Category Archives: Sense of place

Local history

Sometimes you find the best stories in local histories. In The Meetinghouse on the Green: A History of First Parish in Concord [Massachusetts], Eric Smith tells a story about Elmer Joslin, who was both a member of First Parish in Concord and the Superintendent of Roads in Bridges for the Town of Concord:

“In days past, the Concord dump was open seven days a week. There was no nonsense then about a sanitary landfill. A column of smoke by day, a glow of flame by night, and a warm enduring odor floating down the wind, the dump was a center of social life, especially on Sundays. This happy situation ended in the 1950s. The dump was closed on Sundays, obliging all residents who worked out of town to bring their offerings on Saturdays. The resultant traffic jams were not conducive to socializing. Why did this happen?

“Allegedly Dr. Daniels, then the [Unitarian] minister, facing a small congregation one Sunday morning, announced that he would hold his service at the dump on the following Sunday, as he presumed that most of his parishioners would then be there. Elmer was in church and was heard to mutter that no such event would take place. Accordingly he closed the dump on Sundays thereafter, thus outraging some Episcopalians who, like the Unitarians, patronized the dump on the Lord’s Day.” [p. 263]

And now, as Paul Harvey used to say, the rest of the story: That dump was finally filled and closed, and they built a new high school on top of it, the high school which my sisters and I attended. The new dump was built a little further down the same road, which placed it between a highway and a trailer park, just down the street from Walden Pond. The new dump served as a social center up through the 1990s; it was also a sure place to find various gulls during the annual Christmas Bird Count.

Alas, the Concord dump was closed for good when the Thoreau-followers complained about its proximity to Walden Pond, although I suspect Henry Thoreau would have liked it because it was a good place to scrounge free stuff. (If you sneak under the gate you’ll find it’s still a good place to go birding, though.)

Heard on the street

There are men sitting on the steps of the homeless shelter across the street from my office window, and every now and then I catch snippets of their conversation:

[Two newcomers walk down the street to join the group.]
“Now there’s a pair that beats a full house!”
[This is a phrase I used to hear when I worked at the lumber company.]

A: [Singing] “Take me down to the…”
B: “Put up the volume, put up the volume.”
A: [Singing] “Won’t you please take me home…”
B: “Now, remember now, people sing on the street.”

A: “I got my money, I got my money.”
B: “Oh, shut up.”

(I’m trying to write this week’s sermon, and it is not going well. I had to write these snippets down to get them out of my inner ear, in order to concentrate on hearing the sermon.)

Patriot’s Day and Universalism

By April 20, 1775, His Majesty’s regular troops had retreated from the towns west of Boston by the colonial militia companies. Nonetheless, more colonial militia companies continued to pour into the Concord and Lexington area for some days; when they arrived in Concord and Lexington they learned that the Redcoats had gone to Boston, and many of them continued on and participated in the engagements that culminated in the battle of Bunker Hill. One such company came all the way from the newly settled Massachusetts town of Warwick, and Caleb Rich was one of their number. Supposedly, Rich actually stood on Lexington Green a little more than 24 hours after the skirmish there.

Rich was one of the early Universalist preachers in North America. Beginning in 1772, Rich had experienced a number of visions and dramatic insights that were leading him towards a universalist theological position. In 1773, he was expelled from the Warwick Baptist Church as a heretic, and, with his two brothers and some others, formed a new religious society. This new religious society became an early Universalist church by about 1778; so while Rich wasn’t exactly a Universalist in 1775, he was only three years away from being one. Rich was later instrumental in converting Hosea Ballou, the greatest American Universalist theologian, to Universalism.

Thus, a proto-Universalist preacher missed participating in the Battle of Concord and Lexington by one day.

April 19

Patriot’s Day, the Massachusetts holiday that commemorates the April 19, 1775, Battle of Concord and Lexington, is a big deal in Concord, Massachusetts. I was born in Concord, and lived there for forty years, and Patriot’s Day is still a big deal to me. Patriot’s Day is now celebrated on the Monday following the real day, but no matter. When I was a kid, the parade and the re-enactment of the battle took place on April 19. It really was a big deal: cannon and muskets firing, guys walking around in funny clothes, and us kids running around trying to find the best place to see the Redcoats.

