEMBER 2–4
Get ready for hours of entertainment as a lineup of 35 musical groups and solo performers take to the stage at Ninigret Park. This year’s bill includes Bruce Hornsby & the Noisemakers, Lucinda Williams, the Taj Mahal Trio, and more. Between acts, be sure to sample the variety of tasty food selections, including Cajun and Creole dishes. Charlestown, Rhode Island. rhythmandroots.com
OCTOBER 13–16
Celebrating the region’s rich literary roots, this festival has become a must-attend event for both writers and readers, and a great excuse for leaf peeping. Multiple downtown locations offer readings, panel discussions, and special events featuring emerging and established authors. Past participants have included winners of the Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, Caldecott Medal, and other major honors. Brattleboro, Vermont. brattleboroliteraryfestival.org
—compiled by Joe Bills
SEPT. 2–5: SOUT H WOODSTOCK, Woodstock Fair. Animals and exhibitions, entertainment on multiple stages, amusement rides, contests and family fun, plus more than 100 food vendors offering everything from treats to hearty meals. There’s something for everyone at the fair! Craig Morgan and Peter Noone are among this year’s featured performers. 860-928-3246; woodstockfair.com
SEPT. 9–11: NEW LONDON, Connecticut Maritime Heritage Festival. Graceful schooners glide along the waters off Ocean Beach Park in a race to the finish. See the ships up close, charter a ride, and enjoy dockside educational programs, a chowder challenge, and additional family activities. 860-447-2519; ctmaritimefest.com
SEPT. 10–11: NORWALK, 39th Oyster Festival. Oysters may be the headliners, but the celebration goes far beyond shucking and slurping. Veterans Park will rock with day-to-evening musical performances, international foods, kids’ activities, a lumberjack show, a daredevil thrill show, and a juried arts-and-crafts show featuring more than 100 exhibitors. 203-838-9444; seaport.org
SEPT. 17–18: NEWTO WN, Newtown Outdoor Arts Festival. A weekend of artsinspired entertainment, exhibits, and sales outdoors at beautiful Fairfield Hills. Music, dance, lectures, arts and crafts for sale, and delicious food options, too. newtownartsfestival.com
SEPT. 24: LEBANON, 50th Outdoor Antique Show. On the historic town green, find quality dealers display a wide variety of vintage wares, from Early American furniture to small collectibles. 860642-6579; historyoflebanon.org
SEPT. 30–OCT. 2, OCT. 7–9: SOUTHINGTON, 48th Apple Harvest Festival. Stop by the town green and join in on the family
fun while enjoying delicious food and entertainment. Don’t miss the parade, the arts-and-crafts show, a pie-baking contest, bed racing, and more. 860-2768461; southington.org/AHF
OCT. 1: WETHERSFIELD, Fall Craft Fair. Peruse the wares presented by 100-plus artisans and crafters at lovely Cove Park—clothing, furniture, seasonal decorations, jewelry, and more. Plus pony rides to amuse the kids, and live music and delicious goodies for everyone’s enjoyment. 860529-7656; wethhist.org
OCT. 8–9: BETHLEHEM, Garlic & Harvest Festival. Garlic lovers unite at Bethlehem Fairgrounds! Come for the cooking
demonstrations, farm produce, specialty food vendors, crafts, the garlic-inspired food court, live entertainment, and more. 203-266-7810; garlicfestct.com
OCT. 8–10: MYSTIC, Chowder Days. Mystic Seaport offers a variety of chowders and bisques, clam and apple fritters, mulled cider, and other seasonal delights. Take a hayride through the village, and enjoy exploring the museum’s fascinating exhibits and tall ships. 860-572-0711; mysticseaport.org
OCT. 9: SCOTLAND, 29th Highland Games Festival. The Edward Waldo Homestead comes alive with a day of piping, dancing, drumming, and athletic competitions. Don’t miss the swordplay demonstrations, live folk music, dance, piping and drumming contests, storytelling, Scottish foods and products, clan village, sheepdog demonstrations, and more. scotlandgames.org
OCT. 15–16: WOODSTOCK, Roseland Cottage
Fine Arts & Crafts Festival. More than 175 artisans participate in this juried show on the expansive grounds of lovely Roseland Cottage. Enjoy live music, a food court, and first-floor tours of the historic home. 617-9945914; historicnewengland.org
OCT. 22: PUTNAM, Great Pumpkin Festival & Train Ride. Bring the whole family downtown for a day of giant gourds, a craft festival, live music, and great food. Don’t forget to buy your tickets for the “Train Ride Excursion,” a leisurely, scenic ride through the Last Green Valley. 860-428-1278; putnambusiness.org
OCT. 28: WASHINGTON, 9th Annual Washington Green Cemetery Tour. As luminarias light the path, costumed guides lead visitors from the Gunn Museum to Washington Green Ceme tery, where the town’s departed citizens will be stationed at their graves to tell their tales of tragedy and triumph. 860-8687756; gunnlibrary.org
SEPT. 2–4: CAMDEN, Camden Windjammer Festival. Celebrate Maine’s maritime heritage with the area’s largest gathering of sailing ships. The event kicks off with a parade of schooners into the scenic harbor, and will also include maritimeskill exhibitions, fireworks, a lobstercrate race, a build-a-boat contest, and more. camdenwindjammerfestival.org
SEPT. 2–11: BOOTHBAY HARBOR, 5th Annual Boothbay Harbor Fest. This 10-day celebration of music, food, and fun includes a harbor crawl, wellness events, photog-
raphy workshops, a live-music marathon, shopping, art shows, a 5K run and half-marathon, a fashion show, an oyster festival, art sales, and more. 207671-7676; boothbayharborfest.com
SEPT. 8–11: GREENVILLE, 43rd International Seaplane Fly-In. Moosehead Lake is the place to be for seaplane enthusiasts, with organized fly-bys, a craft fair, demonstrations, and more. seaplanefly-in.org
SEPT. 9–11: EASTPORT, 11th Pirate Festival. Harken back to the days of yore when privateers were active along the Maine coast. Come in costume—if you’d like to blend in—and enjoy the wacky activities, including bed racing and pirate reenactments, plus live music, lobsterboat racing, kids’ games, and so much more. 207-853-4343; eastportpirate festival.com
SEPT. 10: STATEWIDE, Open Lighthouse Day. This popular event offers the public the rare opportunity to explore more than two dozen of Maine’s historic lights. See website for a full listing and locations. lighthousefoundation.org/ maine-open-lighthouse-day/
SEPT. 15: EAST BOOTHBAY HARBOR, Lobster Claw Down. Ocean Point Marine Boatyard is the place to gather as local chefs face off to see who can concoct the best lobster appetizer. Sample wines and lobster treats in this kickoff event to Boothbay Harbor’s Restaurant Week. 207-633-2353; boothbayharbor.com
SEPT. 23–25: UNITY, Common Ground Country Fair. Celebrate rural living at the 40th installment of this annual fair, sponsored by the Maine Organic Farmers & Gardeners Association, which has grown to be one of the nation’s premier exhibitions of self-sustaining practices, organic farming, and simple living. 207568-4142; mofga.org/thefair
SEPT. 25–OCT. 1: CUMBERLAND, 145th Cumberland County Fair. It’s a familyfriendly week of entertainment and agricultural education. This year’s exhibitions include two pro rodeo events and Saturday-night fireworks, plus midway rides, harness racing, a demolition derby, livestock shows, and more. 207829-5531; cumberlandfair.com
OCT. 2–9: FRYEBURG, Fryeburg Fair. Always a fall favorite, “Maine’s Blue Ribbon Classic” offers livestock shows, baking competitions, harness racing, and an array of garden and craft exhibits, plus midway rides and live entertainment across five stages daily, all at Fryeburg Fairgrounds. 207-935-3268; fryeburgfair.org
OCT. 6–10: DAMARISCOTTA, Pumpkinfest & Regatta. A giant-pumpkin contest, pumpkin catapult, pumpkin derby, pumpkin drop, pumpkin-pie-eating contest … Perhaps you’re detecting a theme? Don’t miss the great pumpkin boat regatta finale. 207-677-3087; damariscottapumpkinfest.com
OCT. 7–8: SOUTHWEST HARBOR, 21st Acadia Oktoberfest. Top Maine brewers will converge at Smuggler’s Den Campground to offer samples, while local food vendors tempt visitors with an international menu. Plus a wine tasting, artisans and vendors, live music, and games, including a keg toss and cornhole toss. 207-244-9264; acadiaoktober fest.com
OCT. 20–23: PORTLAND, Harvest on the Harbor. Foodies converge as Portland celebrates its talented chefs, sustainable seafood, lobster, craft beverages, music and more. Proceeds benefit Full Plates Full Potential, an organization aimed at eradicating childhood hunger in Maine. harvestontheharbor.com
OCT. 21–23: OGUNQUIT, 13th Annual Ogunquitfest. A family-friendly weekend of fall-themed events throughout the downtown area, including pumpkin and cookie decorating, a costume parade, a classic car show, a craft bazaar, a haunted house, high-heel and bed races, ghost tours, wagon rides, storytelling, a scarecrow contest, and more. 207-6462939; visitogunquit.org
THROUGH OCT. 23: AMHERST, Americana on Parade: The Art of Robert McCloskey. Celebrate the 75th anniversary of McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings with a show at the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art featuring more than 90 original artworks, ephemera, and rare materials. 413-559-6300; carle museum.org
SEPT. 6–11: BRIMFIELD, Antique Show. The largest outdoor antique show in the country offers its final show dates of the season as thousands of dealers set up shop along a half-mile stretch of U.S. Route 20. brimfieldshow.com
SEPT. 7, 16, 23, 30; OCT. 7, 14, 21, 28: LENOX, Ghost Tour. Explore the storied past of Edith Wharton’s historic mansion, The Mount, home to writers, actors, wealthy families, hardworking servants, and teenage girls for more than a century. Take a guided tour of the most haunted parts of the estate to find out
PRESENTS:
www.historic-deerfield.org
November 18–20, 2016
800-373-5429
www.vermonthandcrafters.com
A first-ever Rockwell exhibition exploring the divide between realism and abstract art. Over 40 artists including:
what spirits may still inhabit the place. Advance registration required. 413551-5100; edithwharton.org
SEPT. 8–11: GREENFIELD, 168th Franklin County Fair. From parades and clowns to talent shows and Frisbee dogs, from agricultural exhibits and competitions to truck pulls, pie-eating contests, police-dog demonstrations, pig races, and a demolition derby, there’s something for everyone at this legendary county fair. 413-774-4282; fcas.com
SEPT. 17–18: OLD DEERFIELD, Old Deerfield Fall Craft Fair. The historic village of Old Deerfield boasts unique arts-andcrafts items from a variety of vendors, plus demonstrations and fine food offerings. 413-774-7476; deerfield-craft.org
SEPT. 23–25: EAST FALMOUTH, ScallopFest 2016. Award-winning seafood and chicken dinners, plus midway rides and games, a terrific entertainment lineup, and a juried arts and crafts fair, all at Cape Cod Fairgrounds. 603332-2616; scallopfest.org
SEPT. 24–25: PITTSFIELD, Country Fair. At Hancock Shaker Village, celebrate the bounty of the harvest with agricultural demonstrations, wagon rides, a fabulous farmers’ market, and huge tents full of the best local and regional crafters and artisans. 800-817-1137, 413443-0188; hancockshakervillage.org
SEPT. 30–OCT. 10: TOPSFIELD, Topsfield Fair. The country’s oldest continuously operating fair just gets bigger and better. Enjoy headline entertainment and shows, 4-H competitions, midway rides, games, tempting treats, and more. 978-887-5000; topsfieldfair.org
OCT. 8–10: NORTHAMPTON, Paradise City Arts Festival. The fall installment of this twice-yearly celebration brings together 275 fine artists and crafters from across the nation at Three County Fairgrounds. Plus good food, great live music, flowering sculpture gardens, special exhibits, demonstrations, activities, and more. 413-587-0772; paradise cityarts.com
OCT. 13–16: EDGARTOWN, Martha’s Vineyard Food & Wine Festival. Join Yankee in celebrating the island’s rich tradition of farming and fishing with local culinary talent, and the farmers, fishermen, oyster producers, and artisans they work with—along with guest chefs and vintners from around the world—at venues across the island. mvfoodandwine.com
OCT. 15: BOSTON, Boston Book Festival. Copley Square is the place to meet featured authors representing an array of genres: award winner s and best-selling
fine craft & art
writers, scholars, children’s writers, novelists, historians, essayists, and poets. Enjoy the presentations, panels, and participatory sessions. bostonbookfest.org
OCT. 15–16: WELLFLEET, 16th OysterFest. Give a nod to the town’s famous bivalves and fishing traditions with hometown fun and flavor. Enjoy local cuisine, arts and crafts, cooking demonstrations, kids’ activities, walking tours, live music, a road race, and the annual “Oyster ShuckOff” competition, all in the downtown area. wellfleetoysterfest.org
OCT. 22: ESSEX, 34th Essex Clamfest. Stop by Memorial Park to sample offerings from at least 10 area restaurants, all competing for your top vote in the clam-chowder competition. Plus kids’ games, arts-andcrafts vendors, a raffle, and more. 978283-1601; capeannvacations.com
AUG. 29–OCT. 24: WOLFEBORO, “Infamy: December 7, 1941.” Commemorating the 75th anni v ersary of the surprise attack at Pearl Harbor, the Wright Museum of World War II hosts an exhibit of 66 powerful photos, witnesses to both the horror and the courageous response to that devastating event. wrightmuseum.org
Don’t miss Ken Burns’s latest film, Defying the Nazis: The Sharps’ War, débuting on PBS stations on Sept. 20. Through letters, journals, and interviews with survivors, historians, and Holocaust scholars, this riveting 90-minute documentary tells the story of a Wellesley, Massachusetts, couple—Unitarian Universalist minister Waitstill Sharp and his wife, Martha—who spent nearly two years in Nazi-occupied Europe, secretly rescuing dozens of Jews, refugees, and dissidents. Watch a preview on the accompanying website. defyingthenazis.org
SEPT. 2–5: CONTOOCOOK, Hopkinton State Fair. An annual tradition for more than a century, this classic event brings livestock competitions, axe throwing, a petting zoo, midway rides, a Bobcat skid steer rodeo, live performances, a demolition derby, and more to the local fairgrounds. 603-746-4191; hsfair.org
SEPT. 4–7: FRANCESTOWN, 99th Labor Day Festival. Nearly 100 years on, this down-
town celebration has retained its classic charm, with a parade (this year’s theme: “Great Moments in History”) and contra dance, a band concert, a juried arts-andcrafts fair, a road race, a book sale, great food, and more. Among this year’s juried artisans is marquetry (wood inlay) specialist Craig Altobello of Peterborough. 603-547-3600; francestownhistory.info
SEPT. 9–11: HAMPTON BEACH, 27th Seafood Festival. Live music accompanies the sampling of seafood delicacies prepared by some 60 area restaurants, plus chef demonstrations, contests, arts-andcrafts vendors, a lobster-roll eating competition, sidewalk sales, fireworks, and more. hamptonbeachseafoodfestival.com
SEPT. 16–18: LINCOLN, New Hampshire Highland Games. Loon Mountain hosts more than 30 pipe bands and competitions in dance, fiddle and harp, plus athletic events, whiskey tastings, a living-history area, seminars, sheepdog trials, and more. 800-358-7268; nhscot.org
SEPT. 16–25: ROCHESTER, Rochester Fair. From the demolition derby to the livestock shows and everything in between, this classic event serves up old-fashioned family fun. Plus midway rides, tractor pulls, food vendors, and lots more. 603332-6585; rochesterfair.com
SEPT. 24: ENFIELD, Shaker Harvest Festival. A bushel of family fun awaits at Enfield Shaker Village. Take a horse-drawn wagon ride and hunt for prizes in a haystack. Make your own cider, churn butter, and crank your own ice cream. Dip handmade candles and learn other traditional crafts. Enjoy a savory harvest lunch of homemade soups. 603-6324346; shakermuseum.org
SEPT. 24–25: PORTSMOUTH, 17th Portsmouth Maritime Folk Festival. Enjoy traditional American and English folk music celebrating our maritime history and the classic Age of Sail with live performances in Market Square and at other downtown venues. See the website for a detailed schedule. new englandfolknetwork.org/pmff
SEPT. 29–OCT. 10: BEDFORD, Craftworkers’ Guild Harvest Craft Shop. More than 60 juried artisans participate in this seasonal shop (open just three times per year) located in the historic Oliver Kendall House. Discover quality handmade items, including fashion accessories, jewelry, Shaker-style boxes, photography, and more. 603-472-8109; thecraft workersguild.org
