Meat and Potatoes:Then and Now

The social welfare system as we know it, has evolved from the early days in the mid-nineteenth century when the shifting of responsibility for the poor transferred from local to county and then to the state. The ongoing burden of caring for the poor was greatly alleviated when (wealthy) churches and fraternal organizations stepped up to the plate. Instead of dumping the poor, feeble minded, elderly and low level criminals together in the almshouses and poor farms; orphanages and nursing homes for the old emerged.

This transformation seemed natural, but all it did was transfer the heavy, ever growing load from one shoulder to the other. There is no purpose in listing all of the woes of this tragically flawed system; however, there is one thing that remains certain throughout time. The system is corrupt. The irony of working on the “Poor Farm” is that the inmates were often malnourished, hungry and overworked.

The effectiveness of the “Poor Farms” is that the people who were sentenced to poverty – unable to pay their debts – actually cultivated the land. They did something productive for a (often leaky) roof over their heads, meals lacking in nourishment and to surrender all of their possessions. There was something tangible at the end of a season, which was the result of their backbreaking labor. Unfortunately, corruption and abuse of power caused this particular public farm system to collapse, leading to the rampant use, misuse and abuse of food stamps.

The harvests from “Poor Farms” were not limited to crops alone; I know that the Carroll County Farm also managed, cut and sold firewood. This pooling together of collective resources could offer a way to recover from our current lack thereof. Land, once abundant with riches indigenous to the region, now lies in waste.

Currently, large percentage of the population cannot afford to heat their homes and must rely on “Fuel Assistance”, which does not usually meet the needs of genuine family requirements. Even if firewood was still available [from the County Farms], most landlords are unable to rent homes and apartments with woodstoves; it is a high risk insurance liability and many low income families do not own a home.

The problem facing many underprivileged families is that the system is designed to keep them down. The deck is stacked and it is almost impossible for them to claw their way out of poverty. The very system that supports them has one hand tossing a penny and scarred potato at them while the other is picking at their empty pockets for possible table scraps. Any gain that is made is a penalty, hence the system continues on like a scruffy hamster on an old, rusted wheel.

If a welfare recipient shows any signs of recovery – whether it be the slightest increase in income, temporary or not – the rug is ripped out from under his feet. This fear and uncertainty instills a sense of urgency and desperation. The person in danger of losing assistance clings tighter, seeking methods to maintain benefits and security. This also leads to dishonesty and fleecing the system. So many people know all of the tricks of staying in the system to the point of having more children, avoiding employment, working under the table, etc. There is very little if any authentic incentive to actually extricate oneself from the system, which is largely based on threats and apathy. It doesn’t work. In order for people to have the desire to better themselves, positive reinforcement and integrity in the system is necessary. Both are glaringly absent.

The time has come to reinstitute and organize local, county and state farms, overseeing the production of our natural resources and industry, nurturing the earth and her people to live harmoniously. This may offer opportunities for those who do not have skills or resources, the ability to learn and contribute to their own families and the community as a whole. This will work if there are systems in place insuring that the “big bosses” do not skim off of the top to the point where there is little or nothing in the bottom of the barrel, leaving all of the labor and none of the fruits for the laborers.

How tragic it was that those who tilled the soil and worked in relentless conditions returned from the fields to a bowl of warm, watery gruel, while those whose efforts consisted of carrying a heavy, pointed stick for prodding them like cattle – ate like kings.

The iron bell called us for taking food. I pushed the bark into her hand. We walked to the house. The ones whose laughter was without reason and whose words had no meaning went before us. She placed the bark in her yellow dress before we sat together with a bowl of scalded milk, a piece of boiled potato and a brown crust. – Nellie Baldwin September 15, 1872 –

We are beyond nudging at this point. We must push to work together with integrity to nurture, respond and love the earth and her inhabitants and rejoice in her abundance. If this unfolds, restoring honor and balance is once again attainable. The time to call for natural justice, logic and peace is long overdue.

From Half Orphan to Orphan - Sitting in the First Pew

There were many casualties of the Great War of the Rebellion, leaving many widowed and orphaned. When Abigail’s father was killed at Roanoke Island, she and her sister Sarah became half orphans. Her family managed to survive with her father’s pension, their well established working farm, the help of neighbors and a willing grandfather.


