Sep
01
2010

Pantheist Seeds

by Gary Sanderson

September’s here. The full August moon is waning; never really appeared till after the fact, when low gray skies opened for a splendid, cool, clear, sunny weekend, great weather for opening the barn and letting warm, dry winds chase out lingering dampness.

The weekend was special for another reason. Grandson Jordie paid a solo visit, his first, midway through this, his fourth year. It was fun, as always, bright eyes to greet me each morning as I sat reading in my La-Z-Boy recliner, sun entering through the parlor window to brilliantly light my pages, warm me.

We went off Sunday morning to an outdoor chapel he’s grown fond of, for morning services along the Green River, where I daily walk my dogs at least once. This time, after setting the animals free from their crates on back of my truck, I pointed out a three-quarter ghost moon high in the western sky. Jordie was confused.

“Ghost moon?”

“Yes, pale yet prominent in the deep blue sky; ghostlike; shouldn’t be there.”

But there it was, a remnant from the night before, lit by the bright, low morning sun. He understood. On to another matter.

“Grampy, can I have your whistles? We don’t want to lose the dogs.”

“Yes, of course, but make sure you keep the lanyard around your neck so we don’t lose it; and, please, don’t overdo it with the whistles. Lily and Buddy will be confused if you use them too much. Only whistle when they’ve been out of sight for a while, have run off.”

Again, he got it, acknowledged so with sweet, innocent eye contact as we made our way to the galvanized gate separating the upper and lower meadows. When we reached the barway, he turned for the path skirting it through brush and I stopped him, pointed out crimson poison ivy, said it was no time to tempt the fates. We’d walk through the gate.

“Oh, I didn’t know you could open that gate. You never opened it before?”

“No need. Poison ivy is most dangerous this time of year.”

“Oh. I had poison ivy on my legs once. It’s itchy.”

I remembered.

We walked down the compacted farm road into Sunken Meadow and traipsed through ankle-high ryegrass and clover, dogs romping through the Christmas trees and into the thick wild-rosebush border, now impenetrable to humans. The animals would burst out of the tangle, romp through the meadow and return to the dense periphery, searching enthusiastically for fresh scent to chase, their energy infecting Jordie, savoring the cool, clear freedom entering his lungs, each inhale illuminating his warm hazel eyes.

Halfway down our first straightaway, Jordie suddenly picked up the pace into a joyful, foot-free trot or shuffle toward an obvious destination. He was headed for the wild, swamp apples; curious, wanting to check for fallen fruit. How did I know? Because I had shown him the trees the previous fall and was able to decipher his unsaid object of interest. The apples were small and green, few on the ground, much to the chagrin of Jordie and the dogs, which devour them as eagerly as wild beasts when available.

When we got to our second bend, confronted by a choice between circling back to the truck or continuing toward the river, Jordie opted for water, where he loves to play, poke around, walk through the stream in his wicked-cool “water shoes,” Keen sandals. At the river’s edge where we always stop, a pair of wooden picnic tables stood under another large apple tree shading the high, undercut bank overlooking a now undernourished river creeping toward Greenfield Pool. There, the dogs scoured the turf for drops, eating many small green apples as Jordie, his T-shirt draped over my right shoulder, played in the river, alarmed about an underwater “crab” fleeing along the gravel bed.

“That’s not a crab, Jordie,” I told him. “It’s a crayfish that looks like a crab. Don’t be afraid. It won’t bother you.”

“What are crayfish?”

“A freshwater crab, sort of; more like a little lobster.”

“Oh.”

After maybe 20 minutes, I was able to coax the boy out of the water and back toward the truck. I used the excuse that I had left my vehicle open and vulnerable to mischief. I wasn’t really concerned. He knew.

“You have the keys, Grampy.”

“Yes, I know, but we still must start back.”

“OK.”

When we were almost out of Sunken Meadow, facing the short, gentle ascent to the gate, I pointed to a female sumac clump along the lip, large conical bobs of drupes adding splashes of red to the lush green wetland.

“See those red cones on the short, green, bushy trees?” I asked, pointing.

“Yes.”

“Well, those are clumps of berries. The Indians used to make lemonade out of them.”

“You mean juice?”

“Yes, juice, sweetened with honey or maple sugar.”

“Yummmm. That sounds delicious,” … his words, not mine.

When we reached the gate, still ajar, we passed through and I refastened it before walking a short distance to my undisturbed vehicle. Jordie gave the dogs several short whistles and the goldenrod shook before they popped out of sumacs and onto the farm road. They greeted us, ran to the truck, hopped onto the tailgate and, eventually, into their crates, which I secured before re-entering the vehicle. Inside, I buckled Jordie’s seatbelt, then mine, and mentioned that the ghost moon had vanished. I was wrong. He looked up as I pulled away and corrected me.

“Grampy, there’s the ghost moon, right there (pointing).”

“Oh yes. I see it, much lower, resting on the horizon, ready to disappear.”

“Horizon?”

“Where the endless blue sky meets the mountains, right on the ridge-top overlooking Grampy’s house.”

“Oh, horizon, where the sky meets the mountains.”

Again, he understood.

“In a few minutes that moon’ll be gone,” I said.

“But that’s OK, Grampy, the sun is up.”

“Yes, Jordie, the sun is up and tonight the moon will reappear over there on the eastern horizon.”

“Why?”

“Because, it’ll be a new night. Then, when the sun rises tomorrow, it’ll be a new day. A smaller ghost moon will again disappear over the western horizon, and the sun will later follow it over the same ridge when night is near.”

He looked at me, pensive, asked why. Not an easy concept to comprehend. He will in time. I didn’t want to overload him with too much in one session, fearing confusion, that clueless cousin of curiosity.

