Etched in Granite

Meat and Potatoes:Then and Now

2011-03-01T18:38:00.001-05:00

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

2011-02-23T11:52:00.000-05:00

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

2011-02-15T20:58:00.000-05:00

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

Wise Woman, Healer, Crone

2011-02-14T21:52:00.000-05:00

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

2011-02-10T07:45:00.000-05:00

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

2011-02-05T17:43:00.000-05:00

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

2011-02-02T19:37:00.000-05:00

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.

.

The Long and Winding Road: Seeking Nellie

2011-01-27T22:30:00.000-05:00

I was always curious about my father’s grandmother Nellie. Aunt Irene, my father’s only sister, used to always mention that Nellie was a ‘full blooded Indian’ who loved to have her long, thick hair combed. Whenever I asked my father about his grandmother, he made jokes and one time told me straight out that he wasn’t interested. His abrupt response was his way of ending my line of questioning for what would be years. It was 1992 and he was taking me to the airport; I was on my way to England and Europe.

As tempting as it was, I did not ask him about our Native American roots. Whenever I had the chance, I questioned my Aunt who seemed mostly impressed with her grandmother’s hair, although she said that she [Nellie] was quiet and loved to be outdoors. My father’s older brother, Milton, responded the same way that my father did when it came to their grandmother and it was the whole stereotypical ‘Indian’ gestures, hoots and hollers.

After a few more years passed, my musical career took a historical turn and I became the principal Eb cornetist and manager of a Civil War Reenactment Band. It was a logical transition since I was in a similar position in a 26 piece British Brass Band. This new band – The 2nd New Hampshire Regiment Serenade Band – led me to unearthing more of my rich family history. I was fortunate to come across an original copy [1906] of the “Pettingell Family Genealogy” book. My grandfather is listed in this book and it goes all the way back to my 8th Great Grandfather, Richard Pettingell, born about 1620 in Shottesham, England.

I have read that book for countless hours and continue to thumb through it on a regular basis. I have used these records to document many academic pieces for my music endeavors and at Vermont College. It’s the sort of thing were I learn one bit of information and I am off and running onto the next. It is addicting, but in an extraordinary way. While doing my research for the Civil War band notes and to insure a historically correct performance, I discovered that there were over 90 Pettengills in the Civil War. We chose the ‘2nd New Hampshire Regiment’ because my ancestor, William Pettengill, was listed as a musician in the 2nd New Hampshire Regiment. I still do not know what he played, but my research has taken me away from that pursuit.

My genealogy book has brought me to North Troy, Vermont where I visited my great-great grandfather’s gravesite. His name was Hollis Pettengill and he was in the 8th Vermont Regiment, Company B. At that time I discovered the grave of his cousin Harry. Harry was a highly decorated Civil War Veteran in the 1st Vermont Cavalry. I noticed that they did not have GAR [Grand Army of the Republic] markers, and being Civil War Veterans, they earned them. So I called the Veteran’s group in North Troy on the following Monday and explained that they were in need of their GAR grave markers. It was at that time that I booked our band – the 2nd NH Regiment Serenade Band – to play in a parade and concert.

We were a serenade band, which means that the women could portray women, and men portrayed men, unlike a strict regimental band where everyone plays the part of men. There were roughly 7 or 8 members; it fluctuated according to the season and event. We played vintage instruments, authentic music and wore period dress. I absolutely loved wearing a (4 boned, flounced) hoop skirt and carried a flask in my garter. (In case anyone wondered what is under those amazing hoops).

After the performance in North Troy, I dragged the band members with me to the cemetery where my great-great grandfather and his cousin were buried. They waited patiently as I walked over and positioned myself between the two graves and played my favorite Civil War piece – Come Dearest the Daylight is Gone – on my Eb Cornet. That is a moment that I will cherish for all of my days. I imagined what he would have thought if he could have seen me, his great-great granddaughter, wearing appropriate attire, playing a familiar, hair raising tune on an 1862 Boston Eb Cornet.

