Jul
18
2009

A Proud NIMBY

by Gary Sanderson

I’m coming out. Jumping into this ”biomess” fiasco. Can’t resist.

I was, at first, reluctant to enter the dustup for many reasons, not the least of which is that a forester I am not. Also, I myself heat with wood, annually sending seven cords’ worth of smoke billowing skyward from October to May. So who am I to complain about wood smoke from biomass or those controversial residential wood boilers, for that matter? But more than anything else, addressing such an issue requires work, and I have other subjects of interests on my plate. Let others do the heavy lifting. I’ll just sit and watch from the sidelines. That was my initial, slothful reaction before the clamor grew deafening and several activists contacted me directly, figuring I wore political stripes similar to theirs.

Well, I finally gave in and jumped softly into the fray last week with a little left jab that brought praise from several biomass opponents and criticism from a supporter who called me a NIMBY, that pejorative acronym that translates as ”not in my back yard,” an attitude I do not deny coddling. In fact, if the critic who called me a NIMBY thought it an insult, what a lame attempt. I am a proud NIMBY, deeply rooted here in the Happy Valley all the way back to our Colonial Contact Period, and committed to preserving the rural character and historic assets of my ancestors, including landscapes. So, send me a NIMBY hat, a shirt to match, and I’ll sport them proudly through City Square, at the polling place, the supermarket, absolutely no hesitation. But, please, none of that cheap Wal-Mart stuff; preferably a New Era fitted cap, either 100 percent cotton or a wool blend; same with the T-shirt, 100 percent cotton, dense thread count. No crap that could poison me from ingestion of sweatband dyes. Made in the USA, hopefully by someone working for a living wage.

So tell me, given my NIMBY predisposition, how could I possibly support a filthy smokestack — brainchild of a faraway investor, to boot — towering over prehistoric Peskeomskut, a landmark in our green, fertile valley? Sorry fellas, ain’t gonna happen. You wanna line up banks of solar panels on some unobtrusive southern exposure, go for it, I’m fully supportive if it’ll take me off the grid. But a smokestack that could lead to forest devastation akin to the photos posted by Massachusetts Forest Watch at www.maforests.org? Uh-uh! Not for me. I don’t call that progress, no matter how much profit can be earned.

Another reason I hesitated to attack this proposed incinerator (ooops) is that ”responsible” logging of our prevalent ”old-growth forest” would improve habitat for game like whitetail deer and ruffed grouse, both of which thrive in young forest. Our deer-management team has identified old-growth forests, particularly in western Franklin and Berkshire counties, as a detriment to attaining their desired deer densities of 12 to 16 per square mile. Forests dominated by large trees 80 and more years old choke off understory, limiting an essential food source crucial for rebuilding a deer herd. Small patches of clear-cutting in harmony with responsible thinning of adjacent old forest stimulates regeneration, producing needed browse to build and sustains a vibrant deer herd. But responsible logging is not what I see on the Forest Watch site, and it’s not what expert Chris Matera describes in his troubling ”Massachusetts Chainsaw Massacre” report at www.maforests.org/Release.pdf, either; an indictment of the Patrick Administration for promoting destructive biomass logging. Look at the photos. Read the report. Tell me it’s appealing to you. The photos hit home. They’re right in our neighboring state forests, disgusting too weak an adjective.

But I don’t want to be unfair. I saw where a Shutesbury forester criticized the anti-biomass hysteria, said there were strict rules in place here in Massachusetts to prevent irresponsible logging. He clearly knows more about the subject than I, and maybe there are rules in place to protect historic landscapes and prevent butcher jobs. But I’m a Sixties guy who doesn’t trust government to ”do the right thing.” Do you?

Of course, there are different opinions among foresters. A case in point is another Franklin County forester and loyal reader of this space. Seeking an expert opinion, I e-mail queried him about the issue last week. His delayed response was interesting. He said he owned forest and would benefit from biomass, which would provide a market for otherwise ”unsalable” wood, ”especially after the great ice storm of 2008.” But the man is more committed to forests and wildlife than dollars and cents, and, ”as an ecologist,” said he has strong reservations about the many biomass proposals statewide. He knows the claims from some colleagues who believe our forests can easily withstand biomass, and that, given our tough forest-cutting restrictions, there is no real danger. But he isn’t buying it. Like me, he appears to harbor a healthy distrust of government. I guess anyone worth their salt should.

Anyway, our informed source — one I have chosen not to name because, in my opinion, it’s not important — broke down his overriding biomass concerns in the note. I found them interesting indeed, not surprising.

”First,” he wrote, ”current cutting laws are mostly aimed at production, not wildlife habitat. We all know that forest management benefits some species, but we know little about wholesale forest cutting and the impacts on some of our animals that have returned because of reforestation. Black bears and ravens come to mind.”

He went on to say he doesn’t trust the numbers being used by biomass proponents and can’t understand why an environmental-impact report wasn’t required, or why one facility isn’t permitted as a test site to study the impact, ”not only on air and water quality, but also wildlife habitat, rare species, etc.”

Our West County source admits he finds the debate interesting and has followed it. He also understands the importance of local energy sources. But, still, he keeps returning to the same crucial question: Is biomass a wise use of our resources? ”Not to sound jaded,” he wrote, ”but right now it looks to me like a plan to make some city-slickers rich. ”I can think of a better use of our forests. Like a home for black bears, for instance.”

Obviously, not all foresters are in his camp. But consider this: Wholesale logging to support raging furnaces could mean work for foresters, consultants who thus may not be our most trusted sources. Conversely, maybe we should heed those opposed, because they’re taking a position that potentially takes money out of their own pockets.

As for the biomass test-site our forester foe proposes: I say send it to Lowell or Lawrence or Brockton, or some other stooped mill town built by child labor on landscapes long ago ravaged. Better still, send it to the industrial heartland or the sunny South; Houston, for instance, where people die and are diseased every day by the air they breathe, the water they drink. Their leaders welcome and deserve such maladies, and can have them.

But, please, not in my back yard.

Yeah, perfect, Not – In – My – Back – Yard.

A beautiful ring to it.

NIMBY

My proud mantra.

posted in Politics | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Out & About

by Gary Sanderson

On the road again, me and an old codger, he a spry octogenarian.