Who knows? I may yet turn the boy into a pantheist — nature, dear to my heart and soul, his deity. We’ll avoid Boy Scout and alter-boy discipline, nudging him along instead with gentle, independent instruction from a loved one he trusts and respects. It’s unlikely the boy will become a cop or a soldier or a Walmart manager. Too independent.

I do hope nobody claims he’s been twisted by an alternative path, destined for the fires of non-comformist hell. That would be wrong.

Hateful.

Ignorant.

posted in Grandkids | Comments (1)

Aug
25
2010

Bruin’s Nest

by Gary Sanderson

I finally got the whole story from the horse’s mouth — a bear tale that comes at an opportune time, bear season less than two weeks away.

I would probably still be in the dark had not a green military helicopter disturbed my peaceful Upper Meadows neighborhood last week. Word has it that a State Police task force uprooted 400 mature marijuana plants before they were done scouring the swamp and hillside behind my neighbor’s home. I can’t confirm their take; only witnessed a couple of plants being lugged off myself; but my neighbor told me they got 400; could have been four for all I know. Quite a scene it was, a well-coordinated harvest-time sting by an eastern Massachusetts team, five or six of them, all specialists, nondescript, just T-shirts and pants, some Army fatigues, others plain jeans: a gotcha-Greenfield moment.

But back to the bear tale, one my friend and neighbor had tried to share a few weeks ago, following a backyard incident. When I started pecking at my keyboard during our telephone conversation, he hesitated, said he hadn’t seen the bear himself. He was just repeating what he’d been told by the man he hired to clean up extensive damage left by a June storm that passed through and wreaked Meadows havoc. Now I have the whole story, one illustrating the adaptability of wild creatures, however large, that have learned to hide out in thickly settled, food-rich neighborhoods. Such beasts feed when the time is right, lay back when it’s not. This demonstrates that.

The devastating summer storm that flattened large trees in my neighborhood did quite a number on my friend’s yard. Several tall pines were broken in half, some destroying ornamental plantings below, one crunching the ridge of his garage roof, another damaging his parked Chevy Blazer. What a mess! But that’s ancient history now; time for a more recent event, one that occurred last Thursday morning.

While sitting and talking to my next-door neighbor in his screened porch, you would have thought there was a manhunt under way; terrorists maybe. A low-flying helicopter was circling my immediate neighborhood, making tight loops apparently concentrated on my friend’s property three doors down. Finally, when the focus became obvious, I called my neighbor on a cell phone to see what was going on. Was he under attack? Suspicion? Did he need help? He just chuckled, said he was fine; I ought to come over a take a look; quite an operation.

I hung up the phone and took a short walk, helicopter circling above, finding my friend way out back. He was talking to a female neighbor and a few men I didn’t recognize, two of whom were there to remove trees and debris left behind by the June storm. I learned the identity of the third man when he turned to walk toward the swamp and woods line, where the helicopter was hovering, men scurrying about on a mission. The stacked writing across the back of his Navy blue T-shirt said it all: Massachusetts State Police. (Ooops, wish I hadn’t made some wisecrack about our tax dollars being put to good use. Oh, well, I guess I’m famous for gaffes like that, though rarer in recent years.).

Anyway, within seconds of the cop’s departure, a member of his party exited the cattails 100 or more yards north of us carrying a marijuana plant as tall as him. He was traveling east toward an unseen vehicle. The plant was reportedly one of many pinpointed by an infrared heat-seeking device aimed at the ground by cops from the airborne helicopter.

As we observed the sting and chatted, the leader of the tree crew approached to join the conversation, which quickly changed to bears. My friend wanted the tree man to tell me his tale. We were standing within spitting distance of the lair from which it had fled, and my friend thought it high time for me to hear the story.

Perhaps 20 feet to our right stood the massive, eight-foot-high stump of what had been a triple weeping willow blown down during the storm, leaving behind a mess that had to be professionally cleared. Three massive leaders had fallen onto the yard, the bottom ends laying in a thick clump of brush surrounding the stump, pointing straight as a preacher to the heavens. On the hot early-August afternoon of the bear siting, the laborers had already cleared most of the mess from the lawn, stacking logs for someone who had promised to take them, piling the smaller branches over to the side. That done, the foreman decided to tackle the three thick, heavy logs resting in the tangled stump clump, but first he had to develop a safe strategy.

After assessing the task at hand and deciding on his first step, he squeezed into the small oval jungle — chainsaw in hand, tall stump towering over him — and looked for enough elbow room to start the saw. That’s when he spotted something big, black, motionless and close that didn’t alarm him at first, assuming it was a stump or log or chunk of upturned turf. But when he fired-up the saw, the motionless black object sprang to its feet and bolted across the field to the woods. It was a big, black, burly bear, probably a solitary male that had lain in its lair under the fallen willows through a morning of commotion, close encounters with human beings and chainsaws, and never budged. The animal must have been feeding on the two nearby apple trees full of fragrant, succulent fruit, and it wasn’t about to leave unless absolutely necessary.

Later, the tree man, a hunter who has killed bears, went out to the apple trees along the swamp’s edge for closer inspection. Curious, he discovered another bruins’ den hollowed out beneath the fruit tree that was partially uprooted and laying semi-horizontal. Further investigation revealed plenty of bear sign: scat, claw marks and broken branches on both trees. Favorable feasting for the big bruin.

The opportunistic beast has probably been back to those apples many times over the past three weeks, will likely continue returning until all the fruit is devoured, picking its spots, people or no people.

Whether bi- or quadruped, they find a way.