There are so many possible directions for me to go in writing this piece, I will reel myself in. Hollis’ wife, Augusta Porter Pettengill became the object of my research for many years. I wanted to know what it was like for the “girl who was left behind.” So I created a dramatic portrayal based on her life on a farm in Northern Vermont. I present this program to historical societies. I dress in period costume and read letters from my husband [Hollis] and write letters to him while speaking aloud. I weave music into the program and play excerpts from my Civil War music library on my Eb cornet. Sometimes as an added delight, if my son Shelby is in town, he plays the fiddle as background music and then we play duets. He looks quite handsome in his kepi and he plays the part of William Pettengill.

Reeling in. Augusta’s family is Abenaki. Augusta and Hollis had a son named Clarence. Clarence married Nellie Baldwin. Nellie’s parents, Charles and Martha Baldwin are Abenaki. They are all from places in Northern Vermont such as Georgia, Swanton, North Troy, Orleans, Edinboro etc. The Porters, Pettengills and Baldwin’s were all over the northernmost section of Vermont inhabited by Abenaki. My uncle Milton now tells me that he 'understands that we have a few apples in the family' as in Porters and Baldwins.

My genealogy book is quite detailed. It provides 582 pages filled with juicy nuggets about the Pettengills. It is overwhelming. The part that has been difficult is that there is little about Nellie. I know that she was married August 30, 1885 to Clarence O. Pettengill at Lowell, MA – which leads me to believe that she may have worked in the textile mills. She was twenty years of age when she married Clarence. She was the daughter of Charles and Martha Baldwin. At some point, they moved to Campton, New Hampshire. Clarence was a ‘stable keeper’. I have a photo of the “Pettengill” Mail carriage. My father was born and grew up in Campton and my aunt was the post mistress and lived there until her death. Both Nellie and Clarence are buried there.

I never stopped looking for Nellie - the real Nellie. As I continued my journey as a mother, musician, historian, and teacher, my harmony with nature became more defined. It was as if the historical facts that I was seeking in the way of records and statistics were being upstaged by something more meaningful. My path was illuminated by visions, dreams and awakenings. All of which led me to the 100-year-old “Indian Woman” buried at the Pauper Cemetery.

In the most unexpected manner, my father and I found Nellie together.

(To be continued)…

Abigial and the Uncertain World of Native America Healing

2011-01-18T18:19:00.000-05:00

Abigail’s decision to assist Nellie and step into the uncertain world of the Native American healing traditions is heroic. New Hampshire’s diverse geography is abundant with edible and medicinal plants. Throughout all four seasons, there is a literal paradise of harvestable resources, which the majority of the population is completely unaware of, treat as invasive weeds or ignores completely because of the allure of modern medicine.

Finding, identifying, preparing and administering local medicinal plants has become a lost art, which is slowly regaining awareness because of a shift in our economy, rapidly exploding pharmaceutical markets, spirituality, and the fact that the earth is forcing us to change our destructive and wasteful ways of life in order to survive.

At this very moment, we are living amidst the consequences of the various choices that we have made in the past. We are the sum of our actions. We continue to make choices as we move forward.

Abigail is no different. She views her life through the lens of a devout Christian, with a certain amount of expected pain and suffering that happens to go with the territory.

I gave up thinkin’ about that which was easy and pleasant, only to be discontented because I couldn't have my own will. I gave up all wishin’ and longin’ and only thought of bearing what lay upon me, and acceptin’ God’s will.

Bein’ crowded into that miserable house – confined for room, neither wind nor watertight – became my own hell. Gone were the days when we relished the January thaw, the short-lived warmth in the midst of winter.

When the cryin’ and moanin’ ceased, the snow melted in thunderous drips on the roof, on the sill and in the pot in the middle of the room. I pulled my blanket over my ears, but the relentless cryin’ continued, keepin’ me awake through the night. Nellie scuffed up and down the stairs to fill her cup with hot water for medicine tea.