We were following e-mail leads from Conway readers commenting on last week’s column about my visit to Conway’s first cellar hole, that of Cyrus Rice, circa 1763, now hidden in a manicured 350-acre wood lot. The tips led me to Shirkshire, to Poland, then a return to the Rice site for a guided tour by the owners, pleasant academics with warm affection for their land. And what is there not to love about it: cellar holes; a classic well; a spring hole nestled into a depression between two hemlock spines; discontinued 18th-century roads, likely former indigenous trails; even a stately, stone Seven-Mile-Line bound buried deep in the woods behind the old Otto Farm, which started its decline around 1960? That’s when owners Bill and Helena, and son Bill, started to fade. By 1965, both Bills were gone; Helena eight years later. Soon the big dairy barn and silos were gone and the farmhouse had melted into the background, along a well-traveled road, like so many before and after it. Some call it progress. I call it sad. Slow death by industrial revolution; the final days of family farming aimed at subsistence. Once prevalent in the valley and its rolling hills, family farms kept the countryside fresh and fertile, the meats and produce salubrious; organic, no preservatives or poisons. No wonder our ancestors worked so hard and lived so long before we discovered a ”better way,” one that polluted the earth, air and water in a greedy race to riches. But let’s not digress; back to my recent tips and trips, 87-year-old Harry Stafursky in tow, soaking it all in.

Harry grew up on Stafursky Farm, once a square, dual-chimney, hipped-roofed, colonial tavern that served North Shirkshire residents and passersby alike. The building is long gone, burned to the ground in the Sixties or early Seventies. The image in the minds of those who remember it is two massive chimneys standing sentry over the site. The few who remember the whole spread are getting fewer, soon to vanish like the buildings. But Harry remembers it well, lived it, cherishes the memories. So it was interesting to bring him along to view the remains of a large, early farm and mill site on the property of a neighboring landowner, a reader of this space, by chance a distant cousin of mine through the 1749 union of Jonathan Edson and Mehetable Lillie. Yes, a small world indeed, this Pioneer Valley; kinfolk up the ying-yang if you pay attention to such things. I do. Can’t get enough of it. If you don’t know who you are, what’s the sense of living? That’s the outlook that fills my sails.

But, back to the Shirkshire dwelling’s cellar hole, massive hearthstone capping a pile of rubble that once served as the footing for a large, walk-in colonial fireplace; nearby, the stone-clad remains of a significant barn; still farther down the discontinued road, remains of a major dam and millpond, presumably a sawmill and impoundment that provided lumber for construction, ice and sawdust for the milk house. The brook feeds Bear River. Know it well. Often fished the outflow by the bridge as a young man; productive. Who knows who lived there and built this dam? I’d like to piece it all together. The information is at the Registry of Deeds. Another day. No time now.

The next day, Sunday afternoon, we traveled to another part of town, unannounced, me and Harry, in search of the e-mailer whose husband had turned up a derringer in an uprooted tree near his North Poland home; entertainment for both of us, Harry and me. Uplifting.

We arrived at the intersection of Bullitt Road and North Poland and I looked around, trying to figure out which house it was. Then I remembered my dogs, three of them, cooped-up in their porta-kennels since Greenfield, anxious for a hilltown romp, maybe a swim. So we headed up Bullitt Road, toward a reservation, and followed a farm road into a mature hayfield, where we parked and released the animals, eager to scope out the area, figure out what critters had passed through. The dogs sprang through the field, noses on full alert, frolicking, as Harry and I remarked on the beautiful landscape and pleasant change in the air following a deluge.

As we spoke, I noticed chartreuse on the dirt road, then a capped horseback rider trotting up the road. She passed and I whistled the dogs into their crates before heading down the trail toward the road, where we bumped into the rider, doubling back. I stopped and asked if she knew anything about a derringer. She asked if I was Gary. We chatted briefly. She described where she lived, said she’d be along shortly. Harry was amused, tickled by the developments, the method to my madness, how it all seemed to come together on a wing and a prayer. I too was amused in a playful manner. I love hunting, finding things.

We pulled into the woman’s yard, got out of the car and waited. Soon the chartreuse was headed up the long U-shaped driveway. She pulled into the stable at the bend and put her Arabian horse up for the night before walking our way. She invited us in and showed us photos of the derringer, said she was expecting her husband, in the upper meadow, only he could open the safe. We went out on the deck to chat, then heard a tractor approaching. It was him, returning home. We exchanged pleasantries as he approached and he went inside to retrieve the rusty derringer, wooden handles rotted off, circa 1865, Springfield Armory, interesting relic. Who knows? Maybe the corpse was nearby.

When he returned with the pistol, we engaged in lively chat, dancing from one subject to another, Harry right in the middle of it, visibly pleased with the chatter. Then, when he started praising me and my interests, I stopped him, told him it was time to go, didn’t want to wear out our welcome or stir up my wife waiting at home, always a convenient excuse.

We hit the road and I drove Harry back to his place in Greenfield, a meandering route through Conway and Deerfield. In his parking lot, I declined a friendly invitation upstairs. He wanted to show me something. There would be another day. Maybe another Shirkshire jaunt, perhaps Cricket Hill, home of Conway historian Deane Lee, Harry’s late schoolmate, maybe even a visit to Cy’s cellar, South Part, Henhawk Trail. Who knows where our whims will take us? Who cares? It’s never boring, can be invigorating, often providing impetus for new journeys that keep life interesting, the mind active.

It’s all about discovery, equally satisfying for young and old. First, though, you must embrace it, and it you.

Harry knows.

Me too.

posted in Local history | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

A Path to Why

by Gary Sanderson

If perceptive, you pay attention to what’s going on around you and, in the process, life proves interesting as you poke and prod for enlightening information that helps form your conception of place and where you fit.