OCT. 1: DOVER, Apple Harvest Day. Check out more than 400 local vendors, artisans, and organizations gathered in the downtown area, hosting a craft fair, three stages of live entertainment, dozens of kids’ activities, and more. 603742-2218; dovernh.org
OCT. 2: PORTSMOUTH, New Hampshire Food Truck Festival. Red Hook Brewery hosts the state’s largest congregation of wheeled food vendors. Past events have featured everything from Viet namese sandwiches to lobster rolls to duck tacos, from frozen hoagies to juicy burgers and fresh, bubbling, flavorful pizza. We bet you can’t get to them all! 617-782-7117; foodtruckfestivals ofamerica.com
OCT. 8–9: MONADNOCK REGION, 21st Art Tour. Enhance your foliage drive through the beautiful countryside by picking up a map and following the “Art Tour” signs leading to the homes and studios of the region’s artists. Have a visit, ask questions, and view a wide variety of fine artwork. Studios are open from 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. daily. monadnockart.org
OCT. 8–10: CENTER SANDWICH, Sandwich Fair. Swing by the local fairgrounds for a true New England agricultural fair, complete with arts and crafts, a midway, livestock and 4-H shows, competitions, an antique-car parade,
live music, and more. 603-284-7062; thesandwichfair.com
OCT. 22: CANTERBURY, Ghost Encounters. Enjoy strolling Canterbury Shaker Village into the evening for an entirely other worldly experience at this 200-year-old historic site. Go trick-ortreating, listen to the storytellers and their true ghost accounts, and enjoy Halloween-themed activities at this family-focused event. Come in costume! 603-783-9511; shakers.org
OCT. 28–29: PORTSMOUTH, Ghosts on the Banke. Long-dead sea captains, 17thcentury shopkeepers, and wayward privateers haunt the streets of Strawbery Banke, Portsmouth’s oldest neighborhood, as you trick-or-treat by jack-o’lantern light from house to historic house. Discover treasure, visit with a whacky witch, learn your future from the Gypsy fortuneteller, or listen to a ghost story. 603-433-1100; strawberybanke.org
AUG. 26–SEPT. 25: PAWTUCKET, Arts Festival. A citywide showcase of visual and performing arts, with interactive workshops and musical, theatrical, and dance performances, located downtown and at
For one day only, participating museums will emulate the Smithsonian’s freeadmission policy to encourage cultural learning nationwide. Download a free ticket (good for the holder and one guest) and check participating venues: smithsonian.com/museumdaylive
Slater Park. 401-724-5200; pawtucketarts festival.org
SEPT. 3: PAWTUCKET, Chinese Dragon Boat Races & Taiwan Day Festival. Watch the colorful dragon boats—both professional and amateur teams—race along the Seekonk River off the School Street pier, or simply enjoy the onshore activities and entertainment with an emphasis on competition and fun. 401-7242200; dragonboatri.com
SEPT. 10–11: PROVIDENCE, Seafood Festival. India Point Park provides the bayside setting for sampling premier seafood and enjoying rocking live music. Come celebrate summer’s end and fine food. riseafoodfest.com
SEPT. 15– 18: NEWPORT, International Boat Show. At the Newport Yachting Center, discover one of the largest in-water boat shows in the country and the premier show in the Northeast: all makes and models of powerboats and sailboats ready for boarding, plus an array of marine products and services to enhance the boating lifestyle. 401-846-1115; newport boatshow.com
SEPT. 16–18: BLOCK ISLAND, 8th Annual Taste of Block Island. More than 50 island businesses have joined together to host a variety of gallery openings, wine and beer tastings, shopping discounts, hotel and restaurant specials, kayak tours, and more. Purchase your “Taste of Block Island” button to receive a full listing of the many lunch and dinner discounts and additional specials. tasteofbi.com
SEPT. 17–18: BRISTOL, Annual Harvest Fair. A traditional autumn event with 18thcentury flavor and modern appeal, held on the bucolic grounds of Coggeshall Farm Museum. Perfect your aim in the watermelon-seed-spitting contest, or just enjoy live music, historic-trades demonstrations, hands-on children’s crafts, and competitions, plus the “Muck Boot Fashion Show” and more. 401-253-9062; coggeshallfarm.org
SEPT. 22–25: NEWPORT, 10th Wine & Food Festival. A sophisticated event at Rosecliff and Marble House brings together great vintners and fine-food purveyors: two grand tastings, top-notch food and wine, silent and live auctions, wine seminars, celebrity-chef appearances and cooking demonstrations. 401-847-1000; newportmansions.org
OCT. 1–2: MIDDLETOWN, 42nd Harvest Fair. Norman Bird Sanctuary hosts an oldtime fair with food, games, crafters, hayrides, a mud pit, and competitions. 401-846-2577; normanbirdsanctuary.org
OCT. 6–NOV. 6: PROVIDENCE, Jack-O-Lantern Spectacular. Visit Roger Williams Park Zoo after dark to view a display of 5,000 illuminated pumpkins set along the beautiful wetlands trail, presented in themed scenes with music, as well as more than 100 pumpkins intricately carved into works of art. 401-785-3510; rwpzoo.org
OCT. 15–16: NEWPORT, 26th Bowen’s Wharf Seafood Festival. Savor the harvests of the sea: fresh, local seafood presented by area restaurants and fishermen’s associations (lobster, chowder, stuffed quahogs, clam cakes, shrimp, scallops, raw oysters and clams, plus fare for landlubbers and kids). bowenswharf.com
AUG. 26–SEPT. 4: ESSEX JUNCTION, Champlain Valley Fair. Celebrate agriculture at the Champlain Valley Exposition fairgrounds with circus acts, shopping, gardening exhibits, great food, blue-ribbon competitions, horse shows, livestock, and concerts. 802-878-5545; champlainvalleyfair.org
SEPT. 3–4: BENNINGTON, Garlic & Herb Festival. Everything’s better with garlic! Get your fix in the Camelot Village area of downtown as nearly 200 vendors gather. Chat with the growers and savor garlic jelly and other garlic-laced foods, along with live music, kids’ activities, and plenty of garlicky products for purchase. 802-447-3311; lovegarlic.com
SEPT. 4: RANDOLPH, New World Festival. For more than two decades, this oneday event has celebrated the vitality of small-town Vermont and the Celtic and French Canadian heritage of northern New England. Six performance stages in the historic village center feature continuous music, storytelling, and dance. 802-728-6464; chandler-arts.org; newworldfestival.com
SEPT. 9–11: BURLINGTON, South End Art Hop. Visit the city’s original arts dis-
trict, where you’ll discover thousands of works, plus outdoor sculpture, performances, live demos, and workshops. Take home originals from the artists’ market, inspire kids’ creativity with activities, and enjoy a contemporary fashion show. 802-859-9222; seaba.com
SEPT. 15–18: TUNBRIDGE, 145th Tunbridge World’s Fair. Visit the fairgrounds to explore family-farm traditions from the past, view antique machinery and implements, and tour an authentic one-room schoolhouse. With daily pig races, harness racing (at one of the few active tracks in the state), livestock and gardening competitions, live entertainment, tempting fair foods, an oldfashioned carnival, and more. 800-8895555; tunbridgeworldsfair.com
SEPT. 24: BURKE, Fall Foliage Festival. Celebrate the season in the village center with horse-drawn wagon rides, a rubber-duck race, 75 craft vendors, a beer and wine tent, a petting zoo, a parade, live music, and games. Plus a soup-andsandwich luncheon and a tag sale put on by East Burke Congregational Church. 802-626-4124; burkevermont.com
OCT. 7–9: STOWE, 34th Foliage Arts Festival. Some 200 juried artisans come to Topnotch Field for the area’s biggest autumn
arts festival, complete with food, wine, beer, and entertainment. 802-4253399; craftproducers.com
OCT. 8–9: WEST DOVER, 19th Mount Snow Oktoberfest. German fare and oompah music in the air—fun for all ages at Mount Snow Resort. Festival games, face painting, pumpkin painting, and the famous schnitzel toss for the kids, plus yodeling and stein-holding contests, a keg toss, and horseshoes for the grownups. 800-245-7669; mountsnow.com
OCT. 8–9: WINDSOR, Harpoon Octoberfest. With the Upper Valley’s peak-foliage scenery as the backdrop, visit Harpoon Brewery and toast the season with nonstop oompah music, chicken dancing, delicious German fare, and freshly brewed beer. harpoonbrewery.com
OCT. 22: WARDSBORO, 14th Annual Gilfeather Turnip Fest. Newly named as the state’s official vegetable, celebrate the Gilfeather turnip with a day of family fun at the town hall and under the tent on Main Street: turnip contest, crafters, farmers’ market, live music, turnip tastings, and more. friendsofwardsboro library.org
OCT. 30: WOODSTOCK, Family Halloween. Billings Farm & Museum offers a treat for the kids (and kids at heart) with a day of delightful activities, including doughnuts on a string, pumpkin carving, costume parades, Halloween tales, wagon rides, and more. 802-457-2355; billingsfarm.org
Autumn Spectacular
Fri. Oct. 7 8:30 am – 5 pm
Sat. Oct. 8 10 am – 5 pm
Sun. Oct. 9 10 am – 4 pm in the barn at Rochester Fairgrounds, Rochester NH
Featuring 100 antique, vintage, repurposed, upcycled and folk art dealers along with the Sanborn Hope Farm Farmer’s Market. Food vendors, live music and guests Marian Parsons and Victoria Elizabeth Barnes. More information at: sagefarmantiques.com • 603-964-3690
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
In July/August’s “A World of Their Own,” the photo on p. 89 was taken at Sebasco Harbor Resort in Sebasco Estates, Maine. The Ruth is the resort’s own tour boat, offering scenic nature and harbor cruises, pirate cruises, and sunset cruises. For the Ruth ’s schedule, plus more on the resort’s accommodations and activities, visit: sebasco.com
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Autumn along the Connecticut River is a four-part, month-long ride through the very heart of New England. Follow the foliage on its ever-changing journey from source to sea.
DANIEL SULLIVAN & EILEEN TERRILL
PHOTOGRAPHS BY CARL TREMBLAY
TYPE DESIGN BY LUKE LUCAS
the region’s Native Americans called it when they first explored the “Connecticut” (a Colonial variation on an Algonquian name) thousands of years ago. And indeed it is long, trickling from humble origins 300 yards below the Canadian border, then plunging 410 miles through four states before emptying into Long Island Sound. From mid-September through mid-October, this verdant landscape, the very core of New England, wears the vibrant colors of autumn, as a spectacular panorama of foliage lights up the valley. The itineraries that follow—just a small sampling of the valley’s many opportunities for exploration—will give you a feel for the river along the way, each week a mini-season all its own. From the Great North Woods to the Tidelands, we feature four distinct stretches—one each within the valley’s four major regions. Each trek can be a destination in itself, or you can spin them all into one of the most memorable autumn outings anywhere, as you watch the color riding the river on its sinuous north–south plunge.
Our Connecticut River Valley adventure begins close to the Canadian border, in the farthest reaches of New Hampshire’s Great North Woods, then heads south through the remote Connecticut Lakes region (p. 93) and our base in the town of Pittsburg. We’re in the heart of “Moose Alley,” a stretch of U.S. Route 3 that will take us through some of the most beautiful territory in all of New England, where pristine lakes and tumbling waters feed the Connecticut River, cradled amid imposing mountains.
Three peaceful tributary streams—Perry, Indian, and Halls—burble along to the west. In 1832, however, armed rebellion was in the air here, when this little corner of New England produced the secessionists of the Indian Stream Republic (p. 94). Today it’s home to rustic camps, woodsy resorts, and all the outdoor recreation any hiker, paddler, or fisherman could wish for. We’ll visit a handful of these storied wilderness lodgings, but first let’s take in a few unique North Country sites.
From Pittsburg, take Route 145 South through Clarksville into Stewartstown Hollow to stop at Poore Farm Historic Homestead & Museum (get there before the September 30 close), a unique early-19th-century settlement and a venture into bygone days. A bit farther south on 145, pull over at Beaver Brook Falls, one of those surprising, beautiful sights that seem to just appear along the roads here. A few minutes more and the “big city” of Colebrook (pop. 2,300) emerges, with a café, a tavern, a nifty arts-and-crafts shop—and Le Rendez Vous, a bakery so beloved by townspeople that their victorious fight in 2009 to keep it open when the State Department didn’t renew its French owners’ visas brought the New York Times to town.
Now let’s travel U.S. Route 3 and find a couple of those classic lodgings that pulse with the flavor of the North Country. (See p. 95 for a longer look at a third option.)
Tall Timber Lodge, on Back Lake, started life as a sporting camp in 1946. The Caron family took it over in 1982, and their descendants run the operation today. Cindy Howe (née Caron) creates the hearty breakfasts, while her brother, David Caron, is maestro of the Rainbow Grille (try the Woodsman Steak, Filet & Crab, or One Fat Fish for world-class wilderness dining). Tall Timber offers 26 cabins and eight individual rooms in the lodge itself.
You’re here for the outdoors, and Tall Timber provides its guests with canoes, paddleboats, and kayaks; you can rent a fiberglass fishing boat (or a family-size pontoon boat), or meet up with a professional fly-fishing or birding guide.
Nearby are The Cabins at Lopstick. Begun as the Currier Camps in the 1920s, Lopstick is a complex of more than 50 fully equipped cabins spread out around First Connecticut and Back lakes, along the Connecticut River, and on nearby Perry Stream. Lopstick is an official Orvis-endorsed fly-fishing outfitter; its guides can teach you technique and steer you to the best spots.
Here’s a 14-mile drive to give everyone, from the avid outdoorsman to the casual nature lover, a taste of the river system near its source. If you don’t have your own equipment, local inns, lodges, and outfitters can lend a hand with rentals.
Start just a half-mile south of the Canadian border (and tiny Fourth Connecticut Lake) along U.S. Route 3 at Third Connecticut Lake, a mile long and a half-mile wide; a boat launch lets paddlers and trout fishermen enjoy these intimate waters. For walkers, a stone path hugs the shore on either side of the water for much of the way; look
back at majestic Salmon Mountain, rising 3,364 feet to the east.
Continue on to Second Connecticut Lake—1,200 watery acres for paddlers and fishermen. Three more miles south and there it is: magnificent First Connecticut Lake, more than five miles long and two-and-a-half miles wide. Magalloway Mountain, at 3,360 feet, towers over the eastern shore, showing off its fall color. Paddle over to Picnic Island, a delightful spot to spend a few hours.
And the chain of lakes continues: Although not officially one of the Connecticuts, Lake Francis (manmade in 1940) is nonetheless a part of the river. The state park here offers campsites and canoe and kayak rentals.
In 1832 a lot of people in what became Pittsburg weren’t happy with one another or pretty much anyone else.
So, on July 9, a 250-square-mile area between Halls Stream and the Connecticut Lakes (including Indian Stream and Perry Stream) declared itself a sovereign republic, independent of both the U.S. and Canada, which were engaged in a double-team taxation-without-representation maneuver. Thus, as all rebels do, they fought a war (a short one with Canada) and then defended themselves (against the New Hampshire militia). Order was eventually restored and the “Streamers” ulti-
mately returned to the fold—although if you see people around here celebrating wildly on the 9th of July, don’t assume they were simply five days late remembering the 4th.
Nearly a century later, this area was once again involved in anti-government doings—as a conduit for illegal booze shipped from Canada to the U.S. during Prohibition. Two miles up Indian Stream Road, look for a clearing called “the old holding place,” where a cache of alcohol was diverted during transport from Quebec and is, supposedly, still buried. On Tabor Road you’ll find Indian Stream Cemetery, where some of the 19th-century rebels and 20th-century bootleggers are said to be buried together. Old habits die hard.
Inhaling the deep, refreshing aroma of sawn pine, we wound our way up a stout timber stairway to our log-walled room in the lodge at The Glen in Pittsburg. Just below us, double doors led to a spacious, Adirondack-style porch. In front of us lay First Connecticut Lake in all its blue tranquility, with Magallo way Mountain overlooking the scene.