When Abigail’s mother perished, although she was a teenager, suddenly becoming an orphan took its toll. The circumstances of her mother’s death also left Abigail riddled with guilt. The timing of her death contributed to the devastation, as her sister Sarah had recently left to work at the textile mills in Fall River, Massachusetts.

An interesting aspect of being a member of the churches during this era was the requirement of ‘pew rent’. It was traditional for parishioners to pay this fee and like most other elements of structured social settings; there was a great deal of politics involved in the particular arrangement of rented pews.

Becomin’ an orphan left a sort of hole that could only be filled by mergin’ with someone who shared the same hole or at least knew what the hole was all about. Like the last time – the only other time we occupied the first pew – we sat with our black mitted hands laced tightly together. She fixed her eyes on the pine coffin settin’ on the sawhorses and I fixed my eyes on her. I couldn’t stand the sight of the pine box or the horrible thought of our Mother’s burnt body. I knew it to be morbid, but I was tempted to look inside to make sure it was true.


Mrs. Blake offered me a fine black dress to wear for proper mournin’. It needed mendin’, so she took to sewin’ it for me. Sarah borrowed her mournin’ dress from Mrs. Porter – who had three daughters. Her husband passed away two years before.


We wore our perfectly matched wool felt bonnets – black, cotton trimmed with long wide ribbons so that we could tie an enormous bow if so desired. When we milled about in Mr. Tibbett’s store, he insisted that we take them. We offered to pay him later even though we didn’t have access to Papa’s pension or know how it would come about. Bein’ a decent sort and knowin’ how he felt about Mother, he refused any and all payment.


The flies – usually buzzin’ about noisily – lay dead in random clusters upon the sills. It was quiet ‘cept for the rain peltin’ against the windows, roof and into the anxious puddles threatenin’ to wash out the road. There were more folks in the church than I can ever remember. Eb Burrows huffed and clattered while settin’ up chairs along side the pews. Mrs. Leighton swayed more and plunked harder on the organ keys. Sarah squeezed my hand and released, squeezed and released as if playin’ a squeezebox.
 – Abigail Hodgdon September 3, 1872 –

Traveling

I will be back soon.  I'm leaving winter behind for now...stay tuned.

Wise Woman, Healer, Crone

Through my initial research and development of the novel, I discovered the harsh reality of life on the nineteenth century poor farm. I often wondered how people endured such inhumane treatment. Many accounts of poor farms or almshouses are conveniently lost forever. I unearthed enough information to gain an understanding of the atmosphere, general daily operations and evolution leading to the welfare system that we know today.

As Nellie’s character evolved and I continued to study Abenaki history, I became increasingly intrigued by their natural healing methods. I have always been receptive to and continue to practice alternative and naturopathic healing methods. Learning about the use of native plant species in the fertile area where I reside, confirmed my belief in natural healing and foraging. I have literally rediscovered my world by identifying and preparing edible wild plants, medicinal teas and nutritious foods.


Nellie could have been an elderly abused woman who passed the days sitting idly, suffering from post traumatic stress from years of daily abuse because of her heritage and being in a mixed racial marriage. I chose to create her character to be proactive and make a positive difference in the stifling and wretched conditions of the poor farm.

Anyone who lived on the poor farm, was buried in the pauper cemetery with a number on a stone in a mass grave, did not end up there because life was great. Of course we are to assume that these people were victims of terrible misfortune. I had to remind myself of this as I wrote the book. If it were rainbows and unicorns, they would not be there.

Nellie had a rich inner life. She did suffer greatly, but she did not own everything that was cast down upon her. She remained true to Our Mother, and was ruled by her own place in the natural world. She continued to collect nuts, roots, plants, berries and seeds as she had done in childhood and make healing tinctures and remedies. She carried her traditions that were passed down from her people, to her own family and then later to her extended family - fellow inmates at the poor farm.