Old Mrs. Kennison coughed and gagged and sobbed from across the hall. “I need water. Somebody get me water.”

“Jest quiet down and go to sleep.” That new lady Martha Libby snarled. “Ain’t nobody gonna fetch you water at this time of night.”

At this pivotal point, Abigail is faced with many possibilities. In addition to accepting her fate as appropriate punishment for her sins, she can pull the covers over her head and tremble, feel sorry for herself and bathe in her misery. She can choose a path of anger and resentment, or she can step into the unknown and take authentic action and participate.

I sat up and whipped the blanket off me when Mrs. Kennison started gaspin’ for air. I listened for Nellie’s footsteps.

“You ain’t goin’ in there are ya?” Patience’s voice came from the dark corner.

“Nellie can’t do it alone. And I can’t sleep with all this commotion.” I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and headed for the dimly lit hallway.

“You’re gonna catch the fever.” Patience called after me.

I met Nellie on the top step. She held a cup of steamin’ water in each hand. She stopped and looked at me with surprise.

“Is one of these for Mrs. Kennison?” I reached for a cup.

She handed one to me. Both of them had what looked like brown and green dirt floatin’ on the top of the water.

The hot liquid came close to scaldin’ my hand but I kept it steady. “I’ll bring this to Mrs. Kennison.”

Nellie smiled and followed me into the room. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a notched stick, perhaps from a pine tree, and stirred slowly as I held the hot cup wrapped in my hands. She concentrated hard and closed her eyes every so often. Mrs. Kennison started coughin’ again. Nellie took the stick out of the brew and nodded towards the old woman.

I took tiny steps over to the side of the bed sack and got down on my knees. Nellie watched from a distance. “Here Mrs. Kennison. Drink this and you will feel better. The coughin’ will subside.” My hands shook a bit.

She sat up – her silver hair flattened in the back and her eyes blood red – and reached for the cup. “It hurts to cough; I can’t stop.” She wheezed.

“Hold your head up and sip this.” I held the cup close to her lips. My thoughts turned to Mother. She came to Sarah and me in the night with honey, whiskey and a drop of lemon when we had fits of coughin’.

She gripped my arm and drank with eyes opened wide. I placed my cool hand on her burnin’ forehead. “Lie down and get some sleep.”

She whimpered and spoke in a childish voice. “I can’t.” She rubbed her eyes.

“Stop carryin on for Chrissakes.” Martha Libby huffed and flipped on her side.

“You mind your P’s and Q’s, Mrs. Libby. She’s ill.” I snapped.

“That’s what they all say at this damn place.” She mumbled into her bed sack.

“Do not listen to her or anyone else who doesn’t have a good word, Mrs. Kennison. Have bright thoughts; you’ll feel better if you rest and take Nellie’s medicine.”

“I soiled my bed.” She sniffed. “I’m wet and cold.” She let out a long pitiful cry.

I spun around; Nellie was no longer in the room. Mrs. Kennison curled up in a ball on her bed sack. I ran my fingers through my snarly curls and stared helplessly at the old woman whose trials and afflictions seem to bind us closely together. What do I do?

I paced around the room once and stopped. “I will be back with dry clothes and bedding. You’ll be fine.” I wrapped my shawl over her bony shoulders. Dear God, let her be fine.
- Abigail Hodgdon, January 25, 1873 -

The Cold: Embracing Change

2011-01-12T18:50:00.001-05:00

One day, like an unexpected visitor, cold became my companion. I learned to live with it and to reassess all that I previously knew in the ways of true comfort and security. We musn’t take anything for granted. Sometimes, what we know is lost and we are faced with opportunities disguised as adversity. Usually, these events are the vehicles for change. It is up to the individual how these changes are manifested. It can be a slight push and you go careening off the cliff that you have been clinging to, or a voluntary leap of faith, entering into the unknown ready to embrace the endless possibilities.