“At Bear Tree” is the official name of an assortment of lodges, lakeside and woodland cottages, and guest rooms at a yellow-clapboard inn, home to Murphy’s Steakhouse. However, the heart of this operation, in our minds at least, is The Glen: the lodge and seven sweet cabins dotting the lakeshore below. It’s the site of what was perhaps this region’s most iconic sporting camp, established in the late 19th century. Current owners John and Georgie Lyons took over in 2012, carrying on from the previous owner of more than 50 years, Betty Mae Falton, a North Country legend for her hospitality and hearty cooking.
At around 10:30 p.m. on this cloudless night, we were sitting on the porch watching the near-full moon as it hung over the lake, Magalloway’s faint purple outline in the background. An eclipse stole slowly across the scene, turning the moon a dusky red before finally snuffing it out like a smoky candle. Then a thousand stars popped against the sky’s black velvet curtain … A oncein-a-lifetime show—one for which we, lucky devils, had front-row seats.
From the verandah of the “Little Studio” at the SaintGaudens National Historic Site in Cornish, New Hampshire, we’re staring at a perfectly framed view of Mount Ascutney across the Connecticut River in Vermont. We’ve followed the river 150 miles south from Pittsburg, and here on rural Route 12A, we’ve happily left civilization behind.
In Cornish, the renowned sculptor’s former summer estate is replete with blooming gardens, nature trails, and stop-and-stare views of the surrounding valley. Civil War buffs (and fans of the movie Glory ) won’t want to miss the Bowling Green, which contains the final casting of the stirring bronze Shaw Memorial that graces Boston Common.
From Cornish, a happy choice awaits: Continue south along the Connecticut’s eastern bank to explore New Hampshire’s farm country, or head west to Vermont over the much-photographed Cornish–Windsor Bridge (longest wooden covered bridge of its vintage in the U.S., at nearly 450 feet) to chase outdoor adventure?
On the New Hampshire side, off Route 12 just outside tree-lined Walpole, we’ve made Valley Farms our base (p. 101). Across the road is 450-acre Alyson’s Orchard, a must visit for its 50 varieties of classic and heirloom apples and its breathtaking views. On a smaller scale, along River Road South lies Boggy Meadow Farm, on land worked by the same family since the mid-1600s. Their Fanny Mason cheeses, made in the original 18th-century barn, are the real deal. (Still more 18th-
century history awaits along Route 11 at Charlestown’s Fort at No. 4, p. 98.)
On the Vermont side, off U.S. Route 5, intrepid travelers should head north to Great River Outfitters in Windsor (p. 98)—or visit nearby Artisans Park, where you’ll find Harpoon Brewery, with its impressive array of craft beers and ales paired with hearty lunch fare. While at Artisans, you can also walk Great River’s sister operation, the inspiring Path of Life Garden, on 14 landscaped
Lifelong apple grower Homer Dann oversees the cultivation and harvest of Alyson’s Orchard’s fruit.
Lifelong apple grower Homer Dann oversees the cultivation and harvest of Alyson’s Orchard’s fruit.
OPPOSITE , TOP : View to the south from the summit of Vermont’s Mount Ascutney. Ascutney was a prime inspiration to the artists of the Cornish colony, just across the river in New Hampshire. The 1,500-acre state park here features hiking trails, awesome views, and a campground. Ascutney is also a popular hang gliding launch site (permit required).
OPPOSITE , TOP : to the south the summit of Vermont’s Mount Ascutney. Ascutney was a prime inspiration to the artists of the Cornish colony, just across the river in Hampshire. The 1,500-acre state park here features trails, awesome views, and a Ascutney is also a popular hang gliding launch site (permit required).
OPPOSITE , BOTTOM : Guests of Great River Outfitters put in below Sumner Falls (a.k.a. the Hartland Rapids) as they head out for a day on the water.
OPPOSITE , BOTTOM : Guests of Great Outfitters put in below Sumner Falls (a.k.a. the Hartland Rapids) as they head out for a day on the water.
acres. You may well be tempted to camp overnight here in one of two roomy Native American tipis.
Don’t leave this area without visiting Mount Ascutney State Park. Buckle up, because the nearly four-mile summit road, although completely paved, will make you feel like a competitor at Le Mans. Your reward is an impressive view to your right just beyond the three-mile marker, then an even more eye-popping one at the summit parking lot to your left. If you hike the 0.7-mile summit trail, you’ll marvel at the knockout panoramic view of the entire region in glorious fall color from the observation deck.
Offering kayaks, canoes, and big family rafts, Great River Outfitters in Windsor, Vermont, will strap your choice of vessel to a carrier, put you on their shuttle bus, and take everyone to the launch five miles upriver, just below Sumner Falls. Flanked by fall scenery on both banks, it’s a leisurely three-hour trip downriver, with dramatic views of Mount Ascutney in front of you. Below the rapids, the Connecticut is classified as “moving flat water,” which means that it’s more like a lake, with a gentle current propelling you downstream.
You might also opt for a longer halfor full-day trip, traveling farther downriver and under the Cornish–Windsor Bridge. Stop at any time to do a little fishing; or to let your kids take a turn on the rope swing on the Vermont side, just off the old railroad bridge; or to picnic on Chase Island in the middle of the river, south of the covered bridge; or maybe to just kick back and observe the waterfowl and other birds.
Though not as widely known as some other restored settlements, such as Old Sturbridge Village, The Fort is an equally worthy site: a historically accurate reproduction of the fortified stockade built in 1744 to safeguard the people of Charlestown, then known as Plantation No. 4, the northwesternmost Brit-
The volunteers of The Fort at No. 4 in Charlestown, New Hampshire, re-create both the joys and the hardships of colonial life as it was lived on the then-frontier. Their mission, notes director Wendy Baker, is to bring the valley’s 18th-century heritage alive and to spark “a better understanding of who we are today through the lens of the past.”
In Walpole, New Hampshire, Valley Farms innkeeper and expert organic farmer Jackie Caserta serves lunch to a furry friend.
In Walpole, New Hampshire, Valley Farms innkeeper and expert organic farmer Jackie Caserta serves lunch to a furry friend.
OPPOSITE TOP : From the Quinnetukut II, the iconic span of western Massachusetts’French King Bridge, built in 1931–32 to carry Route 2 (the Mohawk Trail) over the Connecticut River, comes into view. OPPOSITE , BOTTOM : As seen from the French King Bridge, the Millers River near its confluence with the Connecticut in French King Gorge. The Connecticut turns west here for 3 miles before heading south again below the Turners Falls Dam.
OPPOSITE , TOP : From the Quinnetukut II, the iconic span of western Massachusetts’ French King Bridge, built in 1931–32 to carry Route 2 (the Mohawk Trail) over the Connecticut River, comes into view. OPPOSITE , BOTTOM : As seen from the French King Bridge, the Millers River near its confluence with the Connecticut in French King Gorge. The Connecticut turns west here for 3 miles before heading south again below the Turners Falls Dam.
ish settlement in the American colonies at the time. Protecting the first settler families became a pressing issue when the Brits had to contend with some pushy French elements, allied with various Native American tribes, who were looking to stop “New England” from consuming “New France.” In 1747, militia captain Phineas Stevens repelled a raiding party of French and Indians who had devastated the British frontier during the winter of 1746–47; Colonial hero Major Robert Rogers found safety here when hurriedly retreating from his attack on the French-supporting Abenaki at St. Francis in Quebec.
Later, during the American Revolution, General John Stark massed forces at No. 4 to deploy at the decisive Battle of Bennington in August 1777, and again before the crucial Battle of Saratoga. You, as a visitor, can witness a reenactment of General Stark’s exploits on Revolutionary War Weekend, October 1–2 this year. Other fall events include “Women of the Fort,” “Pickpockets, Rogues, and Highwaymen,” “Native Heritage Weekend,” and the festive November “Harvest Dinner.”
There are two ways to enjoy your stay at this 105-acre farmstead in Walpole, New Hampshire, set amid surroundings so beautiful you may never want to leave. Two tastefully appointed guest rooms and a spacious suite, all on the second floor, are as charming as they are comfortable. Downstairs you’ll find a sitting room, library, and elegant dining room, where innkeeper Jackie Caserta serves sumptuous three-course farm-totable breakfasts. Out the back door are a terrace and gardens with views of the rolling hills beyond. Or, if you’ve come en famille, two guest cottages (with fully stocked kitchens) and Sunnyside Farmhouse, a splendid retreat, are available.
But best of all is the farm itself. Wander around and enjoy the fields, and visit the expansive barn, which dates back more than 100 years. Come with a cooler so that before you leave you can visit the farm store and extend your experience for a few extra days back home.
We’re standing on an 1889 iron bridge (long closed to cars) across the narrow run of the Millers River just before it enters the main event near French King Gorge. On this spectacularly beautiful early October day, downstream and some 200 feet above us soars one of the most imposing sights on the entire Connecticut River: the graceful 800foot span of the French King Bridge, linking the towns of Erving and Gill in western Massachusetts. Next door is Cabot Camp, purportedly the site of a rollicking tavern that served log drivers, stagecoach drivers, and river rats of all stripes nearly two centuries ago. However did we find this place?
Kicking off our 40-mile jaunt through the lush Pioneer Valley earlier that morning on Route 63, we’d boarded the Quinnetukut II at Northfield Mountain (p. 102) for a don’t-miss river excursion. Later, back on shore, we discovered by chance a hidden dirt road hugging the water, leading to Cabot Camp, where we stopped for a picnic and a poke around the ruins of that old-time watering hole, Durkee’s. Cabot Camp, like Durkee’s before it, has long since beaten a retreat back to nature.
Pushing on west and then south on U.S. Route 5, a few miles’ trek brings travelers to an ideal overnight base, the gracious Deerfield Inn (p. 104), just steps from the colonial houses of Historic Deerfield (p. 104). While here in the valley, be sure to take a detour up the access road to Mount Sugarloaf State Reservation. From the top, you’ll be treated to wide-open vistas of the river, the Holyoke and Mount Tom ranges, and the entire Pioneer Valley.
Head east over the river on Route 116 to Sunderland; pick up Route 47 to follow the river though the valley’s most fertile farmland. Nothing says fall more than a New England farm stand, and they appear one after the other: Warner on your right, then Riverland; on your left, Millstone, Smiarowski’s, and finally North Hadley Market & Sugar Shack.
Make time to visit the Porter–Phelps–Huntington House Museum in Hadley, too. This historic “River God” home dates from 1752, on land laid out in 1659. No structural changes have been made since 1799; its collections of original furnishings, quilts, and paintings rival any in New England.
South of Hadley, we reach the end of this leg. But we’ve saved the best for last: views of the valley from Skinner State Park, home of Mount Holyoke and its fabled Summit House. From the secondfloor porch, look west to the dramatic curve of artist Thomas Cole’s Oxbow, a horseshoe-shaped pond that was once a 360-degree bend in the river before floodwaters in 1840 cut a new channel— still today an arresting sight.
If one could travel only seven miles of the river’s 410, our vote would go here, to this stretch between Northfield Mountain and Barton Cove in Gill. The compact Quinnetukut II takes you on a narrated, 90-minute cruise; in the fall, the foliagerich banks on either side of the water are aglow in shades of red and gold.
Captain Scott Brennan is a genial sort and a born yarn spinner; first mate Kim Noyes is a learned naturalist. You’ll be riveted by their true-life tales: of the Squakheag people, here when the first Europeans came (Quinnetukut means “long tidal river”); of 19th-century log drivers, ferry captains, stagecoach drivers, and flatboatmen (who probably delivered rum to Durkee’s Tavern); of the river’s rich wildlife, including bald eagles; of geological formations like French King Rock, the “Horserace,” the Dinosaur Track Quarry, and “King Philip’s Abyss,” the deepest spot on the entire river and home to unique underwater invertebrate habitats.
In Hadley, Massachusetts, hang glider Scott Burke takes flight from Mount Holyoke, riding the thermals and soaring over the Connecticut River. TOP LEFT : On the porch at Skinner State Park’s Summit House, formerly a hotel opened in 1851 atop Mount Holyoke. Skinner connects seamlessly with Mount Holyoke Range State Park to the east; combined, their trails traverse the entire Holyoke Range, offering prime opportunities for hawk watching during the fall migration. MIDDLE : Whimsical pumpkins greet visitors on a side road off scenic Route 47 in Hadley. RIGHT : The “Bishop’s Study” at Hadley’s Porter–Phelps–Huntington House, “Forty Acres,” on the east bank of the Connecticut.The home remained within the same family from 1752 to 1949 (six generations).
In Hadley, Massachusetts, hang glider Scott Burke takes flight from Mount Holyoke, riding the thermals and soaring over the Connecticut River. TOP LEFT : On the porch at Skinner State Park’s Summit House, formerly a hotel opened in 1851 atop Mount Holyoke. Skinner connects seamlessly with Mount Holyoke Range State Park to the east; combined, their trails traverse the entire Range, offering prime opportunities for hawk watching during the fall migration. MIDDLE : Whimsical pumpkins greet visitors on a side road off scenic Route 47 in Hadley. RIGHT : The “Bishop’s Study” at Hadley’s Porter–Phelps–Huntington House, “Forty Acres,” on the east bank of the Connecticut.The home remained within the same family from 1752 to 1949 (six generations).
What distinguishes Historic Deerfield from other “museum villages” is that this one is part of a real village: 12 museum houses interspersed among private homes along Old Main Street, where the 18th century blends seamlessly with the 21st. An admission fee lets you tour the interiors—but there’s no charge if you want to just walk around and take in the surrounding farmland and meadows the way they might have looked 250 years ago.
This now-serene place, first settled as a frontier town in 1669, was once witness to decisive events in New England’s battle-scarred colonial history: Native attacks in 1675 during King Philip’s War; the bloody reprisal by Colonials the next year at a Native refugee camp near the Great Falls (where the river forms the Turners Falls/Gill border today); and the infamous 1704 “Raid on Deerfield,” when the French and their Indian allies killed 47 settlers and kidnapped 112, marching them 300 miles to Canada. Visit the Old Burying Ground at the end of Albany Road, where those who perished lie together in a mass grave, today a gentle grass-covered mound of earth.
If you’re into artifacts and antiques, the museum’s Flynt Center of Early New England Life features thousands of objects, many of which are housed in a transparent storage area, making the “Museum’s Attic” visible to all. Historic Deerfield engages with many communities, from those of New England’s
earliest ancestors to the people who live right here, right now, in this timeless corner of the Connecticut River Valley: Fall programs include open-hearth cooking and historic-trades demonstrations; the ADA/Historic New England Antiques Show; and Archaeology Day.
Of all the tributaries in this watershed, the Deerfield River may be the most scenic, descending southeast for some 75 miles from Vermont’s Green Mountains through the Berkshires to join the Connecticut where the towns of Deerfield and Greenfield meet—just a few miles from where we’re sitting now, out on the porch of the 132-year-old Deerfield Inn.
Innkeeper Jane Howard calls it “our own made-in-America Brigadoon”— but then, she’s British. (The inn, fittingly, has a “Beehive Parlor,” a warmly enveloping space done up in buttery hues, where afternoon tea, with honey and cookies—Jane would call them “biscuits”—are served daily.) It sits at the midpoint of mile-long Old Main Street, surrounded by a phalanx of Colonial-era houses, including the carefully preserved homes of Historic Deerfield; Pocumtuck Valley’s Memorial Hall, another outstanding regional history musem; old churches; the iconic campus of Deerfield Academy; and majestic trees lining this road the way many Main Streets were a century ago.
There are 24 guest rooms, 11 in the main building and 13 in the adjoining carriage house. Homemade breakfast comes from local sources; the same philosophy informs the menu at the inn’s restaurant, Champney’s, when you head down for lunch or dinner. Inn guests also receive discounts at Historic Deerfield and its gift shop.
Most important of all, when you ask about reservations and specials, tell them “Jack” sent you. This sweet-faced black Lab is the inn’s “marketing manager.” He’s often off somewhere else with his posse of other rescued pups, but when in residence he’ll give away the whole place for a few tummy rubs and a well-placed pat on the head.