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Aug
25
2010

Summer’s Slipping Away

by Gary Sanderson

Two large Japanese maples stand just inside the southern point of my property, providing three-season privacy from oncoming traffic headed north to the Colrain/Green River roads fork. These ornamental trees bud in pastel red and grow brilliant scarlet leaves that fade to a soft, olive-green before bursting into their brightest fall cardinal-red. They then shed their leaves and expose my white home like a beacon centered in the view from down the road. Showy twin harbingers that
differ slightly in color, the trees are today hinting their vibrant fall glory. Soon they’ll scream of winter’s chilly approach, a loud foreboding before all is white and gray and barren, the forest floor open to even the dimmest moonlight.

My Far Eastern trees are not the only signs of fall on the landscape these days. Flowered rose of Sharon bushes are displaying random yellow leaves. Ripe apples are dropping to the turf with their subtle thud. Male staghorn sumacs are sporting their pre-frost reds. The saucer-like Queen Anne’s lace have gone to seed — used for centuries as contraception — fists clenched and drooping as distant baying of flocked geese penetrates low, gray morning skies. Soon the report of guns from September goose and bear hunters will pierce silent mornings from afar, signaling the start of another type of fall harvest as the wheel harrow squeals through spent summer croplands.

Where has the summer gone? The same place it always goes. Nothing new.

Soon harsh winter winds will freeze our frosty breath to facial and nasal hairs. I can’t say I dread it. For what? I am a four-season New Englander; love the ebbs and flows, the hots and colds produced on our northern stage. I call it home; could have fled long ago; didn’t; won’t. It’s what I know and love.

Ooops, gotta go. Blue Sky’s dumping my first load of cordwood out back. One more sign that summer’s on its last leg.

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Aug
18
2010

News Snooze

by Gary Sanderson

Dog daze and cabin fever are afflictions on opposite sides of the calendar that infect a man like me. So here I sit suffering from the former, sweating profusely, thirsty, wellspring of hunting and fishing news dried up, little to write about before the first shots of autumn are fired. Nonetheless, I can usually dig something up to quench my thirst, not always connected to the sporting world, and not always appreciated by nuts-and-bolts sportsmen. But, to take a phrase from my late Nova Scotian grandmother — hardy Acadian French to the core: “C’est la vie.”

Yeah, I know I could be chasing down some useless bass-tournament standings, publishing doe-permit numbers everyone already knows, assessing turkey broods and deer herds in the fields around me, maybe even taking shots at the anti-hunting, anti-gun crowd loathed by so many reactionary sportsmen. But I’ll leave that to others who are content serving maybe 15 percent of the newspaper-reading public. How about the other 85 percent? Do they want to read about fishing derbies and the world according to the NRA? Doubtful indeed, especially here in the upper Happy Valley, god bless it. Here, folks seem more interested in re-establishing a Wolfe bounty and rejecting big-box development. But let us not digress … back to the subject at hand.

Last year at this time, you may recall, I was criticizing Tea Party thugs for carrying weapons to presidential appearances, then shared personal recollections from Woodstock ’69 and the Summer of Love. The e-mails came streaming in, a flood of them, about 10 to 1 in favor of eclectic subject matter, preferring writing to straight reporting. That is not to say there weren’t irate comments from the occupants of secluded tree stands high above hilltown oaks and apples. Feedback from the folks viewing the world from that lofty perspective went more like this: “What the —- are you doing glorifying hippies and criticizing gun owners in a hunting and fishing column? It’s wrong. Inappropriate.”

Oh well, if they say it, it must be so. Can’t satisfy everyone; learned that many years ago; reminiscent of advice from the journalistic mentor I most respected, one who left the newspaper business in his 40s to teach college and cast Molotov cocktails at cream-of-wheat AP news-writing style. “If all you make in this business is friends, then you’re not doing your job,” he bellowed after someone had “issues” with something I had written. Since then, I have always taken my lumps, dusted off and moved on, undeterred, aware that my unconventional ways are bound to stir ire among ardent conformists, conservatives and tiresome bores. Isn’t “conventional wisdom” often based on nothing resembling wisdom at all; more like ignorance, dreaded rule by the rabble that our founders feared most after watching in horror what unfolded before their very eyes in blood-gushing, 18th-century France. That was justice? Really? Thank heaven we’re all entitled to our opinions here in this cradle of liberty, valley of the happy.

Something else my long-lost mentor impressed upon me during conversation about education, credentials and what he looked for in an aspiring journalist: He said he always quickly weeded out the “high-achieving” students who tunnel-visioned their way to newsrooms. “I valued life experience over formal education,” he said. “Give me the dropout who went to war, suffered, returned home, drifted, found himself and took a job at a newspaper. That man knew what life was about, had lived it, seen things no sheltered straight-A student would ever see. He’d make a good reporter.”

I listened, took heed, will never see it any other way, regardless of how many honor rolls and Dean’s Lists the teacher’s pets of the world can cite among their academic accomplishments; which brings me to tales of the rare Frank L. Boyden-hired Deerfield Academy teachers who fit my mentor’s unconventional mold and still earn lavish praise. These men were adored by students at the elite New England prep school, but their likes will never again be hired there; not for a day, far too risky. Sadly, a new die has been cast, the student forever cheated, unable to meet unique, interesting characters with a wealth of knowledge to share, tidbits gleaned from seedy corridors off the main drag, then perhaps a good taste of literature. Very sad. A missing link. But, again, let us not digress … back to the great outdoors.

Two weeks ago, I was driving home on a still, sultry afternoon, traveling through a tunnel between two towering, fragrant cornfields. The strong, familiar aroma got me thinking that maybe bear season will be too late this year to limit significant cornfield damage. The fresh, sweet smell piercing my nostrils told me from instinct that the cow corn was ripe almost a month early; seemed to me a phenomenon more associated with late August/early September. The annual bear season opens on the Tuesday after Labor Day, too late this year, far too late. I almost addressed the subject when I first noticed it, but instead went off on Walmart, following an impromptu breakfast conversation with a veritable expert. Then, last week, I again considered the early-corn-and-bear-foraging subject before going off on a genealogical ramble through the wilds of Hawley; just couldn’t resist. So now, here I sit, revisiting the corn issue, ears still ripe and pungent. The bears must have gotten a whiff by now, found their way.