Of course I had experienced cold before, but there were plenty of options back then. We worked diligently to collect, lug, split and stack wood. In addition to Yankee pride and tradition, this practice was crucial in conserving energy. We were all involved in the process of creating and maintaining heat. which also served as our cooking source. We practiced Colonial Customs and incorporated them into our educational curriculum. We thrived for 10 days with no electricity or running water during the great ice storm of 1998.

Like Abigail, sometimes life as we innocently know it, vanishes. Situations that you can only imagine or that happen to others suddenly become yours. It doesn’t matter how it happens; it matters how you deal with it.

Mother kept us in line. You girls get out here and help. You don’t want to end up like them folks at the County Farm, do you? Sarah and I were scared. In rain, snow and the heat of the summer, we collected the eggs, milked the cows, fed the pigs and chickens and stacked wood.

We knew that the County Farm was a place to fear but we didn’t know for certain why. Silas wouldn’t speak of the goin’s on and Rosie Wiggins told us that they beat the women and children and chained the men up like animals. The folks who went there never returned. We would not end up there, not if we could help it. – Abigail Hodgdon June 30, 1872 –

I remember the initial awkwardness of pulling up to the pumps at the outer edge of the local gas station and taking the blue plastic gas containers out of the trunk. Out of necessity, I pumped my own kerosene, lugged it into my cellar and dumped it into the tank, splashing it all over my shoes. I never knew that heating oil was pink. It smells bad. I always thought that I had to rely on someone else to do things like prime a furnace, yet it is very simple. Anyone can do it.

Nellie tugged on my elbow and brought me to a long table where six ragged women sat in anxious silence. Everyone focused on a pot in the middle of the table that contained some sort of colorless stew. A loaf of crusty bread ripped into small pieces was scattered here and there.

After a spell, folks whispered behind their hands with their hollow eyes fixed on me. I saw Mrs. Piper, the widow of Solomon Piper who ran the gristmill. We were in the garden when we learned of his death; I conjured up Mother’s ominous voice in my head; Poor woman has no kin and will end up at the County Farm. Such a shame. – Abigail Hodgdon November 24, 1872 –

The weather is much more vital when you are at its mercy. Of course we all worry when we have to drive somewhere or have plans that are affected by weather. It is different when you must keep your eye on the weather because you are gauging your wood or fuel supply to keep warm. The positive aspect is that those who are less fortunate, whose lives are directly affected by the elements, have a much higher level of appreciation for warmer temperatures or for the arrival of spring. In most cases, they are grateful for little things and less wasteful.

The inmates at the Carroll County Farm spent brutal winters in a drafty building with cracked plate glass windows. The physical ache from these conditions combined with hunger, filth, neglect, abuse and depression from the circumstances that caused being sentenced to live at the farm in the first place, is probably inconceivable to most.

I awoke to my own terrifyin’ screams. I held my hands over my ears. My damp nightdress clung to my skin. I found myself standin’ before a fogged window with a ragin’ crack down the middle. Where am I? Two women sat on the floor starin’ at me while at least four others lay in motionless bundles along the wall. My heart pounded as I touched my head and my fingers happened upon a tuft of stiff hair. A baby cried from across the room. This is no dream.
– Abigail Hodgdon November 25, 1872 –

I know cold all too well.

Do You Know Cold? Winter Survival Spans Centuries

2011-01-11T14:44:00.000-05:00

My relationship with bitter, cold New Hampshire winters offers insight into the lives of Abigial, Silas and Nellie. Working with wood, fire and making the most of our resources spans centuries and is vital to our existence as individuals, societies and in a global sense.

There is nothing that compares to the depth of true cold – when your shoulders are cramped from tensing and being in a perpetual shrug position while shivering, your toes are numb, you pull your shirt up over your nose and the ends of your sleeves are misshapen because of your habit of pulling them over your hands like mitts.