Fifteen miles below Hartford, Connecticut, the river turns sharply at Middletown before its final, tidewater run southeast to Long Island Sound at Saybrook Point. From our base in the town of Deep River (p. 107), we’re chasing the water along lovely Route 154 down to Essex, a gemlike inland seaport with a downtown so compact you can walk its entirety in less than an hour. Take in the sailboats in the harbor, bobbing up and down next to the Connecticut River Museum (p. 107). Or board an antique railcar and a Mississippi-style riverboat for an escape into the past (p. 107). Later, head to the 240-year-old Griswold Inn and choose one of the “historic rooms” as your dining spot while perusing bookshelves, antique weaponry, or maritime artworks. Visit the Tap Room with its lively music, or try the elegant Wine Bar—
Essex Steam Train fireman Michael Ozaruk keeps the coal flowing into the firebox and maintains the boiler’s water level. OPPOSITE : Saybrook Inner Light, an octagonal brownstone tower built in 1838, stands sentinel on Lynde Point, as the Connecticut River empties into Long Island Sound.
but after a glass or two, don’t stare too long at the full-width riverboat mural behind the bar—it moves like the real thing and you might just turn “a whiter shade of pale.”
Our final 10-mile stretch leads to Saybrook Point and the mouth of the Connecticut. From the boardwalk, far in front of us across a cove sit two historic structures: lovely Lynde Point Light (a.k.a. Saybrook Inner Light) and the iconic Saybrook Breakwater Light out on its stone jetty. And so, the Connecticut’s 410-mile journey ends here. Look up, out, and around: You’re at the very place where the mighty river empties into Long Island Sound. And what an awesome sight it is: this big, wide, magnificent water, the lifeblood of New England, rolling on into the infinite sea.
For our final expedition, we first boarded an antique Pullman car, pulled by a vintage locomotive out of historic Essex Station, heading north to Deep River through rich marshland. Valley Railroad president Kevin Dodd and chief mechanical officer J. David Conrad between them have worked every job up and down the line during their careers, and their passion and knowledge ensure an unforgettable experience for visitors.
In Deep River, our train met up with the triple-deck Becky Thatcher riverboat. From here Captain Paul Costello took us on a 75-minute narrated cruise upriver to view sights that you just can’t experience from the land in quite the same way. One showstopper is Gillette Castle, looming from its clifftop perch over the river at East Haddam, the legacy of famed early-20th-century stage actor William Gillette, the wildly popular embodiment of the storied Sherlock Holmes. In retirement, he designed a 24-room fieldstone replica of a medieval castle, with trails, walkways, and even a narrow-gauge railroad with tunnels, trestles, and a station. Now part of its own state park, this huge stone construction is open to the public. From the water, it looks like an impossible illusion, sure to disappear if you blink in the shimmering sunlight.
If you were to simply walk up the threestory staircase on one side of the building and then down the staircase on the other side, your trip to the Connecticut River Museum in Essex would be a thoroughly enjoyable, informative experience. Although, of course, there’s a lot more to it than that.
On your right as you ascend the steps inside this expansive 1878 white clapboard building, artist Russell Buckingham has created a colorful, whimsical, three-story vertical mural depicting the entire length of the Connecticut River from south to north. Then, upon your return journey—down the stairway at left—you encounter the same scenes and sites, north to south, in the form of striking aerial photos by Tom Walsh.
Inside, enthralling exhibits beckon. The coolest for kids is an interactive model of America’s first submarine, the Revolutionary War Turtle. Outside, moored at the CRV wharf is the sleek 1906 schooner Mary E , aboard which the museum schedules daily cruises into October. Plus, a “Paddle Explorations” program offers staff-led tours and classes and self-guided canoe and kayak trips. The guided Swallow Paddle (September 15 this year) is the hit of the early-fall season—letting you witness the aerial ballet of tens of thousands of tree swallows soaring and swirling high above in their premigration choreography.
This is a fun and amazing place—and by visiting it you’re helping to protect New England’s most cherished common resource: its “Great River.” As executive
director Chris Dobbs notes, “The river [is] a unifying force. It symbolizes our past, our present, and our future.”
The Riverwind Inn
Riverwind, with seven beautiful guest rooms, has been in Elaine and Leo Klevens’ care since 2005. It seems that Elaine had acquired so large a collection of beloved antiques beforehand that she “simply had to open a B&B, with so many things and no place to put them!”
The front half of the house, including a lovely dining room with fireplace and front guest rooms upstairs, dates to 1854. The back half is a more recent addition, but so tastefully done—using original foundation stones for the fireplace and local antique timber for ceilings and corner posts—that we thought it was the older part of the house. Elaine’s delicate stenciling graces the guest rooms and staircase, enhancing the home’s Early American spirit.
We rose early and headed for coffee in the upstairs sitting room. En route, with no one else astir, we were mesmerized by both the enchanting aroma of fragrant spices and the subtle twinkling of tiny white lights throughout the house. The effect was magical. Then Elaine served a filling breakfast of homemade rolls and sizzling herbed frittatas: a delicious start to our final day following the Great River, at home in the heart of the valley’s historic Tidelands.
Explore the valley! Road trips, resources, more sightseeing, and additional photos at: NewEngland.com/CTRiverValley
when the great working horses who clear our land, plow our fields, and pull our carriages in city parks grow old, their future can be bleak— unless they find themselves at a special farm in western massachusetts.
BY SUZANNE STREMPEK SHEA
photographs by CHERYLE ST. ONGE
n a late-summer Saturday morning, a truck pulling a silver horse trailer slows to a stop in front of a big red barn in a small Western Massachusetts town. Two men step from the cab and stretch away the miles they’ve just driven from a carriage stable in downtown Philadelphia. They walk to the back of the trailer and swing open the door. Inside, a newly retired carriage horse, Sam—a quiet, 20-year-old, chocolate-colored Belgian cross—shifts his 2,200-pound self. He sniffs the air. He swishes his docked tail. He knows he’s somewhere different. He doesn’t yet know what soon will become very clear: that here he will become part of a herd. Perhaps become part of horse-powered farming, transport, and teaching efforts; maybe even go on to enjoy a perfect match with an adopted family. All are shining alternatives to the more typical fate of aging or ailing draft horses, whose massive size and weight mean more meat on the bone, thus more money for kill buyers who purchase the estimated 180,000 American horses annually auctioned for slaughter. Sam could live another 15 years, maybe more. And he’ll start those next years here, where he’ll be loved and appreciated and safe. Where he will be home.
My childhood bedroom windows looked out onto a green field and a stretch of poplar and oak woods. My dreams looked out onto that same green field, but added a white board fence. Inside the white board fence was a small red barn. And inside the small red barn was my very own palomino pony. I’d dash down the stairs at the back of my family’s duplex, unlatch the gate, tack up, and ride blissfully into the woods, which had grown a network of tree-shaded bridle paths.
For a kid so equine-crazed that until my teens I dressed like Roy Rogers during any moment that didn’t require my parochial-school uniform, waking always was a bit of a disappointment. There was no palomino pony outside my window.
Adulthood is a different story, as that long-ago dream actually has come true. There’s a field, but I have to walk a little farther than my back steps; after only a few minutes’ cycle or cross-country ski, I’m standing there. Inside a white board fence. At a red barn. Next to not a palomino pony but a really big horse. One measuring 6-foot-8—just at the shoulders—and weighing in at 3,000 pounds. He and his fellow herd mates are my neighbors at Blue Star Equiculture, the draft-horse rescue and organic farm in Bondsville, Massachusetts, a village within the town of Palmer.
Over the past seven years, this 129acre haven—complete with a circa-
1890s barn, 20 box stalls and a run-in, four paddocks, and a trail looping for a mile around the edges of pasture, river, and woods—has taken in or fostered approximately 300 homeless working horses. It’s licensed to care for 32, and vacancies are rare. Between 25 and 30 horses have been adopted out annually, including Daisy, an 18-year-old Belgian mare retired from farm work, and Carter, a 15-year-old Percheron gelding who once pulled carriages in Philadelphia. The team now lives in the Berkshires, on a wooded farm that last logged with horses in the 1940s.
Former New York City carriage horse Silver Too arrived at Blue Star just as
the original Silver (“Silver One”), an Amish-bred Percheron former farm horse and Philadelphia carriage horse, was adopted by a Maine farmer. A New York City carriage driver came here to test-drive Silver Too and soon was driving his new horse around Central Park.
Eight herd members are “ambassadors”—permanent working residents who lead city parades and country weddings, log, plow, and help tomorrow’s farmers learn the true meaning of “horsepower.” The rest of the able-bodied in the herd await new homes. The elderly or ill are lovingly cared for until the end of their days. Thirty lie buried in a quiet corner of the back field.
Greeting me inside the white board fence running along Route 181 is a herd representing all five of the big breeds originally used in war during the Middle Ages. Clydesdales, Belgians, and Percherons are familiar to many, while the Shires, numbering roughly 2,000 worldwide, and Suffolks, with only 1,200 left in North America, actually are endangered. For all, picture oneton-plus heft, all muscle and might, the kinds of horses you see marching across the pages of history books, pulling wagons full of newcomers, skids piled with logs, plows carving out fields of corn, helping to form our world.
Paddy, a 30-year-old gray Percheron gelding, spent a dozen years as a New York City carriage horse. Lucy, a duncolored Fjord cross in her early thirties, served on the police force at the University of Massachusetts for a quarter century. Romeo, 29, is a former champion racehorse who then pulled an Amish family’s buggy before completing a decade of carriage work in New York City.
But others had lessstoried careers. Gentle roan Clydesdale mare Luna, 9, was rescued seven years ago from a small enclosure in Central Massachusetts after subsisting on dirt and meager portions of hay. Piper, a 9-year-old gray Percheron mare, was given to the farm in 2010, along with three brothers, by a Maine couple whose lives were derailed by illness. Gulliver, a 30-year-old white Percheron who once worked as mascot for the Entenmann’s pastry company, was found wandering in the Vermont woods. Also filling the stalls at Blue Star are horses whose keep, an average of $3,000 to $5,000 annually, became financially impossible, or whose extent of care was someone’s sad surprise. Still others were plucked from kill pens. For all, the next step was a clean, wood-chip-lined stall in the big red barn at Blue Star, named
ABOVE : Noodle, a Percheron cross, is a former Amish farm horse who enjoyed a second career as a Philadelphia carriage horse before retiring to Blue Star.
OPPOSITE : Halters hang in the barn. PREVIOUS SPREAD : Foxy is one of four young brothers, ambassadors for their endangered breed, the Shire horse; they arrived at Blue Star in August 2012 from a farm on Long Island.
for the Hopi Native American prophecy that a blue star heralds the coming of a new world, new beginnings.
Back when I was dreaming of a horse outside my window, that barn sheltered a dairy herd. When the farm went on the market in the early 1980s, I remember clearly how the suggested uses, including “condos” and “golf course,” shot into my gut as I imagined the gorgeous span being developed, and my town becoming that much less rural and open.
Then a young couple purchased the farm and began tending a small herd of cattle. A cozy breakfast place was built next door. I prayed that the remainder of the farm would go untouched. Gears indeed were turning in the universe— specifically, six hours south, where Philadelphia carriage driver Pamela
Rickenbach was troubled about the retirement options for a mid-twenties Belgian/Morgan gelding with whom she’d worked.
Rickenbach joined fellow teamsters Christina Hansen and Justin Morace in researching farms where large horses could happily live out their years. There had to be a few in a country home to 9.2 million horses, one to two million of which are heavy horses known as “drafts,” a reference to the line of the draft from the harness collar to the implement being hauled. The trio found retirement organizations for sport or companion horses. Few focused on draft horses, and fewer used them for anything other than lawn ornaments, or mascots to protest animals working for humans.
“Being a carriage driver and tour guide in Philadelphia were some of my happiest years,” Rickenbach tells me while leaning against the white board fence and watching the larger horses head into the pasture. “I fell in love with this country, and I fell more in love with horses. We had to come up with something for the horses, and for the world that could benefit from learning about them and with them.”
This 55-year-old native of Manhattan, who grew up in the Andes and the Amazon, had studied horticulture and indigenous cultures before taking the reins of tourist carriages in 2004. Her turf was the pavement; her best instructor that Belgian/Morgan, Bud, who loved nothing more than clip-clopping his passengers past historic landmarks.
In 2009 Rickenbach contacted a former professor about finding land on which to create a horse rescue. She was directed to the Leo S. Walsh Foundation, based in Quogue, New York, and run by Sandy Walsh. She knew of a farm in Western Massachusetts, next to the village of Three Rivers, where she’d been raised. Walsh offered to pay the rent if the place could be used as a rescue. Stars—of all colors, including blue—aligned. The owners became the landlords, and Bud became the reason a Blue Star began to shine.
The men from the truck lead Sam into the big red barn and the first stall on the right. Nine horses poke their heads from stalls as a young woman directs a hose
into buckets of grain. A few stamp their hooves. One lets out a cry of breakfast anticipation. Just outside the door, six hungry horses are tethered to a section of the white board fence. A teenaged boy in T-shirt, shorts, and laced-up work boots sets a rubber bowl of grain on the floor of Sam’s stall. Sam doesn’t seem to know it’s his. The boy stoops to point. “It’s all yours,” he tells Sam. “All yours.”
a 6-year-old working farm horse
ambassador for his endangered breed, the
horse.
, TOP : Longtime Blue Star supporter Sandy Walsh, president of the Leo S. Walsh Foundation, shares a tender moment with Remix, a 9-yearold Percheron and one of Blue Star’s working horses. OPPOSITE , BOTTOM : Three-year-old Sonny, a rescued Percheron/ Mustang cross, runs like the wind.
Six-foot-two and slender, with a yearround tan and straight brown hair usually braided, Rickenbach dresses in jeans and T-shirts most days, and is never without shoulder-brushing earrings bearing an equine image, shells, feathers, or a combination of all of them. She is at once a warrior for horses and for the Earth; an adoption counselor; a deft fund raiser; an expert on horses and history; a businesswoman juggling phone, laptop, social-media accounts, checkbook. Blue Star’s monthly bills total some $20,000. Beyond the Leo Walsh rent payment, much of the rest is up to donors, including 250 “herd members” who pledge to donate at least $10 monthly.
Well-known author and journalist Jon Katz, a newer friend of the farm, in the past year has focused many of his
online columns on Blue Star and has established crowdfunding efforts for expenses, including the care of a new Blue Star charge who is nearly blind. The money arrives. Not always in a timely fashion, but it gets there. And sometimes what’s needed costs nothing; it may be as simple as time spent.
Rickenbach brings an eight-foot ladder over to Tex and braids his mane. At 20 hands (six-footeight at the shoulders), Tex has been measured by Guinness World Records as one of the world’s five largest horses. He still easily can pull some 9,000 pounds: three times his body weight. “He’s still in the prime of his life, too, a youngster at 12,” Rickenbach notes. “He came to us with a lot of anxiety from an obvious accident he was in. He has scars on his eyes and one of the pectoral muscles in his chest is severed.”
Tex was given two years to rest before Rickenbach decided to put him into harness last year, and the time off helped. His enthusiastic work has included pulling an oak tree from the river last summer, and he goes into fifth gear as a saddle horse when equipment manager Brian Jerome gallops him over the fields.
In the feed room at the end of the aisle, Rickenbach measures dinner por-
tions of grain and supplements into the horses’ feed bowls. I stand with local teens and regular volunteers Brandon Carney, Jaci Olson, Josie Desroches, and Gabe Toelken to dole out the bowls. Mucking is done, the manure now heaped in hills of what will become the farm’s best-selling compost. Jerome will start the tractor so that two round bales of hay can be fetched from down the lane behind the barn. It’s body-testing farmwork, the kind I’ve learned can replace any gym. Like the gym, the work is there every morning and evening of the year, in all weather. Unlike at the gym, the smells here can enrapture: the sweetness of the grain, the endless field that a pitchforkful of hay brings to mind, the feel of snow approaching in the cold damp, and, yes, the manure. This from someone who can’t leave the farm without sticking her face deep into a horse’s neck and just breathing in whatever mysterious thing has always drawn me to this animal.
Ready to meet someone new.
“I always loved horses,” Rickenbach says as she microwaves a plate of leftover chicken and rice for a late supper at the farmhouse’s kitchen table, which also holds a bunch of bananas, an apple pie, a bridle, and a stack of books, including a text on horse-powered farming. “From when I was just a baby, I would arrange grass and little toy horses and build stables in the yard. The other day I looked at this farm and said, ‘That’s why I was doing that back then. I’m actually doing what my spirit is here to do.’”