Since moving to Greenfield at the end of the last millennium, I must admit I’ve become more fine-tuned with nature and wildlife, not because my interest has intensified but rather because I’m closer to it, nestled into the back corner of Greenfield, snuggled up to a brook and gorge mouth at the base of the first step to the Berkshire hills. The country setting lends itself to many more wildlife sightings than my previous home in South Deerfield village, even dating back to that neighborhood’s pre-development days of my boyhood. I could count on one hand my deer sightings from that property I grew up on, then owned, and I never saw the bears or wild turkeys that are now fairly common sights in my daily travels; not to mention the skunks, the possum and raccoons that seek out my barn, sheds and the crawl spaces below for shelter. They often eat from my cats’ skillet as owls hoot from the forest’s edge or eagles soar in the infinite blue sky. Great environment.

I will never forget one late afternoon this century when I was out in the woodshed and heard my son screaming out as though alarmed, like the place was afire. Not so. Just a large, silky-black bruin eating apples under a tree at the foot of my driveway. Aware that we were watching, it sauntered off across the road to a field behind a neighbor’s house. Another time, the same son was almost as excited to point out a majestic bald eagle perched in a tall white pine overlooking our common, an unexpected terrace treat.

What I most enjoy studying, though, is white-tail deer, particularly in the spring and summer, when the does drop and raise fawns, and bucks sprout velvety antlers. I find it fascinating to monitor the habits of these smart and noble beasts, learning about territory and diet, protection of young, whatever, as I patrol the upland roads on daily drives with my dogs and sometimes passengers.

Recently, my fancy has been a doe I’ve watched since early spring on a splendid sliver of Franklin County paradise no more than a quarter-mile square. I first caught her feeding evenings with three to five others in a March-brown but greening hayfield, backdropped by southern Vermont’s crowded gumdrop hills. By strawberry season the hay had grown high enough to conceal more than half their bodies, and I’d peer for frozen heads and ears. Then the hay was cut, the sightings easier. So, I have seen this animal several times, usually tight to the wood line, head down, grazing on fresh green growth stimulated by morning dew and spring rain. I occasionally even put the binoculars on her and knew from her skinny face and thin profile that she was a doe in the 110-pound range.

What stroked my curiosity most in June was the potential of nearby fawns, because I knew such a healthy animal living in a dairy habitat should have given birth to at least one. After a week or two of searching for little ones I bumped into a member of the farm family that had harvested the hayfield and asked if he had participated. If so, had he seen the pathetic remains of fawns on the scalped, stubbly field. If not, had his brothers spoken of unfortunate carnage. The answer was no on both counts. Better still, he was sure he would have heard of such mortality because it’s a subject routinely discussed. Farmers of this mechanized era cannot eliminate occasional fawn-kills during first cut, but it’s equally true that they try to avoid it. The problem is that the helpless little ones are invisible as they lay totally still in nests where their mothers leave them. This year a long wet June delayed haying on many fields until after Independence Day, ideal for fawn survival.

Not more than two days after our short, pleasant conversation under the cool, damp shade of a tall pine grove, I was returning home from running my dogs when I saw the doe in her typical place along the wood line, head down, tail flicking nervously. I thought I spotted movement behind her, slowed down to reach for my field glasses to take a closer look and, sure enough, spotted, spindly legged twins, body-mass smaller than my Springer Spaniels. Their mother picked up her head and stood tall as a preacher, facing me from some 150 yards away. Then she must have given the fawns an audible warning signal, because they both scampered into the woods and stood out of sight behind the low vegetation as the doe stood motionless, ears alert, nose expanding and contracting, in a calendar pose. I moved along, not wanting to disturb supper. But I was pleased. Finally a sighting. The little ones had appeared before dark.

Although I have not seen the precious caramel twins since, I have twice bumped into their mother in an adjacent hollow, maybe 350 yards down the hill, near a burial ground. The first time I saw her, sunny midmorning, it caught me by total surprise. I was dropping my pickup’s tailgate to release my dogs into the wetland below when something caught my eye and there she stood, motionless, 15 feet below me. She stared at me, I at her and she trotted off in no great hurry through the pines where I had spoken to the farmer. Hmmmmm, I wondered, big healthy doe, probably the same one, skinny face, but no fawns? They should have been big enough by then to tail along, but she gave no indication they were with her.

A day or two later, I bumped into the neighbor, originally from Ashfield, and we chatted. Had he seen the doe around? Yes. How about little ones? No, but he had seen the doe several times, crossing the road, in his yard, never little ones. He figured she left them bedded in the swamp before going off. I believed him. Made perfect sense.

For a few days after that, no sign of the doe or fawns, but I knew they weren’t far. Then, Sunday evening, right at the site where I had bumped face-to-face into the mother, I backed my truck up to the lip overlooking the small wetland, exited the vehicle, dropped the tailgate, released my three dogs, and a telltale sound greeted us.

”Whew! … Whew!” A deer blew her piercing warning signal, followed by heavy rustling in the woods. Then farther away, ”Whew! … Whew!” two more powerful exhales. The dogs froze facing the sound, ears perked, noses high, vigilant. They knew what it was. So did I.

I returned to the scene Monday morning to exercise my pets. Then, on a departure whim, I took a left instead of the right homeward and pulled into my northern neighbor’s long driveway. His red truck was in the field out back, his wife’s maroon SUV parked by the back door. I spun around the uphill horseshoe toward the SUV and it started to roll, so I exited my vehicle and approached hers. The brake lights shone, her door opened. She hadn’t noticed me approaching.

We exchanged brief pleasantries and I asked her if she had seen the doe with little ones? Yes, two of them. They’d been in her yard several times in recent days. It didn’t surprise me. In fact, I was expecting it.

Just as I had thought, the doe had blown her warning the previous evening to alert her fawns of danger. Instinct confirmed. It’s the kind of stuff that makes life interesting: observation and assessment, interaction with others, spinning the fine-toothed wheels of discovery and imagination.

Some choose the chapel, others the pagoda, but for me nature, place and perspective stitch it all together. It’s all I need to know, a brilliant tapestry, intricate and dynamic … a path to why.

posted in Musings | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Patten Squire

by Gary Sanderson

What I remember most about the late Ellsworth Barnard was the day I met him and wife Mary at their forested cabin in Shelburne’s Patten District, five miles up the hill from my Greenfield Meadows home. It was back in the late 1990s, probably 1998, which would have made him 90 or 91.