So, what to do?

Well, I suppose I could have called the state Executive Office of Energy and Environmental Affairs to get clearance and then speak to a MassWildlife expert, get his or her opinion about the impact early-corn maturation will have on bear season and crop damage. But why? What is there to gain? Do these people answering the phone in their air-conditioned Westborough offices know more than me, a man who has observed and written with attribution about this annual phenomenon for three solid decades here? Do I really need some canned response couched in uncertainty to protect a reputation? I think not. So I’ll just throw it out there and await the response from my agrarian neighbors, who will surely confirm my suspicion that bears are visiting cornfields early. Why? Quite simple: Bears gravitate to cornfields when ripe, and they ripened early this year. Duh! And to think I didn’t even need a gilt-framed master’s or doctorate to figure that out. Common sense was sufficient.

So, off I go, having once again dredged up something to fill this weekly space when the well was dry. I hope I haven’t offended anyone, especially my unnamed mentor who’s now old, seemed old when I met him. He warned us nearly 40 years ago — way before the Internet and iPhones and blogs and 24/7 cable news stations — that the future was bleak for newspapers. He thought editors and publishers should take a serious look at “New Journalism” — Rolling-Stone style, literary reportage he believed readers preferred — and toss aside their old, tired news style. That was in the early 1970s. The man was a visionary. He rejected the formulaic “Old News” model then. Readers are now following his lead.

Like the black bears foraging local cornfields these days, modern readers hunt for news that’s fresh and fragrant, with a dash of personality. It makes sense. Only the senile are drawn to swill-bucket stench when the sweetness of fruits, nuts, berries and maize fill the balmy air.

posted in Columns, Musings | No Comments

Aug
11
2010

Common Ground

by Gary Sanderson

Sporting the white, cotton, “Old Hawley Common” T-shirt with red letters that I bought Sunday at the common’s unveiling—hint of bear scent wafting through cool, clear mountain air—inspired inquiries from some folks I bumped into this week in my travels.

“Oh, you went to that?” was a question by some who had seen the event publicized; then, “What, pray tell, is your interest in Hawley?” that seldom-visited hilltown nestled into Franklin County’s southwestern corner, population 337. Well, as is often true in my case, it all comes down to history, place and blood, often intertwined in a geographical setting where one’s roots run deep.

Although I am the direct descendant of no original Hawley settler I know of, a Sanderson great-grandfather of mine was among the original proprietors; not only that, but peripheral genealogical lines run through that landscape like its shaded brooks and streams. Throw in a direct link to the historic building I call home, and my interest heightens. So, I guess you could say that my fascination with Hawley is all about personal connections.

Hawley, it seems, was one of many “frontier” destinations for those defeated rabble-rousers who publicly supported Capt. Daniel Shays of Shays’ Rebellion fame (1786-87). After Shays fled Massachusetts in February 1787, he and his soldiers dispersed to the hinterlands, many touching down in Vermont and New York State, some settling much closer, in places like Hawley, which seemed to hold preferred status for Whately/Conway rebels, possibly because they knew or were related to speculative landowners who did not intend to live there.

Adonijah Taylor and son John were two such men, the elder an early Deerfield miller who established the first Roaring Brook grist and sawmills on a rise overlooking the Mill River section of Deerfield. Today, that site is located in Whately, below the lower Whately Glen dam. Fifth great-grandfather Deacon Thomas Sanderson, the aforementioned Hawley landowner, purchased the home and mill sites from the Taylors in 1803, and they were likely longtime friends. Taylor’s wife, Rachel Sawtelle, and my Sanderson branch grew up in Groton, arrived here at about the same time and were connected by marriage to the Parker family of that town. That Middlesex County Parker family produced Lt. Isaac Parker, second in command at Fort No. 4 in Charlestown, N.H., New England’s northernmost French and Indian War outpost and the probable reason why the Parkers, then my Sandersons chose Deerfield and the Canterbury section of Hatfield (now River Road, Whately) for homes sites. Which brings us to another Hawley connection.

Abraham Parker (1726-1757), son of Lt. Isaac, was probably introduced to the peaceful intervale below Sugarloaf while patrolling on military detail out of Fort No. 4. What was there not to love about that idyllic, fertile plain? By 1748, Parker had built a dwelling there, and four years later, brother-in-law Joseph Sanderson, progenitor of my Franklin County line, was squatting next door. Tragedy struck the Parker family five years later when, on Saturday, March 12, 1757, Parker drowned crossing the Connecticut River ice on his way to or from Sunderland (tavern hopping perhaps?), leaving behind five children, one unborn. I have never found Parker’s grave, but it is probably in Sunderland if his body was recovered, because that’s where he attended church.

Parker’s first son and second child, Abraham Jr. (1752-1837), was one of Hawley’s first settlers; his cellar hole is the outermost of nine identified sites along the Hawley-Common route unveiled Sunday. I met three or four Parker descendants, distant cousins of mine, at Sunday’s dedication. Their family had lived in the original Parker homestead for nearly 120 years, until 1891, when the dwelling and outbuildings were abandoned, soon to be cratered memories. And yes, all that remains today are dark, damp, stone-clad holes. I feel a certain attachment to those Parker ruins because more than likely Abraham Jr., fatherless before his fifth birthday, viewed Uncle Joseph Sanderson (my sixth ggf) as a surrogate father, spending many a day roaming the woods and fields and swamps below Sugarloaf with Joseph’s eight sons, some older, others younger than him. Uncle Joseph, his gravestone the oldest in East Whately Cemetery, died in 1772. Four years later, when Parker Jr. was 24, he set out for Hawley, where his cousins — brothers Nathaniel, Abel and David Parker — were also staking claims, plus, first-cousin and boyhood neighbor Thomas Sanderson, six years older, owned a couple parcels there.