She’s doing that with horses who are here to work, too. They’re bred for work. It’s good for their spirit, and for their very lives: Muscles kept in good condition mean that a horse who has fallen or is sleeping will be able to stand. Herd members who can work are used in driving and horsemanship lessons, for carriage rides, and for working
cian, an artist and writer, he became the farm’s hardworking operations manager. He and Rickenbach were the heart of the place for the five years until Moshimer’s sudden death in May 2015. Every chance she gets, Rickenbach rides Piper, trying her best to fit in this pleasant therapy before the demands of the day arrive.
Rickenbach acknowledges what Piper and the rest of the herd do for her soul and her journey through grief, but clarifies the balance. “It’s not so much that horses need us. We need them more,” she says as she sits on the grassy slope behind the farmhouse, stripes of pink and blue coloring the sunset. “There’s nothing wrong with them. We’re the ones who are disconnected and fried. They’re the ones who can restore our natural connection to the Earth, and from there we can begin to grow roots again.”
Sam is back inside for the night, looking out the barn door again. It’s easy to
I’m not the only one lost in the experience. “Literally thousands of volunteers have come and helped, and the beauty of all that is that all these people have been given the opportunity to connect with these horses,” Rickenbach says. “But probably one in a hundred actually stay on to help long-term. It’s not for everyone.”
The gate is held open as Sam is walked into a paddock that’s a salad bar of green. Just as he begins to nibble near the fencing separating him from five nearby horses who stand watching, gigantic Tex rushes forward, then stops short. Sam doesn’t startle, just moves away with a wave of his tail as Tex takes a few steps along the fence before pawing the ground, making clear who’s in charge.
This is a new herd for Sam, with a new hierarchy to match. But for now, there’s the security of a fence, and the enthusiastic trailing of someone who’s appeared at his back hooves: Threeyear-old Sonny, who came to the farm as a starving colt, stands eager. Ears up.
the organic vegetable and flower gardens that greet visitors to the fields out back. On a given day, a team of Shires might be tacked up to pull a carriage at a wedding, a funeral, or a festival. Carriages and wagons pass my house on test drives, or simply en route to the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through. Since 2010, in the state’s first official certification program for draft-horse care and use, Blue Star teams have been helping UMass/ Amherst students learn a horse-powered way of life.
If Blue Star is healing and helpful for equines, it’s nothing but the same for humans, who bear their own share of change, age, and issues. Whether military veterans, kids with special needs, retirees, or anyone craving an hour in the open air, just being at Blue Star is an incomparable balm.
Last year, the farm was essential medicine when Blue Star lost a vital member of its human herd. Mainer Paul Moshimer first visited the farm in 2010 and soon was an integral part. A former fire chief and emergency medical techni-
imagine that he’s also looking back on a day that began with that long road trip and arrival—not to mention working the chain on his stall until he managed to unclasp it and wander over to the white board fence. There were horses to meet. People to meet. Countless pats and comments about his Mohawk-style mane. There were two apples in his dinner grain, two buckets of water, fresh and cool hanging nearby. Now there’s a bed of clean shavings beneath his hooves, a pile of fresh hay in the stall corner. There’s a teen who’s closing everything up for the night. Hollywood casting couldn’t have done better on this day when a draft horse who needed a home landed at one so fitting and hopeful, for both humans and equines. “Good night, Sam,” says the girl, whose first name, not unlike Blue Star itself, is Destiny.
For more on Blue Star, go to: equiculture .org. More photos at: NewEngland.com/ DraftHorses. Learn about more animalrescue efforts in our region at: NewEngland .com/Sanctuaries
‘it’s not so much that horses need us. we need them more.’
Blue Star founder Pam Rickenbach with Wyatt, a 12-year-old Amish-bred Percheron farm horse.
WHEN TRAGEDY ROCKED
A SMALL VERMONT TOWN, POLICE CHIEF FRANK KOSS BROKE
THE RULES OF WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO AND SAY.
IT’S BEEN NEARLY NINE MONTHS. THE FLOWERS AND BEER CANS AND SCROLLED FAREWELLS (“SMOKE A BONG FOR JOEY”) ARE LONG GONE FROM THE ROADSIDE NOW, AS IS THE GHOSTLY WHITE RACING BIKE—WHITE-PAINTED TIRES, WHITE SEAT AND HANDLEBARS, HUNG WITH WHITE WREATHS—THAT STOOD SOMEHOW UPRIGHT, FOR WEEKS AFTER ALL THE REST WAS GONE, IN THE FIELD JUST OFF THE TURN, ON ROUTE 116 IN HINESBURG VERMONT, WHERE THE HONDA CIVIC LEFT THE ROAD. BUT THE HAND-CARVED, BLOCK-PRINTED WOOD SIGN, NAILED TO THE TREE, IS STILL THERE: “AS YOU COME HERE TO GRIEVE THE SAD LOSS OF JOSEPH AND TO PAY YOUR RESPECTS PLEASE REMEMBER THAT A MAN NAMED RICHARD WHO ALSO WAS LOVED BY FAMILY AND FRIENDS WENT OUT FOR A BIKE RIDE ON A BEAUTIFUL SUNDAY MORNING AND NEVER CAME BACK.”
It’s a sunless afternoon in midJanuary, though there has been no snow for days, and the ground is as gray as the sky. As we make our way south on 116 half an hour southeast of Burlington in the black police cruiser, to our right the flatness of the Champlain Valley unrolls itself like a carpet across a succession of fields; to the west, the land rises slowly, through a ridge of low
trees, toward the foothills of the Green Mountains.
The police chief, Frank Koss, drives on without looking sideways. (“I pass here,” he says, “probably three or four times a day.”) Half a mile or so past the spot, he turns the SUV left onto a rutted side road, then left again, as the road turns briefly to dirt, up a hill that curves past a derelict barn, then through
a thinly settled neighborhood of homes that have seen better days. There are woods on both sides now—scrub pines, a scattering of birches—and every few hundred feet a driveway cuts in from left or right. One of these is the Triple L mobile-home park, a scrum of single- and double-wide trailers packed in around narrow dirt alleyways, where Joey Marshall’s family still lives. “Most of those people there, I have a lot of respect for them,” the chief says. “They go to work, they take care of their homes, they’re good people.”
Another mile farther on, and with the woods now opening up to fields, we pass a large brick church fronted by a white cross; across the road from it, in the middle distance, is the rear of Champlain Valley Union High School, where Joey was a student until two days before he died. Just past here is Annette’s Preschool, where the chief likes to come some mornings, he says, to check in with the crossing guards and “just say hi to the kids.”
He drives on, taking his time, glancing up this side road, turning down that one, both hands always on the wheel. A car passes going the other way; both drivers raise fingers in greeting. “This is the best part of the job,” he says now. “You’re out on the road, you’re seeing people, they’re getting to see their tax dollars at work. After a while, you get to know the faces; you get a sense of who’s who. The day comes there’s a report of a domestic [problem], of some man and woman fighting, it helps that you’ve met them, that you have a sense of the history there.”
The history with Joey Marshall wasn’t so different from that of a lot of 17-yearolds—just a degree or so more extreme. He liked speed. (“Speed [for him] was a way of life,” a high-school friend would tell the police later.) He defied limits. He chafed at authority. He smoked weed. He was young.
Hinesburg police officer Anthony Cambridge, a former high-school social-studies teacher with the gentlest manner you’re likely ever to encounter in a cop, recalls an early run-in with Joey: “I was in my own car, on my way home. He came up behind me and passed me, then passed five other cars in front of me, at what I’d say was 80 miles an hour. It was the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen done in a car.”
Cambridge went to the Marshall home, where he met with Joey and his grandfather, then brought them back to the station. Joey cried and promised to slow down. Not long after came a phoned-in complaint: He was still at
it, driving his grandfather’s black Ford Fiesta way too fast on North Road— the site of the mobile-home park—“in a backward baseball cap, knocking down pylons.” Cambridge brought him into the station a second time, this time with his mother. His grandfather took away the car. “Someday you’re going to thank him,” Cambridge told the boy. Within weeks he was driving another, this time a teal-blue Honda Civic.
There were several more incidents, one involving a defective front license plate, another a noisy exhaust. Then, on the morning of April 26 last year, a Sunday, reportedly following an argument with his parents about his sum-
On the morning of April 26 of last year, Joey Marshall drove south on Route 116 in Hinesburg. By the time he reached the turn near the elementary school, he was traveling at more than 80 miles an hour …
Also rounding that same turn at that moment—
11:06 a.m.—pedaling south on the shoulder, was a bicyclist, Richard Tom, 47, a lover of books and bicycles.The emotional aftermath of the deaths of Joey Marshall and Richard Tom lines the accident site on Route 116 in Hinesburg, Vermont. Police Chief Frank Koss’s response to young people is “Learn from tragedy.”
many of them deadly, most of them on the road. Ten years gone from California, and he can still give you chapter and verse of the first fatality he ever worked: October 1982, father and three kids, killed in a Porsche on a Marin County mountain road. Or what he calls his worst: July Fourth weekend, 1997, Boulder Creek in Santa Cruz County, an 18-year-old, DWI, drives broadside into a tree at 1:30 a.m., killing three friends and burning a fourth over half his body. “They left flowers around the tree after that one, too,” he says.
He retired in the summer of 2006 on a California state pension, finishing as a
sergeant with the Mount Shasta office at the northern edge of the state. He was 53 years old, married, with 30-odd years of policing behind him.
Some weeks before he left, with his wife, Debbie, he took a road trip east: on I-70 through the middle of the country, with no certain destination in mind, “except that we both liked the idea of living in New England.” The trip took six weeks. By the time they were done driving, Vermont was the clear choice of both: “It’s hard to explain why. We just liked the feel of things there.”
They returned home and began surfing the Web. There was an open-
ing in Williston for a full-time beat cop—accidents, patrol duties, handing out tickets—which he began in the fall of ’06, a month after his last duty day in Mount Shasta. The Williston job led, a year later, to a similar post in Hinesburg. There was a promotion, then another. Since the spring of 2012, he’s been serving as chief, on a salary of $68,000 a year. He’s also trained as an EMT, whose duties—up to 200 calls a year, he says—he performs as a volunteer.
To make sense of what Koss did after Joey Marshall died, it helps to under-
ew Englanders are, above all, practical. Even if you arrive with fancy notions for buildings, the weather will swiftly veto the unfit roof and wall. That’s why we really have only one kind of building, old and new, big and small: the shed. From woodsheds to barns, from houses and meetinghouses to covered bridges, they’re all sheds. New England has never gotten much beyond the shed, and we’re the better for it. It’s the simple form that’s adaptable, that thrives from generation to generation. In fact, it’s what tourists respond to, though they certainly won’t say, “We’ve come to see the sheds.” But they love covered bridges, and the way that the houses lining the common seem like the little brothers of the bigger meetinghouse, or the way the connected sheds and barns trailing behind a house stand there like a third-grade class lined up for its photo.
Sheds are utilitarian. Sheds contain small things—wood and tools—and big: summers, winters, solitude, festivity. The smallest sheds can be liberating: a bob house on a frozen lake, a summer cabin. They can shelter dreams.
Sheds are flexible and fragile. They live in this paradox: They’re strong enough to bend. If they break, they can be fixed with common knowledge and common tools. A shed is a simple form, easily rebuilt. Sheds are temporary, and yet they last. A shed is the shortest line between need and shelter. It’s a trip from A to B. It’s often built of found materials; it’s built with a distilled practicality.
Of all sheds, covered bridges are the stars; spanning the water, they’re beloved for the beautiful pictures they make. Devoted “bridgers,” as enthusiasts are known, talk about the “prancing hoofbeats” on the wooden boards, “the fragrance of the aging wood,” kids swimming under the bridge or fishing off the bridge, young swains stealing a kiss with their “best girls,” and the ghosts that might be seen in the terrifying dark on moonless nights. Bridgers keep the nostalgia mills turning.
Covered bridges weren’t built to star on calendars. They weren’t built to be pretty. They were built with roofs to protect the bridge’s support—the trusses you see on the side, scissoring by. At least twenty different truss designs, most of them patented, were used in the 19th century. Philadelphia built the country’s first covered bridge, in 1805, at the insistence of a local judge who said, correctly, that the bridge would last much longer if its trusswork were protected from the weather.
Is it possible that covered bridges speak to us in ways we haven’t imagined?
This innovation was quickly adopted across the country with great success. Bridges that once had to be replaced frequently now could serve for a century—or more, in the case of several bridges. Covered bridges are rudely practical.
But that’s not why they have legions of protectors; about 850 covered bridges survive across the country, due in part to the vigilance of the bridgers. The strong appeal of covered bridges lies in the surprising feeling of shelter they arouse in people. Passing into the bridge’s shadows, a traveler is enclosed and suspended, and on many bridges, open to the water—looking through the trusses or windows, or down through the boards of the roadway. This sudden enclosure and suspension reawakens the senses.
Covered bridges are like treehouses in that way: You’re high up, you’re hidden, and you have a view. For a moment you’re hiding out. The English geographer Jay Appleton says that people are drawn to shelters that offer “prospect and refuge.” Evolving as hunter–gatherers, humans naturally sought out places where they could see without being seen. Passing through a covered bridge offers a quick taste of our old affinities. They’re small moments of reunion with our younger selves. The bridgers’ stories are tales of refuge.
Adapted from Sheds, by Howard Mansfield, with photographs by Joanna Eldredge Morrissey (Bauhan Publishing, June 2016). More images at: NewEngland.com/CoveredBridges
In South Randolph, Vermont, the Kingsbury Bridge (also called the Hyde Bridge), built in 1904, spans the Second Branch of the White River. It was restored in 2009, after this photo was taken.
Chris Hadsel, executive director of Curtains Without Borders, with one of her restored theater curtains in Cornwall, Vermont. The piece was originally painted for the town of Whiting, but when the town hall’s upstairs theater was closed, Hadsel brokered the curtain’s permanent loan to nearby Cornwall. “It was lying on the floor when we got it,” she says, “the only one of a group of curtains that survived. It was so filthy we weren’t even sure what was on it.”
ll odysseys have a beginning, and this one begins inside a rundown brick building in a town in northwestern Vermont.
This is before the big grants and lecture invitations. Before the thousands of miles she traveled, hunched over a steering wheel, crisscrossing northern New England. Before all those treks through forgotten attics and back rooms. Before the radio and newspaper interviews. And yes, before the letters and phone calls, trickling in from underfunded historical groups asking, even pleading: Can you help us reclaim a bit of our past?
It’s a spring day in 1993, and Christine Hadsel is making her way inside the abandoned Vergennes Opera House, past the rubble of chunked-out wall plaster, across moaning floorboards, under smashed windows that invite flocks of pigeons in. She’s looking for the second-floor theater, to see an artistic oddity.
As director of the Vermont Museum and Gallery Alliance (VMGA), a Burlington nonprofit that has helped museums care for their collections, she has come here at the request of a group working to save the opera house. There’s a grand drape, she’s been told, of which little is known. Can she tell whether it’s worth preserving?
“It was on the stage, propped up against the back wall,” Hadsel recalls. “This enormous thing, so dirty you could hardly see what was on it. It was filthy and torn, and it had a big hole where somebody had stepped through it.”
But through all that grime Hadsel caught glimpses of the painting’s grandeur. The way a splash of evening light hit a mountain peak, a woods-andwater scene so lifelike she wanted to step into it. It spoke of a kind of promise and potential for the space around it. A past that showed a possibility for the future. As she settled into her car for the hour-long drive home to Burlington, Hadsel wondered whether there were more paintings like it. What sort of history did these neglected public buildings, once so central to rural community life, hold? What was at risk of vanishing once they disappeared?
She didn’t know it then, but on that April day Hadsel had pricked the surface of a vast body of public art that had largely been forgotten. A century ago, in grange halls and churches, town halls and performance buildings, theater curtains were the central pieces of public art in small towns across New England. From the late 1800s to the eve of World War II, they formed the colorful backdrops and scene setters for weddings and concerts, plays and town meetings. Some were created by big-city production houses, others by itinerant artists who schlepped their brushes and imagination from town to town. Their styles were as varied as the buildings where these paintings hung: simple rural scenes, vibrant downtown portraits, fantastic displays of castles and kings. Nobody would confuse them with a Rockwell Kent, but they weren’t Dogs Playing Poker, either, and their history sheds some light on small-town life before televisions and automobiles hollowed towns out.