I had heard about and purchased his then recent tribute to High Ledges, ”In a Wild Place,” then read it, paying particular attention to the essay about the American chestnut, its demise and the many young chestnut trees Barnard was nurturing near his idyllic West County retreat. Intrigued, I found his number in the phone book, gave him a ring and asked if it would be possible to meet him, that I wanted to see his chestnut trees and have him autograph my book. Vaguely familiar with this column, he recognized my name, knew my farmhouse and invited me up.

”Drive to the sign that says ‘No Motorized Vehicles Beyond This Point,’ and ignore it,” he instructed. ”Drive right in and you’ll arrive at my cabin in a half-mile or so. I’d like to meet you.”

In no more than an hour, I was there, snuggled up to the 4WD vehicle parked near his cabin overlooking the Deerfield River, Shelburne Falls and the Berkshire Hills, a breathtaking view, especially for someone who’s patrolled the western Franklin County hilltowns for decades.

I went to the door, knocked and was greeted by Mary Barnard, a distinguished lady, hair tightly tied back in a bird’s nest.

”Come in,” she said. ”Dutch is in the kitchen.” At least my memory tells me it was the kitchen where we sat and talked; could have been a combination kitchen/dining room, though; casual, rustic, modest furnishings, fieldstone fireplace, spectacular view to the south and west.

We sat and talked for about 15 minutes before going outside to inspect the chestnut grove. As I recall, there were maybe a dozen trees about the width of my travel mug, maybe a bit wider. As he spoke about his little forestry project, you could feel Barnard’s affection for the chestnut trees. But he was a realist. He knew they would not survive.

”They’ll get a little bigger, look perfectly healthy, then dry up and die overnight,” he lamented. ”It’s a tragedy. I keep thinking that, with time, they’ll build a resistance to the blight and make a comeback. I will not be here to witness it.”

We chatted for a little while longer before I bid him adieu and retraced my path home, never again to lay eyes on him. I did catch his January 2004 obituary, age 96, and thought back to our visit. I remembered him as a gentle, soft-spoken, simple man; professorial of tongue and appearance; fit but bent and frail from age.

I now feel as though I know him better, having recently finished his four-volume memoir, ”In Sunshine and in Shadow,” written in retirement between 1985-91. He crafts nearly 1,100 pages to chronicle his life, starting with his Patten Hill boyhood on Barnard Farm, near High Ledges, where he acquired his love of nature centered on birds and wildflowers, then moving to his education and the turbulent teaching career that followed. A fiercely independent English prof, Barnard’s loyalty was to his students, not administrators, and he paid a price for it, bouncing from institution to institution, starting and ending at UMass/Amherst.

His autobiographical journey articulates his fascinating political evolution from a dyed-in-the-wool, rural New England Republican and F.D.R. foe to a left-wing radical, enemy of the military-industrial complex that pollutes the precious air and water, hungers for war, and abuses labor. I guess that’s what reading, reflection and worldwide life experience will do to a pensive, objective human mind, one that’s willing to listen and explore.

I must admit I came away from the memoirs wishing Mr. Barnard, my neighbor in many ways, was still alive. I would have enjoyed another visit, knowing what I now know. His was a fascinating tale, one worth reading on many levels. The voice is that of a Franklin County hilltown Yankee who had developed a profound philosophical approach to life and living.

Undoubtedly, those alive who knew Dutch Barnard intimately still miss him because of what he represented — a dying breed in these troubling times of shallow Dittohead bores and contrived profiteer wars.

posted in Local history | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Stink Bait

by Gary Sanderson

By now, the stink bait must be getting pretty ripe, sun-baked in a covered, five-gallon, galvanized pail with a bail handle — what we used to call garbage cans back in the day.
If you’re confused, relax, you just aren’t familiar with catfishermen and the bait they use. Aficionados brew special bait for a catfish derby, the biggest and best of which is scheduled for this weekend, “any where on the Connecticut River and its tributaries.”
We’re talking about the Holyoke American Legion Post 351 derby, 29th annual, the granddaddy of them all, the one the best and brightest anxiously await,
affable Senior Advisor Don Partyka at the helm, throwing in his two-cents’ worth from the sidelines, early and often, all in good fun, of course. Yes sir, the “Channel Cat” is quite the boy, one of the best, an all-time jawboner, probably Hall of Fame material.
Someone ought to buy him a Derby hat for the occasion. Maybe I will. A formal one.
Myself, I have no first-hand catfishing experience. No, I have always been on the periphery, but I do vaguely recall an old Pine Nook trapper, a good one at that, brewing catfish bait from carcasses and entrails; a pungent mix that would gag you, eyes
watering, out by his backyard clothesline. Open that garbage pail and be prepared to burn off your nostril hairs, one powerful stink. I’ve smelt it and could never imagine working with the stuff, transferring it to some sort of bait can or mayonnaise jar, and then
actually handling it to bait the hook. I guess old Trapper Teddy employed rubber gloves, which solved one problem, that of odor and bacteria on his hands, but who would want to deal with the stench every time they opened the container along the river’s bank? Phew! Maybe Trapper Teddy brought nose plugs to address the issue. All I can say is: Deep-fried catfish must be delicious, given what a man has to go through to catch them; off the bottom, of course, attracting them with a stench that would curl your hair and turn your tummy.
Trapper Ted used to say “the riper, the better” when it came to catfishing. I believed him. He knew what he was doing, whether running a ridge, chasing through swamps, or working a trap-line, upland or down. They don’t make any like him anymore; a
throwback from way back when I knew him; more than capable of making ends meet.
Anyway, Trapper Teddy’s long gone by now, probably resting at Pine Nook Cemetery, a good thing for competitors at this weekend’s derby. He would have been a tough man to deal with at such a gig. Having grown up on a large dairy farm bordered on the east
by the Connecticut River, Teddy learned to fish for catfish on lantern-lit nights, convivial occasions, of course. In fact, maybe the liquid refreshments helped him cope with the unpleasant odor accompanying his leisure activity; probably stimulated conversation,
too; kinda Huck Finn-Tom Sawyer stuff, plenty of ribbing, practical joking and horsing around away from the watchful eye of the, ah, authorities. Which is not to suggest that’s what happens today, in this more refined, homogenized culture. Uh-uh. We’re talking
about a little more law and order nowadays. No, a lot more; increased enforcement, too. Rules and regs. Gotta have ’em. Soon they’ll probably have surveillance cameras watching from the heavens, if they’re not already up there spying, Big Brother style. My
GPS unit says they’re already there, observing from the heavens. But let’s not digress. Some people welcome that kind of stuff, sing heartfelt praise. So, with that … back to the 29th annual Catfish Derby, Don’s Derby.