Ah-ha, all about family ties, it is.

Now, as for the link between my Greenfield home and Hawley, well, that was a more recent discovery. The journey began following a brief telephone conversation with Colrain artist Hale Johnson, whose mother, Louise Hale Johnson, published “The History of the Town of Hawley” in 1953, the year I was born. When Mr. Johnson asked about the history of my tavern, I told him the last major “improvements” were made by Ebenezer Thayer, who sold the Charlemont Inn before buying my place in 1836. When I informed him that Thayer had lived in Hawley, it piqued his interest, said he knew all the Hawley cemeteries after visiting them as a boy with his mother. Then, after later finding Louise Hale Johnson’s book in Google Books and reading her Thayer genealogy, I discovered what I believed to be an error. Her profile of Thayer as a good businessman who owned a hotel in Charlemont before purchasing “the expensive Arms Farm in Greenfield Meadows in 1835” differed from what I knew. Because I had done the deed research to document Thayer’s purchase of my Upper Meadows tavern in 1836, I thought Ms. Johnson was mistaken. A trip to the Registry of Deeds proved me wrong.

Thayer did indeed purchase what was known as the Ebenezer Arms Farm in 1835, a little more than a year before buying my place. Then, three years later, in 1839, he purchased the Moses Arms Farm, contiguous with the first Arms farm he had purchased four years earlier. The cost of the three Meadows properties that consumed nearly 1,000 acres was the enormous sum of $30,000, which would compute to millions today. All three homesteads are extant, with the two Arms farms situated in the Lower Meadows. The so-called Ebenezer Arms place stands on Thayer Road, overlooking the long Greenfield Community College driveway and, across it, the so-called Moses Arms Farm, later Myers Farm, today Four Rivers Charter School. My property is named Old Tavern Farm; Thayer bought it from Samuel Hinsdale III and soon added a porch and upstairs ballroom for tavern-keeping son Hollister Baker Thayer, whose name came straight from Hawley; it was there after 1810 that his uncle, Hollister Baker, built a stately, brick, Federal mansion-house that still stands proudly in Pudding Meadow and was recently sold to an “outsider” for a tidy fee.

So, there you have it: a few of the subjects that lured me to the Hawley woods on Sunday and will surely draw me back. A new discovery in the Doane Cemetery caught my interest during a brief stop with a friend and neighbor on the way home. Isolated under a hardwood shade tree just inside the eastern stonewall border of the burial ground stood the lonely, flagged gravestone of Capt. Oliver Shattuck, who died in 1797, age 46. His Shattuck family has an interesting history, one that also weaves through Groton and Fort No. 4 to our slice of paradise known as the upper Pioneer Valley. I think I’ll see what I can find about the man. Who knows? He may even have been a displaced Shaysite, rarely easy to document these days. But even if it can’t be proven, you can usually make connections, ones that provide a pretty good idea of where he stood on the conflict.

Mystery fuels discovery, uncertainty revs the motor, spins the wheels, mine already awhirl and shrill. Before a man can truly understand the little world around him, he must first discover who he is. It’s complex. I’m getting there.

posted in Genealogy, Local history, Musings, Tavern Tidbits | Comments (3)

Aug
05
2010

Expert Witness

by Gary Sanderson

I was entertained by a Saturday-morning conversation over coffee with a guest as we sat in the breakfast nook at the south end of my kitchen, sunlight illuminating the oval, walnut tabletop through parted, blue, Whig-Rose curtains on the double-hung window.

Although the distinguished gent, nearly 70 and “semi-retired,” had stayed with us before, I had never asked what he did or had done for a living. All I knew was that he wore an air of success and sophistication. I finally discovered why: He had been an executive at the ground level of a big New England retail chain, then a developer of many Southwestern shopping centers, two of which he still owns and leases because now is not the time to sell. When I asked him what types of chain stores he targeted as centerpieces of his developments, he identified one as Home Depot, which begged for the quick question. Had he ever built a Wal-Mart plaza? No. He didn’t agree with Wal-Mart’s business model and preferred not to harm existing downtown retail space. I found his response interesting. This from a developer, of all people, someone I would expect to embrace any big-box store willing to pony up. He had no trouble explaining his guiding principles.

“It’s no secret that Wal-Marts are bad for local economies,” he said matter-of-factly, “so I chose not to contribute. Plus, they’re very demanding on developers, don’t want to pay for anything. Communities don’t know what they’re getting into when they accept them. They soon find out they have to expand streets, add traffic lights, you name it, many expensive ‘hidden costs.’

“If you don’t believe me, take a cross-country ride on the Interstates and you’ll see it over and over again. I call it my three-exit theory. You pull off at the first exit and enter a town of cheap antique malls and tacky bar/restaurants. Wal-Mart’s right off the second exit and the parking lot is full, bustling with shoppers. The third exit is a ghost town. That’s what I call the Wal-Mart effect.”

The man’s daughter overheard our discussion from the adjacent dining room and joined in. An Air Force wife now living in the Caribbean, she’s been around and was quite familiar with the picture her father was painting. “It’s not hard to find,” she said. “You’ll find those three exits all over the country.”

A graduate of Northfield Mount Hermon School and wife of a Deerfield Academy grad, she knew downtown Greenfield of the late ’80s and thought it had perked up in the 20 years she had been away. She remarked favorably on the ongoing downtown facelift, even praised the increased number cars parked along Main Street (must have caught it on a good day). “Looks like they’re making progress,” she opined. “I noticed it right away. The improvements probably wouldn’t be happening if Wal-Mart had come to town.”