Soon after returning from Vergennes, Hadsel wrote every town clerk and historical society in the state to ask about their historic theater scenery. She filed responses in a shoebox, and then, using a small grant from the National Trust for Historic Preservation, she deployed two preservation experts to measure and take pictures of the paintings.
“I had no idea where it would lead,” Hadsel says. “I thought maybe we’d find 25 curtains. But then as we started to look, it became 35, then more.”
The project now consumes her life. In 1998 she left VMGA to launch Curtains Without Borders, a nimble nonprofit of preservation experts devoted exclusively to restoring historic scenery. Hadsel is its executive director. To date the group has restored nearly 200 curtains, many of them in Vermont, but a fair number in New Hampshire, Maine, and Massachusetts, as well as several others from around the country. She’s given talks and shown her work across the U.S., been featured on NPR, and in 2015 published a gorgeous coffee-table book, Suspended Worlds, about the paintings. Over the past decade and a half, Hadsel has made
herself an expert on an art form that desperately needed a champion. Along the way, she’s shown that these works and the buildings where they make their home aren’t strictly relics from the past. There’s a place and an importance for them in the modern world, too. Perhaps even a critical one.
“These curtains may not be the highest art you’ve ever seen, but most are more than easy on the eye,” she says. “And they’re the focal point of the community hall, which is the focal point of any community. Even now. People who are just getting their entertainment from little phones, they’ll be back. They’ll see how important these places are and how each one is worth saving.”
The main room inside the town-hall building in Lyndeborough Center, New
ing. Quietly hunched over the painting, Mary Jo (“MJ”) Davis, a paper conservator who’s worked with Hadsel from the start, dabs at the lake with a small paintbrush, gently retouching worn and water-stained spots. Until recently, the painting, created around 1900, was rolled up in a back room and weathered the effects of the hall’s leaky roof.
Hadsel is a more vocal presence. Tall, with shoulder-length hair and large blue eyes that grow bigger when she’s excited, Hadsel is a steady stream of project details. Backing-board measurements. Rope-hanging length. Will the old hanging rollers suffice? In between, talk delves into a set of large curtains in Hopkinton, New Hampshire, that her group recently worked on. They’re to be displayed this week, and Hadsel is nervous about how it will go.
“If I saw them [putting them] up, I’d be a wreck,” she says. “I actually woke up early and sent out an email with some suggestions on how to attach the rope.” She nods her head. “I don’t know, but at 4:00 a.m. it seemed like a good plan.”
Hampshire, resembles something like a middle-school art room. Chairs have been shoved to the side of the space, and down the middle sits a long table covered with a toolbox of paints, a couple of tape measures, different kinds of papers, rope, scissors, and a few rolls of duct tape.
Set in the historic hamlet of a town of just 1,800 residents in southern New Hampshire, the town hall is what you’d expect of one built in New England in the mid-19th century: a whiteclapboard box with large windows and green shutters. Inside, sloping wood floors, a white tin ceiling, a small stage, a modest balcony, and big windows define the main room.
Under one set of windows, the hall’s main curtain, a 17-foot-long idyllic country scene of birches, lake, and mountains, is sprawled across three tables jammed together. It’s a Wednesday in early November, and Hadsel and her team are in the second day of a two-day project to restore the painting. Hours went into cleaning and stitch-
Like many small towns, Lyndeborough lacks much slack in its budget for this kind of project. Which makes Hadsel’s group so attractive. She’s fanatical about keeping costs in check. On this morning, she’s relieved to find that the warm day means she won’t have to run the furnace. Hadsel’s approach is also more hands-on. The restoration is done on site, and by leveraging grants and local volunteers, she can limit a community’s cost. When Vergennes’ grand drape was restored, the conservation lab that did the work charged $30,000. Hadsel’s bill to Lyndeborough will be a tenth of that. No, the finished product isn’t the same. It will still have blemishes and imperfections, but the grime will be gone, the tears fixed, the details allowed to pop again. “The goal is to get everything up to the same level,” Davis explains. “Not to overdo any one section. So it might still look old, but if you can look at it from 20 feet away and the scene holds together, that’s good.”
The fact that it won’t be museum quality is kind of the point. Hadsel’s aim
‘The curtains are the focal point of the community hall, which is the focal point of any community.’
isn’t something so precious that it has to be locked away and used only on special occasions. Her curtains are what they were meant to be: functional and accessible. They’re reinstalled on their old creaky rollers, and she doesn’t cringe at the idea of people putting their hands on them. Maybe in another 60 years they will need to be restored again. That’s just the way it goes. “Most of the artists who made them never imagined they’d be around this long,” Hadsel says.
For the 68-year-old Hadsel, the work of bringing back these public paintings is the culmination of a life that has indirectly pointed her down this path. Her father worked in the foreign service as an African specialist. Moving was a constant. London, Somalia, Ghana, and Ethiopia—it was hard to put down roots. As such, Hadsel packs a passion for the power of community. Which she found in Vermont. That’s where she and her husband, Bill Mares, a writer, escaped to from Chicago in 1971 on the premise that property was cheaper, the summers cooler. Since then Hadsel has immersed herself in social-service work and the arts. She’s found the hometown community she missed as a girl, and through the paintings, has helped small towns rediscover theirs.
“Chris saw the talent that went into making these curtains, but she also realized that saving these works was a way for people to get interested in places like the grange halls again,” says Rick Kerschner, who headed the conservation department at the Shelburne Museum for more than 30 years and now serves on the board of Curtains Without Borders. “It’s gotten people excited about what they have, and because of it some of these places have been restored.”
Hadsel is a catalyst, a team builder. Her organization doesn’t swoop in like some kind of savior to ply its secret methods. Instead, she brings the community into a process by inviting residents to help with the work and to share her knowledge. It gets them invested in the curtains and by extension the old town hall. They may see something they’ve seen so many times before in a different way.
By late morning, the Lyndeborough curtain’s old backing board has been pried off the backstage wall (“Grangers were never shy about using nails,”
Hadsel jokes). Then, with Al Gibson, a retired firefighter, Hadsel lines up a new plank atop the painting, and they set about mounting it. Gibson drills out screw holes, while Hadsel follows behind setting in long screws. “This is Shop 101—how to hang a curtain,” she says with a laugh.
By early afternoon, a small team begins mounting the curtain back on the stage for the first time in decades. When it’s finally up and true, Hadsel steps back to the center of the room to take in the scene.
“Oh, MJ,” she gushes. “It’s a sweetheart of a little curtain.” She lets out a small sigh. “When we first started, it was so dirty, and I wondered if it was really worth bringing back.” She looks at it in silence for several seconds and then smiles. “But yes, it was. That’s the satisfaction you get from doing this. You take something that needs care, clean it all up, and you’ve suddenly got something quite wonderful.”
For more information, see Suspended Worlds: Historic Theater Scenery in Northern New England, by Christine Hadsel (David R. Godine, 2015). To inquire about curtain restoration, visit: curtainswithoutborders.org
FEW PEOPLE KNEW WHAT WAS DRIVING A YOUNG MAN TO BECOME
Even as he was poised to graduate from Maine’s Bowdoin College, OPPOSITE , as an honored student and campus leader, Bill De La Rosa’s thoughts remained in the forbidding Sonoran Desert, THIS PAGE , which stretches along the Arizona/Mexico border.
ONE OF THE MOST HONORED COLLEGE STUDENTS IN AMERICA.
EARS FROM NOW, WHEN BILL DE LA ROSA THINKS ABOUT THE MORNING OF MAY 28, 2016, HE’LL REMEMBER THIS: THE SUN BLISTERING DOWN ON 460 OF HIS FELLOW GRADUATES, SITTING IN THEIR BLACK CAPS AND GOWNS, THE DEEP GREEN OF THE LAWN, AND THE TREES WHOSE LEAVES STIRRED WHENEVER A BREEZE BLEW. HE’S STANDING ON THE STAGE IN FRONT OF THE BOWDOIN ART MUSEUM, ONE OF TWO STUDENTS CHOSEN TO SPEAK AT COMMENCEMENT, AN HONORED TRADITION AT BOWDOIN COLLEGE IN BRUNSWICK, MAINE. THE QUAD IS FILLED WITH SOME 2,000 PEOPLE, BUT WHAT HE’LL REMEMBER IS SEEING THE FACES OF HIS FAMILY, EIGHT IN ALL, WHO SIT SIDE BY SIDE JUST BEHIND THE GRADUATES.
They’ve come for the first time from Mexico and Arizona to see this campus, one that Bill has described as being so lovely, as if it were an enchanted place from a storybook. They hold their phones high over their heads, pointed toward him standing on the stage.
And he’ll remember two who are not here: his father, Arsenio, age 83, too weak to travel from Tucson, his body ravaged from a stroke and years of breathing poison while flying crop dusters; and 2,800 miles away, a woman with a warm, pretty face and dark hair. She’s 47 years old. She lives in a tiny apartment 400 feet from the American border in Nogales, Mexico. It’s early in Nogales, 7:30 a.m., three hours behind Maine time. She’s visiting a friend, one who speaks English. On her friend’s computer, Bowdoin’s commencement streams live.
There on the screen stands Bill, handsome, with soft brown eyes. Under his cap his hair is short and neat. A speaker introduces him by extolling his accomplishments, among them earning a Gates Millennium Scholarship, a Truman Scholarship, acceptance to Oxford University, and a month earlier being named the national Hispanic Scholar of the Year. The audience takes this in. In terms of academia, they know they’re watching a shining star. Then Bill begins to speak, and soon audible ripples of surprise drift out from the audience …
I was born in a small border town known as Nogales, Arizona, but raised in Nogales, Mexico. When I was 7 years old, my family risked moving permanently to
Tucson, Arizona, in search of a better future. We left everything we owned in the small motel room where I spent my childhood. When we arrived in Tucson, we had no money, no place to go, no place to call home. We slept wherever we felt safe—in our car, in alleyways, within trailer parks …
My mother earned a living cleaning rooms at our local Motel 6. Sometimes I would tag along and help her clean, so she could come home a little bit earlier … In October 2009, my mother was deported from the United States to Mexico, and she was barred from returning to her home and family for 10 years …
The pretty dark-haired woman is Gloria Arrellano De La Rosa. She leans in close to the computer screen. Her friend translates Bill’s words into Spanish. Bill knows she’s watching. And he
LEFT : Last March, Bill De La Rosa led a group of Bowdoin College students on “alternative spring break,” an experience that included seeing the wall that separates the United States and Mexico.
BOTTOM : In May, his family (from left, brother Jim, half-brother Arsenio, brother Bobby, and sister Naomi, with Bill) watched Bill graduate from the Maine college that had become home.
knows she’ll be saying softly to herself, “Mijo. Mijo.” “My son. My son.”
When you meet Bill De La Rosa, your first thought will be how young he looks, how soft-spoken he is. For years his story stayed mostly private; few of his high-school classmates, few of his Bowdoin classmates, knew what was driving him. Both in Tucson, and then in Maine, it seemed that wherever there was a need to help, he volunteered. In his first year at Bowdoin, even while navigating a strange new physical and cultural landscape, he made his way to Portland twice a week to help Spanishspeaking newcomers adjust to Maine, and to volunteer at a legal-aid society. Later he worked with Maine’s Somali refugees, and then spent summers carrying water into the brutally forbidding desert that separates Mexico from
Arizona, where so many migrants have died trying to cross. It was as though he’d looked at a broken world and determined that he could piece things back together one fragment at a time: Portland, Tucson, Nogales, Mexico.
Then, last September, Arizona Public Media and the Arizona Daily Star told the story of Bill De La Rosa and his family, and what had happened when his mother was deported, leaving Bill and his family caught in the crossfire of history. They became the compelling faces of a nation divided on the complex dilemma of immigration. The student paper, the Bowdoin Orient, picked up the story, and Bill felt the eyes of
in public housing with his parents, two brothers—Jim, 17, and Bobby, just 4— and sister, Naomi, age 9. They lived tight, but his mother made their home sparkle, and nobody ever left her table hungry. He was a good student, report cards filled with As, a popular boy with an easy smile who ran cross-country.
Every day that week, he’d run home from school, awaiting his mother’s call. “My mom was the pillar,” Bill said. “Mom was it. She did the cooking, shopping, cleaning, tucking Bobby in. I just went to school.” She’d taken Bobby with her across the border to Mexico, seeking papers she needed to live legally; all four children had
strands within strands of complexity, but while we sat in the café, Bill did his best to guide me to its core. Years earlier, his mother had crossed into Arizona legally with a visa. She gave birth there to two sons, Jim and Bill. When her visa expired, the family moved back to Nogales, Mexico, where they lived in a single room in a motel owned by a relative.
“My dad would walk Jim and me across the border to go to school in the U.S.,” Bill said. “I didn’t speak English. My mom was working at a grocery store, earning practically nothing. One day she took my brother and me to the movies. It was the Pokémon movie, and it was the first movie we ever saw. Another time she took us to get pizza. It was far away, and we walked. These things were special because they happened only once.”
When Bill was 7, the family crossed again to the U.S., making their way to what they hoped would be a new life in Tucson. This time Gloria, whose visa had long expired, came illegally, and she became one more undocumented person blending into a cityscape, as ubiquitous and as invisible as cactus.
his classmates pinned on him when he came to the cafeteria or walked to class.
“It felt eerie,” he said. “We don’t all come from the same place, the same privilege, or shared experience. Here was something that wasn’t just happening far away. But this had happened to someone on your campus.” A “strange feeling,” he said, to be known as the face of misfortune and endurance, but it was his story, and now he embraced it. His story is who he has become.
We met first on a late-February day in Brunswick in 2016. We talked while lunchtime throngs passed through the crowded aisles of Wild Oats Bakery & Café. “I remember it was a day full of sun,” he said, of Thursday, October 22, 2009, the day when his life changed. He was 15, a sophomore at Pueblo Magnet High School, located in South Tucson, the poorest area in one of the poorest cities in the country. He lived
been born in the United States, all four were American citizens. Her husband, Arsenio, nearly 40 years older, was also a naturalized American citizen. Her lawyer had advised her to cross the border back into Mexico and admit her past, and soon she would rejoin her family. And it was then, on the Thursday, a day he remembered for its sunshine, that Bill De La Rosa walked into the house and heard the phone ring.
“I rush to answer it,” he said, “and it’s my mom. And she’s outside on a pay phone, and it’s pouring. And she’s just crying. And she keeps saying, ‘Mijo no me dieron. No. No. No. Me dieron diez. Me dieron diez.’ [“They gave me 10 years. They gave me 10 years.”] And I just stood there. I looked at a picture on top of the TV. It was a family portrait. It was the last picture we had together. I knew it would never be the same. And I cried. I cried a lot.”
Gloria De La Rosa’s story contains
As Bill told his story, his eyes seemed to squint as if trying to remember the years of what he calls “the darkness of poverty,” when his family “drifted place to place, slept on floors for months.” By 2005 they’d found public housing; Gloria worked cleaning rooms, and Bill sold her tortillas door to door. When Gloria left to obtain her legal papers, it was a chance to move another notch closer to her American dream. “She’d tell me she was worried,” Bill said. “I kept saying, ‘Don’t worry—you don’t have to worry. You’re married with four children. We’re all American citizens. Your husband is sick. There’s nothing to worry about.’”
But of course there was. Nobody had warned her about a 1996 law called the “unlawful presence bar.” What the law stated was clear: If you had entered the U.S. illegally and had stayed for more than a year, and then returned to Mexico, you were barred from even applying for re-entry for 10 years. No appeal, no recourse. And that’s when everything changed for Bill De La Rosa.
“SHE’D TELL ME SHE WAS WORRIED,” BILL SAID. “I KEPT SAYING, ‘DON’T WORRY— YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORRY. YOU’RE MARRIED WITH FOUR CHILDREN. WE’RE ALL AMERICAN CITIZENS. YOUR HUSBAND IS SICK. THERE’S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.’”
In his Bowdoin dorm room, Bill shows the fatigue from endless hours of study and constant worry about his family 2,000 miles away.
“When my mother would speak to me, she’d be at the wall,” he said. “That was the only place she got reception. The wall was steel rods, with space between, where you could see through to the other side. And she would look across and just cry. She’d say, ‘Bill, I don’t belong here. I’m back where I started. I’m going to cross the desert.’ I’d say, ‘No, you must not. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.’”