The good thing is that with Trapper Ted out of the picture, everyone will have a fair shot. But be advised that the old guy will be looking over the shoulder of anyone fishing his stretch of the Connecticut, and he’s not bashful; never was, always more than willing to
tell anyone who’s listening that they’re a stupid SOB who doesn’t have a clue. I heard it said hundreds of times, to me and many others.
It was no joke. Teddy meant every word he said. Spared no one.

posted in Columns | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

A Better Way?

by Gary Sanderson

A large, plump crescent moon slumped lazily on end just above the Shelburne hills, leaning slightly northward like a giant overripe cantaloupe wedge in the hot, hazy western sky as I drove home from work late Tuesday night. I’m not sure whether its wry grin, mellow orange hue or both got my nostalgic juices flowing, but something stimulated thought about a phone call I had taken a day or two earlier, then immediately transported me back to an untethered youth in that village first called Bloody Brook, then South Deerfield, then, in the Polish-spiced vernacular, Sowdeeeerfeel — the Onion Town, poor sister of The (haughty) Street.

Isn’t it odd how a force of nature like that sultry summer moon can in an instant carry you back a generation and spin your imaginative gears like the chime wheel on a noontime tall clock?

It wasn’t the reported ”mountain goats” that sent me off reminiscing. No, not at all. That was just the updraft that lifted me high above my native town to the North Sugarloaf ridge where they have been seen of late, poking in and out of the ridgeline vegetation above the rusty sandstone cliffs, presumably feeding. A longtime friend and former lightning-rod town official was my source. He said he was sick of the big-cat yarns and had one stitched of a similar thread to share.

It seems he’s been using backyard binoculars to observe the pair of white wayward goats patrolling the North Sugarloaf spine since Memorial Day, but has been reluctant to talk about it for fear of the suspicions that could spread like wildfire in a small town like his. When he first noticed them more than a month ago, he picked up visual white movement that immediately piqued his interest. After all, he’d lived in town all his life and never seen anything like it: white quadrupeds throughout the day between the cliffs and the shelf cave we often visited as prepubescents many years ago, more than we like to admit. Back then we had it good, free rein of a magical hardwood ridge that has apparently become quite public in recent years, bikers and hikers galore working the trails that begin off Hillside Road.

I was thinking back to those days of boyhood bliss and found it sad that my youthful Huckleberry Finn haunts will never be the same. They weren’t there for my boys, and they won’t be for my precious grandson, Jordan, with his inquisitive grey-blue eyes, joyful gait, curiosity oozing from his pores. Now that special place has been discovered by adults, who bring with them the law-and-order crowd bent on eliminating ”mischief.” Today, such authority figures would surely pursue free-roaming boys of Mark Twain fabric to teach them young that there are rules to be followed, and enforced. Possession of things like matches, cigarettes and fireworks, hunting or jack knives, girlie mags and BB guns are today taboo, certainly punishable by, at the very least, stifling probationary scrutiny aimed toward the path to conformity.

Such enforcers were of a different ilk in my day, when they were the kid next door’s dad, probably veterans of either the European or Pacific theaters, definitely clear-headed on the difference between kid’s stuff and crime. Back then you could carry a pocket knife that wasn’t a deadly weapon, carve initials into a tree that weren’t interpreted as criminal ”tagging,” and step out of a storm and into an abandoned shed or barn without being charged for trespassing. You could even build a spacious fort in a dense white-pine grove without facing charges for destruction of personal property. Yes indeed, times have changed, and not necessarily for the better. But let’s not digress. It’s goats we’re talking about, isn’t it; white goats on the North Sugarloaf ridge? Oh yeah, now it’s coming back to me.

Whew!

It only took one phone call to a dear old friend to confirm the Sugarloaf goats’ presence. Praise the wonders of cell phones when you know the source you’re hunting is at work, probably somewhere deep in the Whately Glen reservation. He’s a part-time police officer, has been for many years, and I knew he’d have information. Fact was he hadn’t heard a word about goats this year, but did remember reports from last summer, so they’ve been around for a while. He had no idea where they came from. Maybe wild by now. Possibly escaped from the experimental UMass farm on River Road. Maybe from the private citizen who keeps penned goats off Hillside Road. Unlikely that either party would just set them loose to roam free, though. Could they survive the winter? He didn’t think so, but he didn’t rule it out.

Maybe someone who reads this will come forward and explain what’s happening on North Sugarloaf. Maybe the goats follow hikers and bikers around like pets. Maybe they run away. Who knows? Someone must.

Then again, maybe it’s the simple case of an owner who eats goat meat and prefers the free-range variety, kind of like Whole Foods, or the olden days when pigs were allowed to roam free in the woods around the Boston Township forts. There was enough wild food available then and now. If so, the beasts are probably happy to be free from barbed-wire containment on a beautiful ridge to roam, many nuts and berries, beautiful vista. I know. I enjoyed my boyhood freedom there. So did my pals. No supervision, no high-and-tight rules and regs. Just a band of free-range kids in the Mark Twain mold who grew up with the devil in their eyes, exuding personality, independence and, later, a healthy distrust of government — all undesirable qualities in today’s cookie-cutter America of decaying schools, expansive malls, standardized tests, and an alarming number of new spit-shined prisons.

A better way?

Uh-ah!