So in commemoration of my favorite holiday of the whole year, here’s Ralph Waldo Emerson’s 1837 poem, often called the Concord Hymn, about the events of April 19 (with my commentary in italics after each stanza):

(Sung to Old 100th.)

  By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
  Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled;
  Here once the embattled farmers stood;
  And fired the shot heard round the world.

According to the Dolittle prints of 1775, the bridge came up a little in the middle but it’s a stretch to say it arched. The flag carried by the Minutemen and militia-men was the Bedford flag, not the stars and stripes. Not all the militia were farmers, though most were; rather than embattled, they were really the attackers in this skirmish. And the good folks of Lexington would argue that one of their shots, fired several hours earlier in the first skirmish of the day-long battle, was the shot heard ’round the world.

  The foe long since in silence slept;
  Alike the conqueror silent sleeps,
  And Time the ruined bridge has swept
  Down the dark stream that seaward creeps.

A number of His Majesty’s troops died at the site of the bridge, and today the approximate location of their graves is marked. The bridge washed out in a spring flood a few years after the battle. The Concord River is indeed dark from tannin.

  On this green bank, by this soft stream,
  We set to-day a votive stone,
  That memory may their deeds redeem,
  When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

The monument of 1837 was set up on the side of the bridge defended by His Majesty’s troops. Not until 1875 was a monument put up on the side of the river commanded by the colonials — the famous Minuteman statue, by Unitarian sculptor and Concord native Daniel Chester French.

  O Thou who made those heroes dare
  To die, and leave their children free, —
  Bid Time and Nature gently spare
  The shaft we raised to them and Thee.

No comment needed, only shed a tear for those who died on both sides of the conflict.

The creeping crud

They’re calling it “the creeping crud” — the upper respiratory ailment that has afflicted so many people around here this winter. Yesterday I was talking with someone who has the creeping crud, and he said his doctor told him to expect it to last ten to twelve weeks; that is, if you take care of yourself, because if you don’t take care of yourself, the creeping crud creeps right back into your system.

Take me as an example of what the creeping crud can do to someone who doesn’t take care of himself. I came down with a vague upper respiratory ailment at the end of October, which lingered for twelve weeks or so. I finally got rid of it in mid-January — or so I thought — I felt great, got lots of outdoors exercise, cleaned the apartment, and — started overworking again. The creeping crud crept back into my lungs in early February, I developed bronchitis, and eleven weeks later I’m just starting to feel somewhat better.

At First Unitarian, we actually saw a significant dip in attendance in the worship service and in the Sunday school throughout February — that’s how prevalent the creeping crud has been in this part of the world. One of the television news shows claimed in February that half the population of Massachusetts had upper respiratory ailments. Supposedly health care providers are saying this is the worst they’ve ever seen it.

More eventful than usual

Carol and I went for a walk late this afternoon. It was a dreary gray day. We were on Pope’s Island heading across the bridge towards Fairhaven when we noticed a police car parked in the middle of the bridge. A police officer was standing in the sidewalk gesturing for us to cross to the sidewalk on the other side of the bridge; he was standing behind some of that yellow tape the police use to block off crime scenes.

As we stood there waiting for a break in the four lanes of traffic so we could cross to the other sidewalk, Carol told me that what she had read on the Web site of the New Bedford Standard-Times: that yesterday evening someone had seen someone walking along the bridge carrying a rope; that later police had found an empty noose tied to the railing of the bridge; that police divers were searching the water under the bridge.

As we passed the place where the police car was parked, another New Bedford police car pulled up. And a uniformed police officer sat on a dock over on our side of the bridge. “They must still have divers in the water,” said Carol.

When we got to Fairhaven, we turned down Middle Street. In the parking lot of the Fairhaven VFW, we saw four black-and-white Fairhaven police cars, one unmarked car with its blue lights flashing, a state police car, and several other cars. There were two tripods with video cameras standing on the sidewalk, and there was a man with a video camera on his shoulder further in the parking lot. There were perhaps thirty or forty bystanders spread out around the VFW parking lot: a couple standing on the porch of one of the apartments on the left, several people standing on the sidewalk in front, several more standing around the liquor store to the right of the VFW, and even more people standing on Bridge Street on the other side of the liquor store.