When her health began to deteriorate – she sensed the nearing of her passing – she taught Abigail how to care for the sick, weak and elders at the farm. Since she was mute, she did so by actions. This was an enriching aspect of writing the novel. I was inspired in my own life to expand my ways of naturopathic healing and utilize what Our Mother offers in the woods, fields and by the ponds, rivers and lakes where I live.

What better way to honor the one-hundred-year-old Indian Woman (my grandmother and the others) than to allow her character to be a wise woman and healer.

Orphans, Half Orphans, Orphan Trains

Of course many expressions have changed over the past century. I was intrigued with the term half orphan. It’s easy to figure that one out – a child with one parent. Half orphans were not as common as they are today. Divorce was rare but it did happen. In the nineteenth century, children usually lost a parent because of death.

During the Post Civil War Era, there were many half orphans as a result of war casualties. Similar to today’s Veteran’s Administration, the families of those who died in the war were compensated. Many disabled and elder veterans lived in Veteran’s Homes.

When I selected the character of Abigial to be the voice representing young unwed mothers, I took into consideration the circumstances surrounding the events leading to her fate on the poor farm. At first she was a half orphan after her father was shot fatally in the Civil War. Most children did not remain at the poor farm after the age of three. I was mindful to represent orphans of all ages and various conditions.

During my initial research, I came across a remarkable book – Orphan Trains: The Story of Charles Loring Brace and the Children He Saved and Failed – a captivating story authored by Stephen O’Connor. It is an inspiring true account of Charles Loring Brace, an incredible man who was determined to make a difference in the lives of children, both orphans and runaways, during the mid-nineteenth century in New York City. The courageous undertaking by this man has gained little recognition throughout history.

For several years the streets of New York were running rampant with vagrant youth who escaped from almshouses and prisons, and eventually rounded up by city officials.

In 1853, a young minister named Charles Loring Brace made a difference in the lives of these children. He created a radical solution to this troubling dilemma and formed the Children’s Aid Society. His intent was to provide relief for this predicament, which was rapidly spreading. The organization’s objective was to provide shelter for the homeless children and offer an alternative to the streets, almshouses and prisons. Alternative solutions and services were available to these children including education and living with new families. An important element of the Children’s Aid Society was that there were resources provided to teach the children to help themselves.

Brace was the pioneer of adopting children from the city into rural homes, which is a practice still in effect today. This was the foundation for the Foster Care program and Social Welfare Work. He was a trained minister who made a conscious decision to make his life’s work helping children rather than adults. He was in the field (actually on the streets) knowing firsthand what the needs of the children were, and addressing those needs.

Author Stephen O’Connor writes of the firsthand experiences of the orphans and their journeys on what were known as orphan trains. “Between 1854 and 1929, about 250,000 impoverished children were taken to rural homes across the country where they were intended to live in a loving and healthy environment” (O’Connor 28).

This was the era in which the West was being settled and there was a need for labor. The practice of sending children to work on farms was beginning to flourish. In many ways, this was a solution to the ongoing tragedy surrounding the poor children of the era. However, as a result of my own research I question the fair and humane treatment of children who were sent to live with farming and ranching families. Like today, there are no guarantees as to how children are treated in Foster Care or in their own family environment. There are triumphs and tragedies.

Brace was a self educated minister, which I find to be of notable interest. What is most important to me is that he made a difference. He was aware of the critical consequences on the individual children who suffered as well as society. He identified the problem and took action.

Brace seemed to be very casual and took chances with his work in aiding the children. It appeared to me in some instances that his work was quite spontaneous and not a product of detailed planning. I admire his efforts and the remarkable strides that he took in finding relief for homeless, neglected and abused children. It was during an era when it took a great deal of courage to act upon ideas such as this. His work required patience, perseverance and determination, something else that never changed.

O’Connor, Stephen. Orphan Trains: The Story of Charles Loring Brace and the
        Children He Saved and Failed. Boston : Houghton Mifflin Company, 2001.

The Long and Winding Road: Seeking Nellie III

My transition began to emerge when I started spending a great deal of time alone and was able to be still (particularly in nature). I think that up until that point, I busied myself too much and the distractions prevented me from realizing some obvious answers that I had been seeking. To be clear, I was always rushing to the next thing without considering the present moment. Perhaps that is because oftentimes the present moment was too uncomfortable or revealing.