Not in my mind.

posted in South Deerfield | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Old Hickory

by Gary Sanderson

A skunky summer it has been. Skunks everywhere. Night and day. Seriously.
I’ve been living with these pesky omnivores and their piercing odor for weeks. In fact, as I sit at the keyboard, the stench wafts from my fingers and red golf shirt, both victims of an otherwise uneventful walk with the dogs Tuesday night; out by the brook, after work, midnight approaching, soggy. Skunks seem to like rainy weather for some reason, perhaps the fresh green growth it stimulates, and so do Springer Spaniels, because scent is enhanced in still, damp air and Springers are all nose. Anyway, the stink on my fingers, washed many wasted times with detergent, came from the Tri-Tronics collars my animals wear. The shirt stench came from the box-stall scent-bomb Bessie slept in. The fresh dose of skunk juice on her head and neck filled the enclosed, muggy space, permeating my cotton shirt and probably my People’s Pint cap in a saturating second. When I returned to the scene Wednesday morning, a powerful smell remained, not eye-watering, but strong. So here I sit, alone, sporting skunk scent and bothering no one. I won’t drag it to work with me. Promise.
It all happened so fast on my nightly routine; went to the kennel, let Lily and Bessie out, and Bess sprinted to the alcove between barn and woodshed, then directly under the barn and into the cavernous cellar, interesting nooks and crannies everywhere. By the time I whistled her back — phew! — another direct hit to the face, pungent film covering her
green, plastic collar … second time this summer, Lily once. Bessie knew that skunk was there, trust me. It must have been tormenting her, kenneled in the back yard. And, oh, how she sprinted to get it before returning to roll and scrape her way across the wet
lawn, trying unsuccessfully to rid her face, head and neck of the spicy scent. It’s still there, although it doesn’t seem to bother her much. As for me, well, I could do without it but can live with it as well. Country living. She’ll carry it around for days. Then
it’ll disappear until the next dustup, a near certainty given what I’ve seen so far.
The fact is that my kenneled dogs have been watching backyard skunks for weeks now. The little critters seem to love it under my barn, in it or in the woodshed. I long ago moved my cat food to keep the varmints away. Come to think of it, wasn’t I just writ
ing about this issue last year at this time, after Bessie discovered her first white-striped puty cat with that hot, smelly wallop? Yeah, it was last year at this time.
I remember it well. That was when old Robert Remillard from Northfield called at 8 a.m., maybe earlier, with personal advice about washing away the spray of what he called “wood pussy,” because skunks are so similar to and get along so well with domestic
cats. Being a lover of the vernacular tongue, I enjoyed his description, one I had never before heard and will not forget. I still tease his grandson at work from time to time, calling him “Ole Wood Pussy.” He takes it in stride, just grins and keeps walking.
But back to that brief, sleepy-eyed, morning chat with Mr. Remillard, I remember how it transported me back to the ’60s and another “rural remedy” for skunk problems, this one from an old Hawley character. I only remember him only as Peewee. He had sold
a small, brookside, hardscrabble farmhouse off the road behind Berkshire East — then Thunder Mountain — to my Uncle Ralph. We were getting ready for winter, stacking wood in the shed off the kitchen, and Peewee was helping. Maybe he even
delivered the wood. I can’t rememeber. Those ’60s were tough on the memory, if you know what I mean, and I wasn’t spared … thank heavens.
When my uncle told Peewee skunks had been raiding the trash around the house and woodshed, the old-timer smiled like he expected it. He pointed to an old ax or maul handle leaning in the corner; said that’s why he left it handy, for skunks; hedgehogs, too; both easy targets. He walked over to the worn hickory weapon and picked it up like he owned it, then demon strated his homespun technique on a hemlock chopping block. The trick was to get the skunk comfort able in your presence, feed it if you had to, preferably
sardines, which smell strong and draw it. Then, as it eats, you’d just raise the long, narrow handle slowly and, with a flick of your wrist, plunk it down with a heavy thud, like a hammer, right between the eyes; knocks it dead as a doornail, never knows what hit it and doesn’t spray, either. But you had to know what you were doing. He impressed that upon us.
I must admit I’ve never tried it myself, and doubt my uncle ever did. In fact, I sometimes wonder if old Peewee ever did it, himself, the rascal. But I suspect he did. Talk about old school, that was Peewee. I wonder how many are left? Probably none. He was a
dying breed then, a country bumpkin with cheap, practical solutions to everyday issues. And now that his type has vanished, varmints are everywhere, even places where they’ve become quite a nuisance.
As for me, well, I guess I’ll now just sit back and brace for PETA letters to flood the paper with complaints about the audacity of an outdoor writer promoting cruelty to animals in black and white. Irresponsible, they will call it; me, of all people.
But when you think of it, wasn’t it better in Peewee’s day, not that long ago?
To me, it was … in more ways than I can print.

posted in Columns, The Dogs | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Hilltown Spin

by Gary Sanderson

A while back during that invigorating January thaw, shady midday thermometer creeping toward 60, my hunting buddy and I decided to poke along through our tranquil northern hills, just looking for stuff. We weren’t far from Vermont, and the roads and bare southern exposures had the soggy suggestion of our northern neighbor in April, premature mud season in a northern Franklin County hilltown.

I had to drop my aging Toyota pickup into 4-wheel to get through one uphill rut-hole before taking a right, down a dead end, to check an orchard. Sure enough, a doe feeding on apples. She picked up her head, froze, looked straight at the vehicle and bound off as I banged a U-ie. Then we headed up the road to what had appeared all fall and early winter to be a worn, unoccupied Federal farmhouse at the dirt-road T. Come to find out, it wasn’t vacant a’tall, judging from the burly, gray-haired, coverall-clad man loading cordwood into the bucket on the front of his tractor. Good day to drop a few loads of wood through the cellar window to the furnace.

Curious and congenial under the spell of false spring, I hit the brakes, came to a stop, backed up a bit, nosed into the gravel driveway behind the tractor, departed the truck, and walked around the tractor to shoot the breeze. We wanted to chat with the man who owns the hills we sometimes hunt, has manicured them for a lifetime and, in the vernacular, knows them like the back of his hand.

We introduced ourselves and got right into it, meandering from subject to subject like a meadow brook flowing from riffle to corner pool. We talked about the land, old roads, streams and pastures; neighbors, history and family; immersed ourselves in good old-fashioned backcountry conversation stimulated by the same balmy air that had undoubtedly drawn the man to his chore.