You know cold when you cut a hole in the heel of your baby daughter’s little white socks so that she can suck her thumb when you pull them over her hands to make sure that she is warm in the night.

The churning in your tummy is not from missing supper, it is when you hear the person on the other end of the telephone tell you that you have exhausted your fuel assistance, or that you have a balance and they cannot make an oil delivery. Sometimes it aches when you are told that you have to get a minimum that you can only dream of affording.

When you are cold, you find yourself recalling the long, hot days of summer from the seemingly distant past. You imagine yourself sitting on the steps barefoot wearing a tank top and shorts planning on what time of day you should go for a refreshing swim.

A house that is not properly insulated or that has drafty doors, old plate glass windows and rattling storms, is nearly impossible to heat. Sometimes we cover the windows with saran wrap, or if you have the money to throw around, you can purchase the heavy duty window covering that requires a hair dryer to insure appropriate tightness. Many people who think in terms of whether or not they can afford heavy duty plastic, cannot.

I have lived in and out of various levels of cold / comfort throughout my life. As a child, I can remember our farmhouse in the Village of Center Sandwich. The only memory that stands out in the way of cold is the whipping March winds and shadows of tree limbs threatening outside my bedroom window in the middle of the night. That was my first experience as a warrior. In my mind, I stood up to the wind, even though I was afraid of its howling and rising pitch. My overall recollection of that house is warmth. Of course it was during a time when we did not [collectively] acknowledge an end in sight for the use of fossil fuels and I wore footie pajamas. It was a time of ignorance disguised as innocence.

Then we moved to an older, draftier, rambling New England Farmhouse with the out buildings attached. I could not unclench my shivering body. Footie pajamas, long johns and my mother’s knitted socks were never enough. The ice was thick on the inside of the windows and sometimes you could see your breath. When you are that cold, you lose the ambition to do anything but hold onto yourself. It is a physical relinquishing of most otherwise ordinary tasks. No matter what we did, in the winter we were always cold. The pipes froze and burst. My father blamed it on the realtor, who was a well-known businessman in Sandwich. If he shakes your hand, check to make sure that your fingers are all there.

We moved to a bigger, warmer house. It was grand yet the coziest house of all, perched on a hill overlooking Lake Winnipesaukee and Center Harbor Bay. The wind whistled across the openness of the bay and up the hill with a vengeance. A long porch with a few dozen windows ran the length of the house and it didn’t matter. We were warm. The sun heated the porch and provided a buffer from the wind. The house was graced with a beautiful center chimney, brick fireplace; the heat was evenly distributed; the windows were double-paned and apparently the house was well insulated. The only time I was cold during that time in my life was when I went out to ski, skate, and play in the snow. I had options.

I went out into the world. After college dorm life, I was faced with the reality of the cost of living, including heat, electricity, fuel, food, transportation and all of the traditional expenses incurred daily. I worked hard. My first awakening came when I was splitting the rent of a chalet with two friends who were pilots. They decided to move away, where the grass was definitely greener, leaving me with the burden of the house. Lesson one – have everyone’s names on the lease. I was at the point where after paying my bills, I had about ten dollars left for food and entertainment. I was twenty four years old and actually had a respectable, decent paying job. I had chosen to remain in rural New Hampshire, which has proven to be the desired course of my inner compass. There is a price to pay for this, which is based on fewer people, less industry, typically lower paying jobs and a tendency to be isolated.

I cannot complain about this, as there are also benefits. I enjoy solitude and nature. However, the cold is a definite test of endurance. That first winter when I found myself faced with a lease on a house in a desolate summer, lakeside community was the beginning of many similar winters to follow.

Although we are all faced with choices, sometimes because of our perception, alleged understanding of whom we are supposed to be, combined with a stacked deck; many simply cannot climb out from under hardship. I believe that in order to grow, one must learn and take advantage of these golden opportunities.