We had no idea what had happened, but it was pretty obvious that nothing was really going on any more. When we got back home, the Standard-Times Web site had a brief story: at 10:40 p.m. yesterday evening, police responded to a large fight somewhere around Bridge, Main, and Middle Streets (the Standard-Times reported that the fight took place at “the intersection of Middle and Main Streets,” but Middle and Main parallel each other). Three men received serious knife wounds; one of those died this morning after being flown to Beth Israel Hospital in Boston.

But we didn’t know all this until we returned home. We walked past the VFW and down to the harbor so I could look at some ducks. “They’re Buffleheads,” said Carol, while I was still trying to figure out what kind of ducks they were. “You’re right,” I said, “but I thought you didn’t like birding.” She smirked and said, “Yup, but I can see better than you.”

Then we walked home, past the people standing around the Fairhaven VFW, past the two police cars on the bridge to Pope’s Island, and then around the little park on the south side of Pope’s Island. “What’s that!” said Carol. A hawk flew clumsily away from us, keeping low to the ground. It reappeared on the other side of a big clump of rose bushes. Carol pointed to a big pile of feathers. “It caught a pigeon,” I said. “Let’s see if we can sneak up behind it and figure out what kind of hawk it is.”

We walked quietly around the clump of rose bushes, and there was the hawk sitting on the ground staring back at us: brown back, about the size of a crow, probably an immature Cooper’s Hawk. I thought it would immediately fly away when it saw us, but it didn’t. Then I saw the bright red in between its feet: it was clutching the carcass of the dead pigeon. No wonder the hawk had flown so clumsily away from us; no wonder it didn’t fly away while we were staring at it; it was holding on to its dinner. We watched the hawk for a minute or two, but it obviously wasn’t going to start eating again until we went away.

We walked on home. The sun came out as we walked across the swing span bridge onto Fish Island. We stopped to talk to someone we know; we waved to Russell at the Fish Island gas station. It was a more eventful walk than usual.

Spring watch

At 6:30, I finally made the last phone call of the day and headed out for a walk. I figured I had half an hour before it got dark. I walked briskly, not paying too much attention to anything except walking.

Looking down from the pedestrian bridge over Route 18, the man running past the Wharfinger Building on Fisherman’s Wharf looked like John. He wasn’t wearing John’s usual bright yellow Cheerios hat, though, so it couldn’t be John. Only a handful of people run regularly down along the waterfront, and briefly I wondered if another runner had moved into our neighborhood.

As i walked down the spiral ramp that leads from the pedestrian bridge to the wharf, I met John running up. “John!” I said. “You’re not wearing your Cheerios hat!”

“I know,” he said. “I thought it was much warmer than it really is.”

Yesterday was warm and sunny, but today the clouds moved in and it got chilly. I was wearing my big winter coat; John was wearing a long-sleeved jersey and shorts. He looked cold. “Yeah,” I said, “it’s cold today.”

He didn’t linger, but headed on home.

Looking south

On the walk back home, I started to feel that a cup of coffee and a doughnut might not be a bad idea, so I bought a newspaper and a magazine and stopped in at Dunkin Donuts. A middle-aged woman stood at the cash register talking with a young woman. The young woman was saying: I believed him when he told me that I was no good…; the sentence faded out as I walked up to the counter. A young woman behind the counter came up and said to me, Can I help you? The middle-aged woman said: You don’t have to believe that, honey. Don’t believe what he told you. The young woman who had first been talking glanced at me, but I studiously ignored her, and the middle-aged woman, and said: Could I have a medium decaf black no sugar please. The middle-aged woman said, You’re not still with him, are you. No, said the young woman. The middle-aged woman began moving away from the counter, saying: Keep talking honey, I just have to head to the bathroom. The young woman tried to keep talking for a minute, but that was really the end of their conversation.

I paid for my coffee and doughnut, and sat down to read the newspaper. The middle-aged woman sat down at the table nearest the front windows that look south, out across Route 6 towards the New Bedford Marina. I read an article in the magazine. The morning sun gave way to high thin clouds. I stood up to go. In the winter, when there are no boats at the marina, there is nothing to block the view: you can stand inside Dunkin Donuts and see the lighthouse on Palmer Island, and the hurricane barrier, and through the entrance in the hurricane barrier you can see out into Buzzard’s Bay, and maybe glimpse the Elizabeth Islands in the distance; and the sky looks huge, and the whole world looks amazing and bright; even the trash blowing across Route 6 is incredible.