Affable, the man imparted wisdom with a Yankee twang reminiscent of my late aunt Gladys, a spinster born before the turn of the 20th century. He wasn’t that old. Not even close. But he spoke the tongue of old-time rural New England, a charming dialect I’m quite familiar with, and happen to adore.

When we got onto the subject of deer, his interest rose like a flapjack on a hot griddle, bacon fat, of course. He didn’t care what the experts said, there aren’t the deer there used to be when he and his hunting party always had 12 hanging in the downhill shed by the third day of shotgun season, salubrious winter fare to fatten the family freezer. Then, 10 years ago, the deer disappeared. It’s improved a bit the past few years. The deer are coming back. But still, nothing like the old days.

Bears? Well, that’s another story. The man never saw a bear the first 50 years on his peaceful upland farm. Times have changed. Now they’re common. Turkeys, too. They showed up in the ’70s and have spread like multiflora rose ever since. Even moose have migrated south and taken residence, no longer a rare sight. But there aren’t the deer there once were regardless of what you read in the paper.

I took heed. You can’t beat straight talk from an old-time hilltown agronomist with no hidden agenda, or reason to fib. He was just telling it like it is, like it was, like the wildlife-science Ph.D. drawing a fat government paycheck doesn’t want to hear it. I know who to believe, and it ain’t the guy who stayed up all night in some barren, windowless corner to memorize facts, ace multiple-choice exams and get that piece of paper worthy of a giltwood frame, often fools’ gold.

Our conversation drifted to the economy, the cost of living, the price of cordwood. The farmer remembered when a cord went for 15 bucks. Now some are getting 200 and a friend says he can’t make a living at that price, which didn’t make much sense to him. He believed he could make a living at $200. But then, thinking on his feet, he quickly pulled it all into perspective. Simple math told him 100 cords would bring $20,000. Where does that get you today? Not far with the price of gas and heating oil; milk, bread, eggs and cheese, the staples. He delved deeper, figuring those fancy-pants city slickers making $100,000 a year could make a comfortable go of it. But there’s no one making that in his tiny world. Not even close, except maybe lurking real estate men.

That’s when I interjected with some flatland logic. I tried to tell him 100,000 bucks doesn’t get a family where it once did, not with a mortgage, two cars, bills, bills, bills. Even with two paychecks and a supplemental income, you fight to get by, living from check to check trying to feed and clothe the kids, keep them away from the dirty, dreadful, decaying dropout factories, a step or two away from the sparkling hilltop jail.

Bemused, he looked at me through a sun-splashed squint that suggested disagreement. Huh? Can’t make a go of it on $100,000? Must be those people don’t know how to add water to their oatmeal.

Wow!

That comment hit me like lilac scent wafting through the porch in a soft, warm breeze. Country wisdom is what they call it. Homespun stuff, better than anything you can learn from a book, or at the county jail. Maybe someone ought to explain that to the judge sentencing a harmless pothead.

We bade each other farewell before my friend and I headed for the truck to continue our ride to the ridge behind the man’s northern line. As we descended toward his lower meadow and climbed the dirt road to a neighbor’s farmstead — muddy driveway, cordwood stacked neatly, faded red sheds and barns, jagged driftwood gray along the bottom — I wanted to discuss the insightful barnyard conversation that had just transpired on the crest of that gentle hill overlooking the faraway fertile valley. I hoped my companion had appreciated as much as I our short, pleasant visit.

This hilltown squire — maybe a high school grad, perhaps not, but does it really matter — isolated in a slice of paradise known as upper Franklin County, had oozed wisdom you can’t buy at the academy. He knew exactly who he was and understood that profound sense of place formed by generations of continuous inhabitance. He could show you all his boundaries, the ancient corners, every rusty barbed-wire snare concealed on the forest floor; all the ancient hardwoods, outcroppings and boulders, the landmarks, the bubbling springs to sample and not.

Developers won’t destroy his family’s jewel, built on blood and sweat and thrifty Yankee acumen. Not a chance. He’s already taken care of that.

Sure, he likely votes the law-and-order ticket and believes in its bogeymen. But don’t expect to find him sitting at a cheesy, plastic, Wal-Mart table chawin’ on cheese dawgs, tubed filth scraped from a slaughterhouse floor. He knows better. What’d those Waltons ever do for him?

Sadly, the man’s a dying breed, vanishing from our landscape like the majestic elms and the dairies they sheltered in summer shade. When he and his ilk are gone, what’ll be left? A troubling thought; troubling indeed. Our foundation is crumbling, caving to the center. All that’ll be left is mossy rubble in a sunken depression.

Not a pleasant thought.

Horrid, in fact.

posted in Musings | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Lost and Found

by Gary Sanderson

There was cause for concern and I could feel it in my hollow chest cavity, like the accelerated heartbeats were exiting my windpipe. Not a great feeling.

The wheels were spinning wildly. Had the mother removed it from the litter and hidden it elsewhere in the stable? If so, why? Was it sick? Dead? How else would a two-week old male pup, eyes opened for about a day, disappear from its whelping pen?

It had been a few days since I decided to give Lily some “space” by taking the three pups out of the 50-gallon box-stall drum in which they had been born, transferring them to a secure whelping pen placed in the back corner and leaving the box-stall door open, giving Lily free reign in the contained stables, six stalls, four open. The four-foot-square, portable, wooden pen would give the pups room to develop their legs, while the open box stall allowed Lily to get away, monitor her pups from afar and tend to them upon request. She seemed comfortable with the arrangement, choosing the back of an open stall some 15 feet from the box stall for her down time, always listening for the call of hungry pups.

Sometimes when I entered the stables Lily, snuggled behind stuffed chairs covered in storage, would appear at the mouth of the open stall, tail wagging, happy to see me; other times, I’d hear her stir, hop the whelping-pen wall and walk the runway toward me, ready for brief respite during a hilltop hayfield romp.

The last time I had seen the three English springer spaniel pups, born midday June 2, had been around noon, plump and healthy, tangled in a cozy slumber pile. One, a liver-and-white female, had opened its eyes two days earlier, the other two, both white and liver —male and female — had popped theirs open a day later; so all three were experiencing a bright new world in clouded color. I had entered the stables with Lily after returning from the hayfield, she checked her pups over the 18-inch walls and followed me toward the front door, which I exited, leaving her behind, confident all were safe and sound.