Which brought us to another subject. Her father was interested in Greenfield’s infamous Wal-Mart battle, one he was not familiar with before I mentioned it. “They were able to keep it out?” he asked. “Interesting. Tell me about it. How’d they accomplish that?” When I told him how Al Norman had gained local folk-hero status, then national spawlbuster fame for leading Greenfield’s anti-Wal-Mart charge around 1990, he said the community should be thankful. Norman had done a good deed. Maybe they ought to erect a statue. I just chuckled and told him there was a day when Norman was held in high regard locally, still is by many. But these days the man known as “Spawlbuster” is largely vilified following two decades of class warfare between those who say they need Wal-Mart and the antis they call elitist because they can afford to shop elsewhere.

The divisive line of attack didn’t surprise my genteel guest. He said the argument is old and threadbare, right out of the tattered Wal-Mart playbook. The game plan is simple: draw the battle lines, pit the haves against the have-nots and let democracy work its magic. It all comes down to a numbers game, and there are always more have-nots. They just have to be whipped into a frenzy, given slogans and encouraged to start the name-calling — a game plan that works to a T in hand-to-hand rhetorical combat.

What’s important to remember is that these observations were coming from a successful businessman, a definite “have” who cut his teeth in big-box retail, then branched off into big-box development. He even touched briefly on the genesis of the regional retail giant he helped to start; said the plan was to buy overruns, sell them cheap and promote what became a prosperous chain store as “local.” But the subject he addressed next was even more fascinating. He wanted to know about Greenfield’s growth potential. Having lived for many years in New England, where he still summers, he was familiar with the region and guessed that Greenfield’s population is stable. Was that right? Yes. In fact, Greenfield’s numbers have probably dropped a bit since the ’60s and ’70s, when industry was booming, good jobs plentiful. Well, he said, in that case Wal-Mart would be double trouble. Growing communities can support big-box development; stable populations cannot.

“It’s pretty simple if you do the math,” he explained. “Say the existing downtown retail space is 220,000 square feet, the size Wal-Mart always shoots for. If Wal-Mart comes in and builds a 220,000-square-foot store on the outskirts of town, the market cannot support both districts. The impact on downtowns is devastating; they die because Wal-Marts undersell them. Wal-Mart’s goal is to seize the market, and they’re very good at it; even bring in dentists and barbers and hair dressers, which doesn’t help towns much, either.”

The man said you can’t compare a town like Greenfield to his native city of Tuscon, Ariz., which had a population of 300,000 when he was a boy. The population today is more than a million and growing, already more than three times what it was 50 years ago, and thus able to support a big-box-retail boom. Greenfield has no potential to double or triple in size.

Conversations like the one we’ve discussed here make life interesting for innkeepers, who greet many interesting folks with wisdom to share. This particular discussion came out of the clear blue sky on a beautiful morning, and touched on a hot local issue. It developed quite by coincidence and I thought it worthy of sharing — just one more expert opinion to consider when shaping your own for the Greenfield big-box debate. And, again, remember that it came from an unlikely source, one with no ax to grind and years of experience, not to mention inside observation, on which to base his opinions.

I guess the point is that it never hurts to listen, something the pro-growth Penrick crowd apparently hasn’t learned. They’d rather shout down voices of reason and fight economic-impact studies. It reminds me of helpful advice a friend’s father never hesitated to impart. After witnessing a conversation he viewed as one-sided, he’d find the right time to inform his son that people who do all the talking learn nothing. Today that boy’s a man who knows when to talk and when to listen.

posted in Columns, Politics | No Comments

Jul
21
2010

Early Signs

by Gary Sanderson

Dabs of fall color are already popping up along the roadside, a jostling reminder that the cold months will soon be coming to a theater near you.

Although the soft marsh maples have not yet started to sport their fall hues, the wetland purples and yellows are out, the red sumac fruit appeared weeks ago, the apples at the foot or my driveway are red, and acorns and other nuts are dropping while soft, ghostly hydrangea blossoms start to show. I don’t keep a journal of such things, but it seems to me that all of the above are way ahead of schedule, and so is the Rose of Sharon, which, in my memory, is also more typically a mid-August bloomer. And why wouldn’t these natural phenomena appear early after an early spring that was two and three weeks ahead? Before you know it, the hum of corn harvesters will be heard in the distance, truckfuls of silage will be roaring past my door, and the woodshed will be bloated to feed my soapstone stove.

I can’t say I find harbingers of fall depressing. I like cool weather, the upland romps for bird and beast, tremors from snow sliding to the ground off the slate roof; and I love dry wood heat, the product of my daily toil. I even enjoy filling the woodshed, once I’m finished and peering in to admire the massive indoor mound that’ll be mostly gone by May. I cannot honestly say I look forward to the sound of Blue Sky’s dump truck backing up to the sliding woodshed door, not to mention the pile of work he leaves behind; and I don’t enjoy writing him checks, either. Can you blame me? When I moved to Greenfield in 1997, firewood cost $80 a cord. Now it’s $225 or more. Can’t say my pay raises have kept pace with that spike, which doesn’t even address the increased cost of heating oil, groceries and just about every
other essential. But I get through it, as do many other New Englanders facing identical issues.

For the time being, I guess I’ll just enjoy the rest of summer, get my bird-hunting gear in order and wait for the leaves to fall, another annual phenomenon that brings chores I do not cherish. Snow-shoveling will follow, the worst of it deposited from the roof to the driveway in front of the carriage sheds, compacted, heavy and worthy of creative procrastination.

Why complain? We all endure similar seasonal hardships, then repeat them over and over again. But have you ever considered what life without four distinct seasons would be like?