In a heartbeat, Bill became mother, father, cook, housekeeper, brother, nurse, tireless immigration-law researcher. As often as they could, the family visited Gloria; they brought Bobby back to live with his siblings. Bill’s brother, Jim, graduated from high school and joined the U.S. Marines. I asked Bill how he’d managed to become his high school’s valedictorian, earn scholarships, be recruited by the best colleges—all while caring for his family. Bill grew silent for a few moments.
“I knew I had to stay hopeful, so we all had hope, so there’s hope also for my mom. If I don’t have hope, then she doesn’t either. I said perhaps the way I can give her hope is by showing her how I am in school. So I made myself just buckle down and go to school and get the job done. And when semester grades came out and rankings came out, I’d show her and say, ‘Look, Mom.’
“I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me, so I just started wearing different masks. I became a different person in front of my friends, in front of teachers, in front of my dad and Naomi. In front of my mom. In middle school, every day before class, we all had to recite what teachers called ‘The Definite Dozen.’ There were 12 rules. And I always remembered number 12. It was the last rule, and every day we had to say it out loud. Only then we could take our seats. Number 12 was ‘Be relentless. And never give up.’ That was always in the back of my mind: ‘Be relentless. Never give up.’”
He drew deep breaths when he spoke, as if to make sure his emotions stayed steady. “But there were nights, and my siblings would be in bed, and Jim is off to the Marines, and I’m just with my dad, and he’s getting sicker, and they’d be asleep, and it’d be 2:00 in
the morning, and I’d just be in my room studying, and it’s just really me. There would be nights …” He choked up for a moment. “There would be nights …”
We walked down Maine Street toward the library, Bill’s second home. Even in late winter, with the trees bare, the campus gave the feeling of old and gracious comfort. Bells rang; students with backpacks hurried on their way. I’d asked about transitions: how one comes from South Tucson to Maine Street. Bill told about coming during a “recruiting” visit in November 2011, when “Explore Bowdoin” hosted the best and brightest of ethnically diverse, often poor, students, who a generation ago wouldn’t have been likely to come to an elite New England private college. “That trip opened my eyes,” Bill said. “I saw how big the world was. How small my bubble was in Tucson. As we were driving into Brunswick, and we’re driving through Pleasant Street, we made a right to the college. I was like, ‘So this is what prestigious looks like.’ I kept thinking, ‘This is New England. The lights. The architecture of the church. It’s incredible.’”
Bowdoin got inside him and held on. He applied for early admission. He was accepted. He was awarded a Gates Millennium Scholarship. Bowdoin said, Don’t worry about money. Soon he found that getting into Bowdoin was the easy part. The hard part lay ahead.
In a quiet private room Bill had reserved for us on the third floor of the library, he spoke carefully, as though he were picking his words one by one from a beach. He knew, no matter how he parsed it, that coming to Bowdoin would mean leaving his siblings and his father and mother behind. “I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing,” he said. “There were so many what-ifs. So much uncertainty. I could have simply gone to the University of Arizona. Lived at home, looked after things. But I said, ‘How can I best carry on and finish what my parents wanted for us?’”
He met with family friends, his church, his sister’s and brother’s schools. They all said they’d call if Bill was needed. But the doubts crept in and never left. He worried about having
to drop out if his father needed to go to a nursing home, or if he died. Then Naomi and Bobby would be without a legal guardian in the home, and the state would step in.
And deep inside, he wondered whether he was ready for a New England private college. “Yes, I was valedictorian,” he said, “but I was from South Tucson. I knew that. I was very self-conscious when I came to Bowdoin. It was intimidating.” He took a philosophy class the first semester of freshman year. “The moment I heard everyone speak,” he said, “ I heard how articulate, how expressive, they were. I crumbled. I was scared. I didn’t speak at all the whole semester. Not once. The professor called on me the last day. And he wished me luck.
“Sophomore year was my hardest. At the start of the semester, Jim was deployed. It became mentally exhausting. I’d be in the dining hall with all this food and thinking of everyone at home. It was like I was living in two places at once. I withdrew from a class. I went to counseling.”
And yet there he was, two years later, on Saturday, October 17, 2015, the only student asked to speak at the inauguration of Bowdoin president Clayton Rose. Later, Bill would tell Teresa Toro, his high-school guidance counselor, who’d helped steer him to college, “I couldn’t believe it. I marched with everyone in full garb across the campus. Bagpipes played. I kept thinking, ‘Here’s this little boy crossing the border to a school and he doesn’t speak English, who lived in Motel San Luis, and here I am speaking at something that only happened 16 times in the history of Bowdoin.’ How does that happen? It must happen for a reason.”
A friend of Bill’s told me that she felt he carried an “invisible bucket. It’s heavy, and he carries it everywhere with him. No one can see it, but he’s carrying it.” Before I left, I asked whether he remembered the last time he simply let go and had fun and let himself be a 22-year-old going to school. Carefree. He smiled briefly, and shook his head: No. He couldn’t remember.
The next day, a Saturday, we met again at the library, and Bill talked about the
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fire inside him, the migrants who, no matter the obstacles, will risk everything to find what they hope will be a better future, if only they can survive the desert, elude patrols and the vigilante “minutemen” who wait in trucks where the desert empties onto roads. In his library cubicle, which many days he would enter in the morning and not leave until dark, he kept stacks of books devoted to his thesis: why people persist in trying to cross the Sonoran Desert, where more than 2,500 human remains have been found and unknown others simply disappear into the sun-baked sand. Despite the brutal environment, despite the odds, they still try. His
about his faraway family, and now, the men, women, and children poised to cross despite the odds.
“[At the shelter], I became close with a woman from the state of Puebla,” Bill said. “She told me about her daughters, and it was why she was migrating. She was going to the U.S. to find a job, and she’d send them to college.
“One day she said, ‘When you come tomorrow to the shelter, I won’t be here.’ The next day when I came she was gone. She had told me, ‘Don’t worry. When I get to the other side, I’m going to find you on Facebook. I’m going to add you as a friend.’”
He looked down and shook his head.
When Bill led the students into the desert in mid-March, they found the ID of a young man named Danny tangled in a bush. He was only 22. “We saw his face,” a student named Jessica told me. “He’s our age. He’s making this dangerous journey. What happened to him? It was emotional. I don’t think I’ll ever forget his name.”
Bill brought his fellow students to a court hearing in Tucson, where some 50 newly captured migrants awaited deportation. They remembered the sound of shackles as one woman tried to wipe away her tears. They met with a staff member from the medical examiner’s office, where human remains discovered in the desert waited, in hopes of being identified. A forensic anthropologist showed them a photo of a boy, about 11 years old. In the photo, he’s playing drums and smiling. He was from Guatemala, and his body had been found in the desert beside his aunt, as they tried to reunite with his parents. It was all hard to take in and led to difficult moments.
thesis probed why. He’d entered Bowdoin to study government and find his way to law school. But in October of his first year, he heard a guest speaker, an anthropologist named Jason De León, talk about his work in the Sonoran Desert, investigating how migrants died there, and how it wasn’t an accident but the certain outcome of a border policy called “Prevention Through Deterrence.”
“The policy is ‘We’ll let the desert deter people. People will suffer, people will die, and the word will spread,’” Bill explained. As he talked, his voice was measured, he spoke slowly, and for the first time I felt anger just beneath the soft voice. “When I heard De León, I knew I wanted to get involved,” he said. “It seems counterintuitive. I come to Maine, and that’s how I find my path.”
The talk led Bill to change his goals. He wrote to De León, and for two summers he worked at a migrant shelter hard against the desert. His two worlds became three: college studies, worrying
“It’s been over a year. I never heard from her again.”
He became acutely aware that his life in Maine, surrounded by beauty and comfort, was unimaginable to the migrants he studied or to his family. While his fellow students talked about tests and papers, movies, parties, adventures, sports, he kept thinking that “right now someone is trying to make their way across, and they’re possibly dying.”
When we said goodbye early that afternoon, we made plans to see each other again after alternative spring break, during which he would lead 10 Bowdoin classmates to visit his mother in Nogales, to stand by the wall that he felt defined who he was, to visit the shelter, to meet migrants, and to enter the desert where they might, he told them, encounter human remains. It would be a journey from his world in Maine to his world by the border, and it would be one that nobody would forget.
And then Bill brought them to Nogales to meet his mother. She greeted them with “Mis tesoros, mis tesoros [my treasures],” and fed them heaping plates of her homemade specialties. “Nobody leaves until it is all gone,” she told them.
“She was this incredible, beautiful woman who didn’t speak a word of English. I had tears,” one student recalled. “It was emotional. We hugged and hugged.”
When the group returned to Maine, Bill had an acceptance letter from Oxford University, a thesis to finish, two upcoming trips to Los Angeles as a finalist for (and about to be named winner of) Hispanic Scholar of the Year, a speech to deliver to an outdoor leadership school in Wyoming, a speech to write for commencement, and a decision on where he’d go next.
He had a scare when his father collapsed, but it turned out to be an infection, and gradually his father recovered. Bill was weighing several opportunities for the coming summer, one being a White House internship. “I know,” he told me, “that if I could get just two minutes with the president and tell him
“IT SEEMS COUNTERINTUITIVE. I COME TO MAINE, AND THAT’S HOW I FIND MY PATH.”
my story, then maybe he could pardon my mother and she could come home.”
He decided to work at the Center for Law and Social Policy in Washington, D.C. “They do a lot on immigration, inequality, and poverty,” Bill said. “Immigration is also a poverty issue. A language issue. I’ll learn to see this in a different light.” He would ask Oxford to defer his admission to its master’s in migration studies for a year. His father was too frail for him to be adding distance.
Which brings us back again to the young man finishing his speech on a sweltering Maine day in late May. “Growing up, my mother would always tell me, ‘Hay que sembrar buenos frutos para cosechar buenas cosas.’ ‘We have to plant good seeds to harvest great things.’ I would add that now that we are reaping the fruits of our labor, it is our responsibility to help others plant their seeds …”
First his classmates and then the audience, which stretched to the outer shady trees, stood and applauded his words and the young man who’d spo -
At the end of graduation day, Bill and sister Naomi share a rare lighthearted romp through sprinklers on Bowdoin’s sparkling lawn. The next morning Bill flew to Washington, D.C., ready for the next challenge.
ken them. They didn’t stop for several minutes. When the ceremony ended, his family made their way to the field house, where food and refreshments awaited. In time, Bill found his way to his family. “I had to do a detour,” said his professor and mentor, Marcos López, “so many people wanted to hug him and take pictures.” A tall man in a suit stopped at Bill’s table. He’d listened to Bill’s speech and now he looked at his family. “Bill will change the world,” he said. “Bill will change the world.”
Bill was hungry, and there were still so many more people to hug, smiling photos to take. The heat steamed through everyone. When the crowds thinned, Bill and his little brother and sister took off their shoes and ran laughing through sprinklers on the grass. The next day, Bill would board a plane in Portland, Maine, and fly to Washington, D.C. One professor told me that
Bill’s legacy will be that all the students of similar backgrounds who come after will know how Bill De La Rosa came too shy to speak in class and left an orator. If you look at Bill’s Facebook page, you’ll see the expectations that people hold for him. They say, See you when you’re a senator … a governor … See you when you’re POTUS.
A commencement is always filled with high hopes for the future. And who’s to say what Bill may do in the years ahead? But who’d bet against Bill De La Rosa finding some way to tell his story to a president? Who’d bet against Bill De La Rosa becoming a man whose vision and words might yet stir a nation into finding its way through difficult choices to make immigration reform unite rather than divide? Who’d bet against Bill De La Rosa being one who could change the world? I wouldn’t. Would anyone?
Parts of this story by Mel Allen appeared in “The Unfinished Journey of Bill De La Rosa” in the summer 2016 issue of Bowdoin Magazine.
Earlier this year, I returned to Ireland to attend services for my mother’s unexpected passing. The trip to my birthplace was a sad one, but also gave me time to reflect and count my blessings. I used the opportunity to look at America from afar, and it reminded me of how lucky I am to have emigrated here in the 80's.
Around the Thanksgiving Holiday its always a time to reflect on the things we are thankful for, and I have many. One of the things I am most thankful for is that we live in a country where we are free to express our opinions, and though we see and hear a number of news stories that seem to highlight the problems with our nation, my opinion has always been that America is the best country in the world. Is it always perfect? Of course not.
For example, years ago, my first experience with a home improvement contractor left me with $2500 less in my wallet after he took my deposit and never returned. Sure, I was mad at the time but looking back that incident was the impetus to start Yankee Home. I didn't know then that many people have had similar results when dealing with contractors, and I decided to change that. Over the years has Yankee Home done every job perfectly? Of course not. But we have always worked to make it right - and never walked away until it was. We recently opened up our newest location in the Boston area, and we pride ourselves on being the most referred contractor in New England.
who graduated Babson summa cum laude, yes I am a very proud Dad!
This past summer, my eldest daughter left the shores of America to go work in my old hometown of Dublin. Now the shoe is on the other foot, and I know my father and mother are probably looking down smiling, 'it serves you right'.
Yes, America may not be perfect but it's still the land of opportunity. A land where an immigrant can come with $80 in his pocket, put a daughter through college, watch her return to his birth place to work, build a business, and hire sta so they can do the same for their families.
I love America.
(continued from p. 121)
stand some things. He’s carried a gun throughout his career and says he’s prepared to use it if needed, but it’s a point of pride that he never has. (“Maybe I’ve just been lucky, or maybe it’s the way I talk to people.”) He believes that shoveling driveways and responding to lockouts are courtesies that come with the job. Andy Griffith reruns are among his TV favorites; “Welcome to Mayberry” was the greeting I got the first day I visited the station, on whose front porch are a pair of rocking chairs.
There’s a story Koss tells. One day several years ago, a local man, who, he says, may have been “a little off, a little slow,” was out walking when he stopped into the station and asked for help unjamming the zipper on his jacket. The chief, who hadn’t met the man before, helped fix the zipper; the man thanked him and went on his way. Some months later there came a call for an EMT, to which the chief responded: The man had had a heart attack and died.
It’s a simple story, but his telling of it seems to go to the heart of how Frank Koss thinks about his job: “If he hadn’t come in here that day, he would have been just another guy who died. But he wasn’t. I had met him. That made it personal for me.”
handwritten messages, nearly all of it—at least at first—in tribute to Joey Marshall. The account that ran online the next day in the Burlington Free Press described the two victims in the words of those who’d known them: a “joyous person” with a surpassing love
Personal. It’s a word he uses a lot. During his time in California, he says, “I worked hundreds of fatals, literally hundreds, but in 25 years I never saw the same person twice. Here, we get to know people; we get to know their families and kids. So when someone in town gets hurt or killed—like early in my time here, I lost a young man on an ATV—it’s personal for me.”
The roadside memorials began appearing the same afternoon. Crosses, candles, balloons, beer cans, bong pipes,
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of bicycles and “a fantastic and caring young man” who had “lived life more fully than most.” Joey’s high-school principal noted the Marshall family’s “deep roots” in the community and reported that “counselors [were] working with students, staff and faculty to provide the support needed to deal with the loss.” Joey’s Facebook page, the story said, was “inundated Sunday night and Monday with messages of remembrance and mourning.”
No one had known at first who the biker’s body might belong to; there was no ID in the pockets and no one at the scene knew the face. When at last he was identified and the chief went to his address, a condo unit just off Route 116 a half-mile from the accident site, what he found (in addition to the dog, Annie) was a collection of bikes, bike parts, and bike paraphernalia he would later describe as a testament to “a love of bicycles beyond comprehension, like nothing I have ever known.”
Richard Tom, by those who cared for him, was known for many things, none of them more telling than this lifelong love affair: “He knew everything you could know about bikes—it was absolutely uncanny. He’d see some bike somewhere and tell me some trivial little fact about it that no one could possibly have known, and I’d ask him, ‘How could you know that?’ And he’d just kinda look at me and smile.”
Diana Nelson spoke with me by phone from California, where she’s lived since not long after she and Richard Tom split up seven years ago, after 15 years together. For nearly an hour she talked about his love of dogs and
‘When someone in town gets hurt or killed ... it’s personal for me.’
books and bicycles, his “wonderful ability” to make friends out of strangers at the side of the road, balanced by a closely guarded privacy that finally, she said, caused their rift. She had learned of his death from a mutual friend’s phone call, then come East for his memorial in late May.