Later that day, just after Tiger failed to catch an unknown Argentine down the stretch of the U.S. Open, a glorious development in my world, I decided to feed my two mature dogs and check on the pups. Entering the front stable door, Lily was standing calmly at the threshold, wagging half-excitedly. She followed me up the runway toward the box stalls at the rear and we took a right turn toward the side door, which I opened, releasing her into the yard. We both headed for the kennel by the brook, me walking gingerly on a irritated left knee, she running to greet her buddy Ringo, or, as I usually say it for verbal effect, “her buddy Bingo.” You know, it’s all about the hard Bs.

When I reached the chain-link kennel and released Ringo, both dogs ran into the soothing brook, walking downstream, knee-deep, taking occasional drinks. Lily took a moment to lie on her belly and slurp drinks while enjoying the cool, free-flowing Green River tributary that bubbles out of some upland marsh in Shelburne’s Patten District. Finished drinking, she stood, water dripping from her swollen nipples, and shook a rainstorm before joining Ringo on the trail of something wild along the opposite bank, a temporary diversion.

Wagner No. 8 in hand, I entered the shaded, brook-side cook shed, opened a plastic container where I store the Iams, dumped a scoop-and-a-quarter into the skillet, walked it back to the kennel, placed it in the dirt floor and gave the dogs a sharp whistle that brought them quickly. Ringo new the drill, saw the skillet and came willingly. Lily followed, sniffed around the mouth of the cedar-floored 50-gallon drum she’s slept in so many times, and followed me back to the barn and her pup.

It was when we re-entering the box-stall home of the young pups that I discovered my crisis. To my astonishment, one pup was missing. A quick inspection told me it was the male. How could it be?

I watched Lily to see if she’d lead me to her missing pup; no such look. So I went on a search mission, pondering all the possibilities, some good, others dreadful. The first place I checked was the open stall Lily had been using. I squeezed past a covered stuffed chair and inspected the floor space behind it. No pup. Hmmmm? I leaned the chair back on its back legs and looked underneath. Still nothing. Perplexing indeed. Where had it gone?

I repeated the search in the other three open stalls, peeling back the sheets and blankets protecting chairs and tables, shifting old barrels and lumber piles, leaning an old four-panel door away from the wall. Still nothing visible or audible, it was time for a reassessment. Could it be wedged into a crack or hidden hole in the floor? Had it slipped through a space in the floor and fallen through into the cellar? Surely doubtful, yet not out of the question. The more I thought, the more I worried.

Pressed for time with work beckoning, I went into the house and calmly told my wife about the development. A pup was missing. Speaking to her brother on the phone, she promptly ended the conversation and accompanied me back to the stables to resume the search, she more alarmed than I.

We re-entered the stable, passed two open stalls on the left, flipped the light switch on the opposite wall and went directly to the open box stall and whelping pen. We looked at the two remaining pups in their pen and I reached down to stir the deep cedar shavings on the floor with my forefinger, making sure the missing male wasn’t covered in the corner. No dice. So I stood, backed off a bit and glanced down by chance, catching something white out of the corner of my eye wedged into the tight space between the pen and the stall’s east wall. Upon closer inspection, sure enough, the male pup sleeping peacefully. Relieved, I reached down, slid the pen’s corner away from the wall a foot or so to create space, picked the pup up and reunited it with its littermates.

In my first quick assessment after discovering a pup was missing, one scenario I had not considered was that it had escaped the whelping pen on its own. It was beyond my imagination that a two-week-old puppy, eyes open a day or less, could climb onto the protective, six-inch, footed platform surrounding the inner border of the pen, get its feet into the open doorway, again a good six inches above the platform, and tumble over the side to freedom.

The thought of the whole ordeal lit my face with a soft grin. Do you think that dog will hunt? Was it ever a question? With national-champions from the U.S., Canada and Great Britain behind both dam and sire, you can bet your house and all chattels on it.

But now, less than three weeks into litter, I have issues. My plan was to keep a female and carry Ringo’s pedigree forward. That could change. Maybe I’ll take inquisitive male.

Time will tell.

posted in The Dogs | No Comments

Jul
18
2009

Summer Buck

by Gary Sanderson

It’s pushing toward dusk on a pleasant summer evening and I’m returning from my nightly trip to the top of the hill where I run my dogs. I round the corner and approach the scalped, lime-green hayfield where the bales had been removed earlier in the day. There it stood — a solitary, erect, tawny deer, side profile, head turned and staring me square in the eyes from some 70 yards away. Cruising slowly, I let up on the gas pedal a bit to get a better look and can clearly decipher the three-inch velvet nubs sprouting inside his vertical ears, full alert. Sure enough, a buck soon to be grazing under The Full Buck Moon.

Also called the Full Thunder or Full Hay Moon, the full moon of July is more commonly known as the Buck Moon because bucks’ new antlers typically push through their foreheads coated of velvety fur this month. The antlers will be fully grown by September, when the bucks will rub saplings and larger immature trees in the forest to scrape off the velvet to a rock-hard sheen.

This particular animal, wearing it’s reddish summer coat, didn’t look particularly large, although it’s difficult to tell when it’s standing alone in a scalped hayfield bordering an infant silage cornfield that provide nothing to compare it to visually. But it’ll be interesting to follow the development of this animal, which will be seen again, and again, and again on my twice-daily trips.

I believe I’ve now seen this animal thrice; once crossing the road in front of me at midmorning, again standing behind a thin sumac stand in an open field, again at midmorning, then last week. What drew my attention to him the first time and twice since was the fact that he’s always been alone, not in a small herd as does most often appear. I’ll clearly see him again, probably alone, now that his antlers will allow me to differentiate between him and the does I more often encounter.

He may turn out to be a spikehorn, maybe even a 6- or 8-pointer by the time he becomes fair game. Perhaps he’s the pronghorn I missed with a slug in the blackening woods last December. Who knows? But this much we know for a fact: the animal’s made it through at least one hunting season so far, and the longer he survives, the tougher he’ll be to hunt without the aid of the Rutting Moon, which whittles away at a buck’s innate cautious skills.

posted in Columns | No Comments

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