I have. Not for me.

posted in Musings | Comments (1)

Jul
15
2010

Wild Carrots

by Gary Sanderson

Another Sunken-Meadow trek, a new sweet aroma to spin my wheels. Fine start to column day.

A warm, light rain fell through gray, dense air, so heavy you needed a sharp machete to bust through it. I was exercising the dogs, peds saturated after a few easy steps through ankle-high grass, alluring scent lifting my spirit. It was the same sweetness that had tickled my nostrils the previous afternoon, similarly breathless and damp, this one grayer and wetter, me on a sodden mission.

Virgin-white Queen Anne’s Lace filled the meadow like stilted teacup saucers towering over the infant Christmas trees, sumac fruit coloring the periphery here and there like bright red dabs of paint on canvas. I have many times passed Queen Anne’s Lace in my travels but have never inspected it, buried my nose in the flower, extracted its carrot root. Today would be different. After Googling it, I wanted to know more. I had sensed a new scent mixed with the fragrant clover, itself sweet, and figured it must have been the blooming wildflower; but I wanted to make sure, imprint it in my memory for future reference; every day a nature’s classroom.

With the turf softened by drenching overnight rains, the time was right. I pulled up the first plant I passed, smelled its flower, studied its narrow, turnip-colored root. So I now know the sweet scent of Queen Anne’s Lace, will always recognize it like the multiflora rose that captivated me a month or so back on that same sunken, riverside stage. The subtle scent is quite invigorating, akin to the finest French perfume, and quite complementary to the clovers, like they were made for each other. Who knows? Maybe they were.

Next year I’ll likely taste the spring carrot, young and tender. Wild carrots. Yum. My cup of tea.

posted in Musings | No Comments

Jul
08
2010

Meadow Magic

by Gary Sanderson

The air was cool and refreshing, the yard shaded, tiny splashes of sun here and there, lawn wet with gray, misty dew. High white clouds appeared motionless in the pale blue sky, almost hiding a higher half-moon smiling down from the heavens like a ghost peering around a doorjamb. The previous day had surpassed 90 and the new one, Fourth of July, flags and parties everywhere, promised much of the same; a tolerable high-pressure heat, not oppressive, sort of what I remember on the mean streets of Denver, East Colfax Avenue, July-August 1975, then an impulsive kid with more spunk than wisdom.

Anyway, on that weekend morning, before 7, I had already closed the windows and shut the doors to trap in the cool night air and prepare the house for the impending heat. That done, I walked to the backyard, brookside kennel for Lily and Buddy, always eager for their morning romp, the earlier the better. Complicating matters from my perspective on this day were two turkey broods I’d been dealing with for a couple of weeks in a lush, fragrant, knee-high red clover field where I run the dogs. It’s a given that those turkeys will be there early along the edge of a young, tilled, squash and melon field just before the road makes a sharp right and drops down into what I call Sunken Meadow. I have been careful to keep the dogs away from the two hens and 12 poults for fear that the little ones were vulnerable. Experience told me they could fly well enough to escape, but why test it? I’d rather avoid problems that a frisky pair of Springers can deliver.

It was about this time last year at the same site that I had seen a similar brood flush into the tree line overlooking the Green River. They just sat there, all nine of them, a hen and eight little ones, tantalizing Ringo, my old headstrong bird dog. He barked his fool head off, leaping up the trunk of a massive black cherry tree like a coon hound, only springier and more athletic. Funny thing: now Ringy and that cherry tree are both gone: the dog passing just before Christmas; the tree, felled during that microburst, macroburst or whatever it was that devastated my neighborhood a month or so back, now reduced to a pile of cordwood.

With the dogs boxed on my pickup, I turned onto the farm road leading to my destination and I was somewhat surprised that old Ev Hatch wasn’t out early picking away at his staked tomatoes before the heat struck. Must be he decided to take the holiday off, God bless him, still plenty spry at 79. The man deserves a break. Those plants of his are growing tall and strong these days, seem to be adding three inches daily in the summer swelter. Some of the adjacent hayfields have been scalped, equipment parked along the road, but the clover is impressive — tall, dense and, at that time of day, summer-morning saturated.

As I reached the top of a soft dusty rise on the rutty road, hay rake to my right, I scanned the melon-field edge for sign of turkeys. Sure enough, two motionless brown heads and gray-brown necks poking above the clover. The two hens. No doubt the little ones were nearby, just couldn’t see them until even with the tilled field, where they were foraging like furry little footballs through the soft dirt; scratching for worms or grubs or insects, maybe grasshoppers, which they seem to have a special fondness for. I never slowed down as I passed — the hens erect and motionless — just poked along before taking that sharp right-hand corner leading to an open gate to Sunken Meadow, presumably out of harm’s way.

At the base of the gentle slope I spun my rig around, pointed it outward and parked. The low, placid Green River was producing a soft, soothing rattle, percussion for the sweet birdsong emanating from a tangled, rosebush-bordered wetland. God, that meadow is beautiful. Never gets old or boring. Always something new to spark your curiosity, be it a flower or tree, a critter or the fresh scent of something dead and ripe.

I exited the truck and dropped the tailgate, Buddy whining anxiously, nudging the porta-kennel’s metal-grate door with his nose, scratching at it with his left-front paw. He was intense, wanted out badly. I pulled the pin and he flew to the ground like a missile, sprinting south and reaching the back of the field in world-record time. Lily remained calm, standing patiently, watching the incredible Buddy show from inside her elevated perch. When I released her, she calmly hopped down and sauntered 100 feet west to the gnarly rosebush hedgerow. When I switched my attention to Buddy, I saw him quartering the field back toward me, racing, bounding gracefully through high cover, nose high, front legs curled under him to clear the tall grass and wildflowers. He was searching for rabbits or whatever else was filling his moist nostrils under ideal scenting conditions before the sun rose and baked the field dry.