When it became clear that his parents, who live in Alabama—where Richard was born and raised—were too frail to make the trip, she agreed to stay on long enough to close down his condo and settle his affairs: “All the stuff involved with that, the emails, the phone calls, the sorting through things—it was like being in a relationship with him again. I miss him a lot. Every time I get on a bike, I think of him. He was the most selfless person I’ve ever known.”
Nearly a month passed. The ghostly white bicycle appeared by the roadside, then was joined by a second, which just as quickly disappeared. On the Sunday after the deaths, a convoy of 400 bicyclists, escorted by police, shared a “remembrance ride” honoring both victims, through the village and past the crash site. The grief counselors came and went from the high school. The funerals took place quietly. The balloons and bong pipes dwindled, then were gone.
Then, on May 21, in the “Chief’s Corner” column on page 3 of that month’s 3,000-circulation Hinesburg Record , next to a story on the success of the annual spring Green-Up Day, Chief Koss shared his thoughts with the town. By 8:00 p.m. the same evening, the news of his words had been picked up online by the Burlington Free Press ; within an hour, USA Today was tweeting it nationally (“Police Chief Writes with Raw Candor About Fatal Crash”). Within 48 hours, the story had gone viral.
Koss’s column, 800 words from start to finish, began by offering perspective: “I have been investigating accidents since August 5, 1982. My first fatal crash came two months later …” It went on to note that in all the years since, in dealing with these many deaths, he had never departed from protocol, always remained “politically correct and sensitive, just presenting the facts …”
From that point on, Koss’s message crackled with anger. Richard Tom, he wrote, had been “killed while riding his bicycle down the shoulder of the road on one of the first decent days after a long winter, minding his own business …” Joey’s car had rounded the corner at “what seemed like a hundred miles an hour,” hitting Tom, “hurling him into the air.” The event had “crossed an unimaginable line.” More needed to come from it than just “some candles and flowers by the side of the road.”
But by that point in the column, the chief had already crossed a line of his own: “To be blunt, if Joseph Marshall had not lost his life, he would have been charged with second-degree murder.”
He grew up in Colorado, just outside Denver, where his father was a service manager for Honeywell. Two months out of high school, he joined the Air Force, where he was trained in electronic communications. From there, at 22, he joined the Alaska Air National Guard, in which he served for three years—while also working part-time as an airport security guard—until his release, with the rank of staff sergeant, in the summer of 1978.
During my second visit with Koss, in mid-October of last year—nearly six months since the deaths, five months since he wrote his column—he tells me a story about that early time in his life. Like others of his stories, it seems to serve for him almost as an allegory, as the memory of a morally defining moment.
It was during the year he was in Air Force electronics school, so he would have been about 19. He had a friend at the time, a girl, who invited him to go with her to a local golf course one night and smoke a joint. He was nervous, he remembers; he’d never tasted pot before, and smoking it, for an airman trainee, was a career-ending offense. But he agreed: “I was young. That’s about all you can say.”
And so they went. And they found the most secluded spot they could, and they lit their joint. Not long after, they watched as the beams of two flashlights approached them: the Air Force MPs.
“I was scared, I was terrified—you have no idea.” But the wind was blowing the other way. The MPs smelled
nothing and walked on. If the wind that night had been blowing in a different direction, he says, “it would have changed everything. I would have gotten a dishonorable discharge, would have driven back home to Colorado in my ’49 Chevy, and tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”
At this point he swivels in his chair and points behind him to a large vertical frame on the wall. There, arranged in an oval pattern behind glass, against a dark-blue background, are the various insignia and shoulder patches that define the trajectory of his life: U.S. Air Force, Loomis Security, O’Neill Security Services, Alaska Airport Police, California Highway Patrol, Williston Police, Hinesburg Community Police.
“I wouldn’t have had any of that,” he says now, turning slowly back toward me, placing both hands squarely on his desk, as if to steady himself. “None of that would have happened. If the wind had blown the other way that night, I wouldn’t be here today.”
There’s a long pause, which grows longer. He turns back again toward the wall frame, then returns once more to face me before he speaks again.
“Some things are life-altering events,” he says. “That was one for me. Now there’s this: Richard Tom was out riding his bike, enjoying his Sunday morning. Now he’s dead. He’ll never have a life again. What’s that going to be for the other kids? It needs to be more than just ‘Smoke a bong for Joey.’”
In a small town, death is always big news. When the victim is a boy from a family with strong ties and years of history, and he’s charged—publicly and posthumously, within a month of his death—with murder, the news can seem cataclysmic.
Early Friday afternoon, a day after the chief’s column had appeared, Alicia Marshall, Joey’s mother, phoned the editorial office of the Burlington Free Press. On the phone with her were Joey’s father, Gary, his younger brother, older sister, grandmother, girlfriend, and five friends. A staff writer, Elizabeth Murray, handled the call.
“My son was not the type of person
to go out and try to murder somebody,” said his mother, who, along with the grandmother, did nearly all of the talking. “He loved his car. He planned on marrying his girlfriend as soon as they graduated. He was going to turn 18. He had just finished high school that Friday.” She sobbed as she spoke. Several of the others also were in tears.
The story told of how Joey and his father had planned to open a family business together—Marshall & Sons Home Repair & Maintenance—and of how sweatshirts with the company’s name had been delivered the day after his death.
A friend, Lucas Aube, 19, spoke up toward the end. He used to have respect for Chief Koss, he said, but had lost it after reading the column. Alicia Marshall agreed: “[He] made Joe, a 17-year-old who loved life, a murderer,” she told the reporter.
In the wider world—and especially among the law-enforcement community—the chief was drawing broad support. The chief in nearby Colchester, Jen Morrison, praised him for being “unafraid of difficult conversations.” Others felt the same, and continue their support today.
“It took real courage for him to write that,” South Burlington police chief Trevor Whipple said not long ago. “I’m a parent myself; I can understand the grief over losing a child. But at the same time, that young man made some horrible choices, and he took someone else with him. Sometimes you just have to stand up and speak out.”
But in the village and the region around it, things only got worse. Over the two weeks that followed the column, according to the Burlington paper, there was a near-endless “back-and-forth between Koss and the Marshall family,” with community members often taking sides. Alicia Marshall claimed harassment. Reports of Joey’s pit bull, Tank, having mauled several visitors added further heat to the fire. Meanwhile, the chief would say later, “It seemed to me like Richard Tom was just really getting lost.”
To the chief, there seemed only
one way past the ugliness—though he must have known it was a risk. On the evening of Thursday, June 4, at his invitation—“to grant the family the opportunity to speak their mind in open forum”—between 80 and 100 area residents filled the second-floor meeting room of Hinesburg Town Hall. The Marshall family—mother, father, sister, brother—were at a table in front. A dozen or so of Joey’s teenage posse, nearly all in black T-shirts sporting a stenciled image of the teal Honda, lined the back wall. The rest were in folding chairs or standing along the side walls: a mixed crowd of parents, neighbors, cyclists, reporters, friends of the Marshalls, and those of Richard Tom. The chief stood at the head of the room, with his officer, Anthony Cambridge, alone in the front row of chairs.
It began as you’d expect. The chief detailed the physics of the crash: time of day, speed, the narrowness of the shoulder, the impossibility of reacting in time: “He was traveling the length of a football field every 2.4 seconds.” Then he outlined the parameters of second-degree murder: unpremeditated, “caused by the offender’s obvious lack of concern for human life.”
Alicia Marshall, defiant at her table, speaking sometimes through clenched teeth, argued that manslaughter was the worst it should have been: “Not murder, not murder at all; he was a kid who loved life.” She charged that the chief’s talk of murder was part of a pattern of harassment, that her husband, Gary (who never spoke, and barely moved, throughout the
stand, this is not about placing blame.” A second woman had words for the chief: “When I read your article, I was moved, because it came through that you want Joseph’s horrible death to try to save the lives of other people.” A mother told of taking her son’s license away after he was stopped for speeding; another said she hadn’t and was sorry.
meeting, hands folded in front of him, sitting alongside his wife), had himself been harassed during a traffic stop by Officer Cambridge. Anthony Cambridge answered the charge, detailing the incident in question. Then, as others in the room rose to speak, the feeling of things began to change. A woman in back, speaking softly, addressed the family: “Our hearts go out to you, but please under-
An older man, a schoolbus driver, visibly shaken, rose and faced the chief: “My nephew was killed, 12 years ago, by a drunk driver. It’s taken me this long to speak up …” At this point he broke down, sobbing. “And it’s because of you. It’s been 12 years, and it still hurts. But thank you.”
Several friends of Richard Tom took their turns. One, a man who gave his name as Jason Reed, spoke, one would assume, for them all: “Ma’am, with all due respect ... your son sounds like a magnificent kid, but your son broke the law. Richard Tom was following the law. Your son broke the law, and my friend is dead.”
There were many more: A driver’sed teacher spoke on the difficulty of explaining the deaths to his students; cyclists shared the fears they rode with every day; a friend of Richard Tom, standing next to a friend of Joey’s who wept alongside as the older man spoke, told of the two having met at the crash site, days before, when both had come to say goodbye to their friends. At one point Joey’s 19-year-old sister, who had stood quietly till then against the front wall behind her parents, broke her silence with a low cry: “I have to stand here and listen to all this! I’ve been listening to this week after week. I just want my brother to rest in peace!”
Alicia Marshall seemed broken. Her defiance now gone, she sat at the table next to her husband, sobbing
To the chief, there seemed only one way past the ugliness, though he must have known it was a risk: an open meeting in Town Hall.
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heavily, her shoulders quaking. Then suddenly, cutting off someone else who was speaking, she blurted out a string of words, not all of them intelligible through her sobs: “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry my son did this to him! … I say that in front of every town member, in front of every bicyclist here …”
By the end of a little more than an hour (the meeting would last for nearly two), it was plain that most of those present knew that something very rare was taking place. “There’s so much caring in this room,” one woman told the crowd. “I feel I’m just lucky to be here.” A bearded man in glasses, sitting alone in the front row, rose to say that he had been a journalist all his life, had covered many sorts of meetings, “and I’ve never seen anything like this.” He praised the Marshalls for their courage in airing their grievance and sharing their grief; he praised the chief for “caring as much about this community as to say what you said. That took incredible courage.” And then he turned and faced the room: “For everyone here to sit for an hour and 45 minutes, and talk about this and show each other respect— that’s just amazing, I think.”
The chief stood quietly through most of this, letting it play out. There was only one point, not long after Alicia Marshall’s tearful apology, that he spoke at any length. Delivering his words carefully, hands folded in front of him, he told the room that he hadn’t known Richard Tom, that he wasn’t a bicyclist himself (“My wife and I, two years ago we bought bikes and they’re still sitting in the garage”) and had no personal stake in the issue. “But when you’re chief of police in a small town, you take things personally. I don’t want to be in L.A., I don’t want to be in South Burlington. I love being the chief of police of this town.”
Then he paused, and raising his voice along with his gaze, he addressed his words to the row of black-shirted teenagers lining the back wall of the room. Would they obey the law now? Would they respect others on the road? If so, probably something had been learned.
The message he closed with, one hopes, struck a chord with at least a few
of those boys and girls (mostly boys) in the back. “Go home,” he told them. “Go home safely, make it home every night,” because life “isn’t about 16, 17, and 18,” or about speed or cars or good times. It’s about the years that come after, “when we’re out there doing something in the world … That ’s your time that you need to get to. Get past the speed, get past all of this, and make it to where your life is supposed to be.”
When the meeting adjourned at a little before 9:00, the sky outside was darkening. But of the 40 or 50 people still left in the room, almost no one seemed ready to leave. It was hugs and handholds now that kept them. They went around from one to the other— Richard Tom’s bicyclists, the Marshalls, the parents, the police—until there was no more hugging to be done. By then the sky was dark.
It was on my last visit with Chief Koss, in mid-January of this year, that he took me on that drive around the town’s back roads. “Sometimes when I’m driving these roads,” he told me, “it takes me back to being in Colorado as a kid.” Three weeks earlier, a Cleveland grand jury had declined to indict the officer who had been videotaped fatally shooting a 12-year-old boy; the protests were still ongoing. Six months before, a college student in Cincinnati, also unarmed, had been shot to death by police, just days after a young black woman in Texas had been found hanging in her cell. It hadn’t been a good year for policing.
“It makes me sad where law enforcement is headed,” the chief said to me as we drove past the preschool on our way back toward the station. “The police don’t have the support of the people anymore. It’s a different world today.”
Things with the Marshalls had quieted by now. The town meeting had cooled tempers; there’d been no issues with Alicia in months; Joey’s pit bull, after several more attacks, had been put down.
The biggest news lately had been burglaries—a number of them, nearly all with drugs at their source, most often heroin. A family of three (“including the mom”) he’d told me about at our first meeting in Novem-
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ber, known for their thefts of catalytic converters from parked cars, had been apprehended shortly after, and were off the streets now.
More recently, he said, just two days before Christmas, two burglars had broken into a local home and stolen everything under the tree, as well as several pieces of jewelry. This had especially offended him (“You steal someone’s jewelry, that’s not just a piece of gold—you’re stealing a piece of their past”)—and he’d wanted the thieves to know that they’d been seen on camera and that their remaining freedom would be short.
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So he took to the town’s Facebook page: “Special holiday greetings to the burglars who robbed the house on Charlotte Rd. Besides ransacking the bedrooms for jewelry, taking all the wrapped presents from underneath the Christmas tree should be a particularly proud moment for you. If you are the two thieves that had also stopped at another residence on Charlotte Rd. and spotted the camera, we have a special message. To the vehicle passenger that looked right into the camera—yes, it was real … The Hinesburg Police will be working extra hard toward giving these two thieves a special new year.”
He’s your grandfather’s police chief: a protector of kids and dogs and public safety, morally outraged at the theft of Christmas gifts. Ten years ago he retired and came East, in search of something he’d know only when he found it in a small Vermont town: “We just liked the feel of things there.” He’s 62 today, and soon will be retiring again. But it’s different this time. He plans to stay on in this town that he and Debbie discovered, to keep the home they bought on the street behind the police station, perhaps one day to die here.
And in the meantime at the station itself, his own “feel of things” will live on in the model he’s imparted to his men, Anthony Cambridge among them.
“He talks to people,” the chief said to me about his officer that day we were driving around. “He relates, he cares. It’s a lot like the way I do policing. It’s a perfect fit for this town.”
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eptember 1940: Photographer Jack Delano was working with Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Lyman, Polish tobacco farmers in Connecticut. Known for his sensitivity and compassion when it came to his subjects, Delano watched in distress as the couple stared blankly and shifted uncomfortably when he took out his camera. He wanted to showcase the friendly, happy people who stood in front of his lens. To ease the tension, he told Lyman that his pants were falling. Instantly, Lyman grasped them. Mrs. Lyman realized what Delano was up to and started laughing. When she threw her head back, Delano got his shot.
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Farm Security Administration photographer Jack Delano found elegance and beauty in everyone he captured.
parents and brother in the early 1920s. In 1940, toward the end of the Great Depression, Roy E. Stryker hired him to photograph the lives of American workers along the Eastern Seaboard for the historical section of the Farm Security Administration. Although less recognized than fellow FSA photographers Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans, Delano is remembered for his striking shots of railyards and his honest, respectful depiction of every individual he photographed. In 1946, Delano and his wife, artist Irene Esser, moved to Puerto Rico, which they called home for the rest of their lives. He spent the second half of his career deeply involved in Puerto Rican folk culture; his decades-long project, Puerto Rico Mio, was published in 1990. —Kelsey Liebenson-Morse
Since its founding 70 years ago, the Vermont Country Store has served up the expected (maple syrup) and the unexpected (pants stretchers, anyone?). We pay a visit.
/// (Old) House Proud
Broken sewer pipes? Check. Sloping floors? You bet. Unmatched craftsmanship? Of course. Yankee readers share their joys and frustrations about owning an antique home.
/// Perfect Weekend in the Berkshires
Back roads and unexpected discoveries give this Massachusetts region an autumn experience all its own.
/// Cooking with Yankee
Topped with powdered sugar and maple syrup, an Apple Dutch Baby is pure breakfast deliciousness. And making one is easier than you might think.
/// Local Flavor: Lou’s In Hanover, New Hampshire
We step inside the go-to hangout for Dartmouth students, home to some of the most delicious homemade donuts in New England.
/// The Yankee Interview: John Irving
The New Hampshire-born author on what it means to be a New England writer, the importance of mental discipline, and—nearly 50 years after publishing his first novel—where he’s headed next.