I was doing much writing during this time that I consider to be an awakening. Journaling was a consistent part of my life dating back to the days when I had a small, leather diary with a key, and when I crafted my own hand-sewn, bound books. So writing is no stranger to me. Actually, another important aspect of this transition was due to my shift from musician to writer. Music was no longer the main source of my creative outlet; therefore my writing became essential to my well-being in addition to my studies at Vermont College and then the MFAW program at Goddard College.

It was (and is) my own choice not to have much of a social life. I am a perennial hermitess and I enjoy my solitude, which is much different than loneliness. My study of 17th Century Salem Village, Massachusetts raised many questions about Puritanism and Christianity; I dove into Mary Magdalene and the Nag Hammadi Texts. Had it been a better time for my daughter to endure a major change in her life, I may have gone to Divinity School. It was not meant to be.

I could not read (and write) enough; I wanted to study Coptic. I poured over the Gnostic Gospels and still do when time allows. I devoted the study of a semester at Vermont College to this; it was prior to the release of “The Passion,” (which I still have not seen).

All of my studies prepared me for the next step. I was reading Jung, Elaine Pagels, Meyer and other contemporary scholars. Such teachings as the Gospels of Thomas and Mary offered fresh wisdom to ponder. Ancient texts provide valuable insight to who we are collectively. I began to better comprehend religion, politics and the evolving culture that we live in. More recently I have been inspired to study a variety of philosophies including Buddhism, Sufism, and the Toltec civilization.

A breakthrough occurred when reading Jung; I began to look more closely at my dreams. With my father dying during this ongoing discovery period, being grounded and open to my unconscious came to the forefront as a necessity for my own emotional and spiritual survival.

I became disciplined and kept a dream journal. During my transition, I started to differentiate between dreams and visions. Many of the symbols – people, places and animals – in my dreams corresponded with traditional, ancient archetypes, which were emerging at a critical time. Once I accepted this, I was given a great deal of insight into my history and those who came before me. I began my authentic journey into the past

It was through this process that I discovered one of many sacred places and meaningful symbols. As I have mentioned before, I spent a great deal of my childhood on a farm on a mountain side overlooking Squam Lake in Holderness, New Hampshire. Often I dream of viewing the lake below from a cliff. The cliff is close to where the farm is, still on the property but in a remote area. I did not understand the significance of this so-called dream as it began to occur more often. The scene is vivid and I fly, circling over the cove beneath me before returning safely to the edge of the cliff. Upon awakening, all of my senses are acutely aware and I perceive joy and completeness. The dream and its effects linger longer than most.

As my father’s death approached and his condition deteriorated, the frequency of the dream increased. The symbols that appeared in my awakened and dream states were bombarding me. Perhaps they were always there, but I was finally ready to accept, comprehend and honor them.

The Long and Winding Road: Seeking Nellie

Part II

She was always there. I believed that I had to have concrete answers; that she had to be like my other ancestors whose statistics – typed boldly on the yellowed pages of various books, town records, assorted periodicals, websites and random historical collections – jumped out at me. I was spoiled.

Not only is my father’s line recorded in my copy of the ‘Pettingell Family Genealogy” book, many of my other direct ancestors (Ingersolls and Porters for example) are heavily documented in museums, national, state and local historical archives, and private collections. Each family has a separate genealogy book that I have yet to acquire but have consulted at the Tuck Library in Concord, New Hampshire.

My maternal genealogy –including both grandmother and grandfather – has been thoroughly documented and traced back to Germany and Rotterdam as early as 1552. I have a treasure trove of history on both sides of my family, except for Nellie Baldwin. There are a few lines here and there that still need further exploration, but it is due to lack of time, not resources that I have yet to complete.

Nellie [Baldwin] is listed in the ‘Pettingell’ book. Her records exist, but they do not represent who she really was. They represent her Christian identity and unlike most of the others, there are few details.

Finally, Nellie began to emerge in my life. I have never really considered my life to be perfect; in fact far from it. I live within the framework of my expectations, abilities, goals and dreams. Maintaining purpose is fundamental. I’m mindful of my shortcomings, honor my gifts and have an insatiable appetite for learning.