That winter I learned about options; I closed off the upstairs. When I was home on the weekends, I barricaded myself in my bedroom with a ceramic heater, food, books, stereo and television. I kept the thermostat on 50 degrees so that the pipes wouldn’t burst. Sometimes I used a fireplace that was designed for ambience and for taking the chill off of a rare, cool summer evening. Initially, I didn’t plan to use wood for heat, so the limited supply on the deck was gone in less than a week.

I cleaned the floor of the woods by collecting debris – limbs, twigs and sections of trees that I was able to carry. On the nights that I had a fire, I enjoyed the warmth with great satisfaction. I was in a new phase of learning, appreciation and survival.

In time, my life changed again. I became a wife and mother. One of our first winters as a young family, we rented a house and were faced with the stress of a faulty furnace. The first time it quit working, I awoke after midnight; the temperatures were hovering around and below zero degrees Fahrenheit. I gathered my infant sons from their cribs and we bundled in quilts while a furnace technician did the repairs. He [the technician] told us that the furnace was extremely old and would not work long after he fixed it because it needed to be replaced.

I spoke to the landlord who was rude and condescending. I told him that I would continue to call the repair person because by law, we are to have a working heating system. That winter was hellish, as I was forced to call the repairman countless times to rig the furnace to get us through until it broke again. The positive aspect was that the furnace tech had integrity and was willing to stand up for us, should we have to go to court.

Naturally, in the spirit of too many landlords, he withheld our security deposit stating that I called the furnace repair man without his permission. I went to small claims court and won. Bravo. If I was another individual, I may have taken this as defeat and suffered a loss of approximately one thousand dollars, which is too much. It is especially too much for the middle or lower income family. Incidentally, my husband did not believe that we would win this battle, but I had to try. Justice prevailed.

In time, we rented another home that had a medium sized woodstove. Because of my comprehension of the cost of oil and electricity, I became highly effective at cooking, heating the house and water (for bathing and dish washing) with wood. I was grateful for the abundance of heat from the source and felt a great deal of satisfaction in regards to paying as little as possible to the Electric and Oil Companies. This was the beginning of my self sustaining lifestyle.

How quickly things change. We made the mistake of purchasing a magnificent, Victorian home during the summer months, unaware of the fact that it was poorly and not completely insulated; the storm windows were useless. This was the coldest home I had ever experienced. The first winter was a shock. It was so cold, the water froze in the toilet, you could see your breath and this was with one coal and one woodstove cranking, the heat of the clothes dryer blowing into the kitchen, and the furnace on.

After five years of barely enduring frigid winters, frostbite on one toe, almost dying from carbon monoxide fumes before ditching coal, and having the house on the market, we finally sold it. That was cause for celebration. We purchased a beautiful post and beam cape. We cooked, heated the house and water on a large kitchen cookstove. We had a small farm and lived a rustic lifestyle. I was obsessed with using as little electricity as possible, sometimes having an electric bill as low as $30, which is amazing in 21st Century America with a family of five.

(To be continued).

Location, Location – Nothing Happens By Accident

2011-01-05T16:42:00.001-05:00

I needed to fulfill my teaching practicum for graduate school. I was scheduled to teach in an adult arts program, which was to take place at the local alternative school where my daughter attended. When I agreed to teach the “Writing Historical Fiction and Non-Fiction” class, I was confident that the program would be a success. The planning process for this comprehensive program took several months; many highly qualified people brainstormed and offered a wide spectrum of courses funded by a hefty grant.

About a month before the classes were to begin, the program director decided to have the classes meet twice a week for three hours at a time. The program was to take place in March, which is typically muddy, icy and unpredictable as far as the weather is concerned. By the time March rolls around, typically, the locals here in New Hampshire are burnt from a cold, long, dark winter, still in hibernation. You can distinguish these folks simply by their dark circled, sunken eyes, ashen skin and damaged, dull hair; they sort of have that “deer in the headlights” look. Not enough sun.