When I returned my attention to Lily, she was out of sight and I gave her a friendly holler. When she didn’t appear, I called a little louder. Still no response. Then, suddenly I heard some sharp “putts” and saw the two mature hen turkeys flying at me, clearing the tree line along the meadow’s elevated western lip. Yep, Lily had found those turkeys, at least 150 yards and up a level from where we were parked. The first hen to clear the tree line separating the two fields landed high in a tall, ancient, hickory tree within 50 yards of me in the middle of the meadow. I have always called hickories like it smooth-bark as opposed to shagbarks. Different cordwood dealers over the years have also referred to the wood as smooth-bark hickory, but that’s the vernacular, not the official name. Curious, I later snipped a stem of seven leaves and Googled it to make a proper identification; most likely bitternut hickory (also called pignut or swamp hickory). The tree I’m referring to is one of only two out in the middle of the field. Can’t say what the other is (something strange), but the bitternut hickory has many offspring, mature and immature, along the perimeter. The one out in the open appears to be the granddaddy of them all. Some others along the edge are large; not as large.

But, let us not digress … back to the turkeys. The second, trailing hen cleared the field hickory and touched down 80 yards behind it in a tall riverside maple. The poults, all 12 of them emitting soft alarm putts, flew into the first tree line their mothers had cleared, the one separating the upper and lower levels, and perched high within 100 feet of each other, observing the scene from safety. I gave Lily a call with the curled stag-horn whistle on my lanyard and, sure enough, she was soon sprinting enthusiastically down the road into Sunken Meadow, covered in mud, 14 turkeys observing from their lofty perches.

I can’t say for certain whether Lily had seen or smelled those turkeys when we drove through, or if she had been chasing something else, maybe a rabbit or squirrel, got to the crest of the hill overlooking Sunken Meadow and caught wind of the birds from there. My guess is the latter, because I think if she had known the flock was in the upper field, she would have sprinted directly to it when released from her crate. Who knows or cares? The event had made for another interesting Sunken-Meadow field trip. It’s one of many reasons I go there daily; that and the tranquility, the symphony of soft flowing water and birdsong. This time I learned about smooth-bark hickories; now even know them by name, will probably absorb more about them in coming weeks.

It makes me wonder what my next Sunken-Meadow lesson will be. Never know. Maybe I’ll focus on that other tree, the weird one  I’ve passed many times without giving it a second look. Not a tree I’m familiar with … yet.

posted in The Dogs | No Comments

Jul
01
2010

Painful Truth

by Gary Sanderson

July is here and with it all the manmade anadromous-fish passageways on Connecticut Valley dams will soon be closed, signaling the end of another disappointing spring spawning run.

How else to assess the 2010 migratory-fish numbers, which, through Monday, showed 167,486 American shad, 49 Atlantic salmon and a not-even-worth-reporting 92 blueback herring? Imagine that, 92 freaking herring, which came by the hundreds of thousands in recent memory. It may as well be zero the way I look at it. In fact, it makes you wonder when the numbers of all three aforementioned migratory-fish species will be just that: zero. Seems to be trending that way, no matter what the experts cashing state and federal paychecks would have you believe. The outlook is bleak. They know it. It’s all about climate change, stupid; has to be. That and other factors restoration people have little or no control over.

Many readers familiar with this column over the past 30 years inaccurately characterize me as a Connecticut River Salmon Restoration Program opponent. They’re wrong. A foe I am not, just a realist, one who has scrutinized the numbers over parts of five decades. I am not a numbers-cruncher. In fact, I hate numbers; would much rather play with words. But it doesn’t take a mathematician or scientist to understand that the numbers I’m speaking of ain’t good. And anyone who tries to tell you numbers don’t matter is a fool or a liar, your choice, because numbers do matter in scientific experiments, and that’s exactly what our salmon-restoration project is.

Salmon were indeed here when New England was discovered, and they remained here into the late Federal Period before disappearing due to the construction of dams and the end of the Little Ice Age, likely more the latter than the former. During the last half of the 20th century began an altruistic, aggressive, interactive federal and state restoration program aimed at establishing a viable salmon sport fishery to the Connecticut River and its largest tributaries. Ever since, officials overseeing the coordinated effort have given it their absolute best effort. No one can say otherwise. It was a valiant effort, with many of the finest hearts and minds committed. But their best efforts cannot overcome climactic and ecological changes that have in recent years decimated salmon stocks on both of our coasts, particularly the North Atlantic. Now scientists fear Atlantic salmon extinction. Yes, extinction, which, if it comes to pass will be sad indeed. Think of it: the greatest of all Atlantic freshwater game fish a thing of the past, history.

Isn’t fear of extinction the reason for putting Atlantic salmon on the endangered-species list? Is it not a possibility that they will all be gone by the time my grandsons are parents? Don’t doubt it. It’s real.

So let us not bury our heads in the Maritimes’ gravelly shores. It’s time to face facts. The days of fishing for migratory New England Atlantic salmon are over. Sad but true. In fact, it appears that the days are numbered for even a random New England salmon showing up here and there, especially in the Connecticut River, the mouth of which has in its best days been at the southern extreme of Atlantic salmon range. Maybe that’s what these grammar-school teachers bringing their students to the rivers’ edge for immature salmon-stocking field trips ought to be telling them; not that the fish they’re stocking will soon be back to spawn as adults; a romantic concept that unfairly keeps them on board for years to come, misleads them.

If there was anything really valuable at stake here — say a home, a family fortune, even a priceless heirloom — then there would be no one playing or encouraging others to play this game of impossible odds. It would then be called a con game, those promoting it swindlers.

posted in Salmon, Shad | Comments (1)

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