I spent a great deal of time reading about the Native Americans – Abenakis – who inhabited Northern Vermont. I didn’t talk to my family about it very often because they made it clear to me that they were not interested and had no idea what it meant. I was on my own quiet path.

By the time I was deeply involved in this process, my Aunt Irene (my only ally) was in a nursing home awaiting death. Unfortunately for me, fear was at the helm of my vessel and my procrastination prevented me from seeing her. I have a terrible habit of wanting to preserve the memory of loved ones in a favorable state, therefore I avoid seeing them in dreadful places like (many) nursing homes. I almost always have regrets after they die.

It was also during this time that my father fell victim to a horrible, debilitating, neurological disease – MSA – Multiple Systems Atrophy, formerly known as Shy Drager Syndrome, which crept in and endured for several years. He suffered well beyond the usual span. At first the doctors were mystified, which is common with this disease. When he was diagnosed – defined and labeled – I realized that perhaps prior to this awful discovery, that my life was more perfect than I thought.

Imagining a world without my father, whom I loved dearly, was a process to be encountered with great deliberation. How I handled his transition from exquisitely healthy to desperately ill and then death, would be vital. Is there a right and wrong way to prepare for death or the next phase? I had to do it right.

First and perhaps most importantly, I wanted no regrets. Everything had to be on the table, nothing left unsaid. I didn’t bombard him with words, but suddenly I had the courage to share things that I usually kept to myself. I didn’t blurt out every thought that came to mind; I spoke authentically and did not allow typically sensitive subjects such as spiritualism to be trivialized.

For some reason, I tended to keep my light under a bushel and deflected attention. That was the dance. The steps changed when I started to have groundbreaking conversations – formerly the huge pink elephant in the corner of the room – with my father. The awkward, bold, language of my heart came through and I did not allow it to fade into safe, resentful shadows. If I did not talk to him about these matters, the chance would be lost forever. No regrets. No regrets.

I was a student at Vermont College when I studied the Ingersolls, Pettingells and others in our family who played a pivotal role in the Salem Witch Trials and events leading to it. I decided to share my findings with my father. He was housebound and eventually bed ridden, so my visits took on a new light. Although I was always considered the eclectic one of his five daughters, easily dismissed as the one who ‘marched to the beat of a different drum’; to my pleasant surprise, he developed an urgency to know more about his roots. Delighted, I sat on the bottom of his bed reading aloud my work and thumbing through books illuminating highlights of our family history. This shift of interest motivated me to continue digging and compiling and reporting my findings to him.

My culminating study was based on the Carroll County Poor Farm and Cemetery – Etched in Granite. It was not as fascinating to him as learning about his roots, but he was still captivated by my work and I looked forward to sharing my discoveries and accomplishments.

When I learned that a one-hundred-year-old “Indian Woman” was buried in the cemetery, I was compelled to know how she ended up there. I felt an extraordinary connection with her.

My family was not particularly religious; we grew up in a traditional protestant New England environment. Independently, I joined the Congregational Church in the fourth grade when I was drawn to singing in the choir. My parents attended various services at my insistence because I had a solo or we were singing something that I deemed remarkable. Initially, it was all about the music; whatever I learned from the scriptures evolved from the early days of Sunday school and my own curiosity.

As my father inched closer to death, it became apparent to me that he was seeking answers to that all encompassing question…what’s next? He had a worried look in his eyes. Both of my parents were afraid.

I didn’t pretend to have all the answers, but I acknowledged what I sensed and started to open the dialogue. As is customary, many times we were interrupted by outside sources, but I waited patiently for whatever was happening to go away and we continued. It was peculiar, because we were covering unchartered territory, but I was keeping the promise to myself, no regrets.

In addition to facing the terminal illness of my father, I myself was in transition. The more challenges I faced, the more I was inclined to turn to nature, which was not new to me. I simply became acutely aware. I lived on a mountain top and spent most of my time outdoors walking in the fields, woods and sitting by the pond. I was addicted to the night sky the way others are addicted to television. My natural surroundings became a grounding force in what came next for me.

















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