I was troubled by the fact that offering two, three-hour classes a week was too demanding on the people of this region, especially if there were no credits. That was a serious commitment. I was also thinking of my own tendency to want to curl up with my quilt in front of the fireplace with a good book and cup of hot cocoa. Going out into the cold night and driving on roads riddled with potholes did not appeal to me. It works one night a week or for a variety of activities, but this was too much for this area during the winter months. I voiced my objections to the director; she disagreed. I discussed this with the other facilitators; we all felt the same way. Since no one other than I protested, the heavy schedule stayed in place.

I showed up for the first night of my class. Sure enough, it was raw; foggy from the melting of snow during the day. I had to swerve around many deep potholes. When I pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, I had that sinking feeling. Inside, the program director was rushing around tending to last minute details. She told me that my “space” was the library and that if no one shows up that we would have a meeting.

No one shows up?

Although the planning for this program was several months in advance, I was cutting it very close to the due date for my teaching practicum.

I entered the library to find a school girl – I would guess about tenth grade – sitting at one of the long tables. Her face lit up when she smiled. Her shoulder length red hair and natural beauty screamed innocence. We exchanged names and she immediately started to tell me about her ideas, ongoing projects and her absolute love of history.

I was inspired by her enthusiasm and impressed by her clarity. I could not help but pay attention to all of her ideas, which eased the pain of the clock ticking away with no other participants entering the room. I gave her some suggested readings and continued to listen. I felt badly about the program not taking off, because she would have been a stellar student.

We spent an hour together sharing our interests and mentioning common acquaintances. I gave her my email address and told her that I would be willing to take a peek at her work, making sure that I would be careful to find the balance.

I said my goodbyes to the program director and other facilitators and then traipsed through the foot deep slush that covered frozen muddy ruts. I sat in my car, waiting for it to warm up and defrost trying to diffuse my own anger. It wasn’t as instant as I would have hoped. I swore under my breath while hitting the forward button on the CD player, finally relieved at the first four notes in “Lime in the Coconut” by Harry Nilsson. Yeah. It works every time.

When I got home, I lit a small fire in the fireplace and sat in the dark staring at the flickering flame. Where the hell am I going to teach a creative writing class now? That is the downfall of living in the woods and not being connected to public education or anything mainstream. More appropriately stated; the downfall of being a hermitess.

After eating too much chocolate and going to bed too late, I decided that I would call the Carroll County Department of Corrections to teach poetry and journaling to female inmates. I had entertained that thought before, but dismissed it based on fear of the unknown.

Fear is such a drag when it comes right down to it. It prevents us from doing so many things and living a full life. For some time now, I’ve been working on detecting fear and when it prevents me from moving forward. Teaching at the jail is a classic case of how I could have missed something vital – a golden opportunity.

After going through the traditional bureaucratic hoopla, I was able to facilitate classes for the female inmates at the jail. Simply going there required a few meetings with the superintendent and other personnel to review my program and for me to understand the rules and regulations of a jail. The biggest fear facing event for me, prior to the actual teaching of the class itself, was learning about the anatomy of a set up.

I am certain, that had I not been briefed on this subject, I would have been ‘had’ within the first five minutes of the first class.

At this time, I was working diligently towards getting my MFA in Creative Writing at Goddard College. My thesis was a monumental memoir that is currently waiting for the right time to be unleashed. I had completed the academic study of the Pauper Cemetery and the Carroll County Poor Farm two years before as my culminating study at Vermont College. Although I was aware that the Poor Farm burned along with all of its records in a fire and I knew of the approximate location, I did not know the exact location.

Also, my research was primarily focused on indentifying the 298 anonymous paupers buried in numbered graves.

The class was a success on a variety of levels. Initially I was trembling in my boots when I went to my first class, however, at the end of the course, I was fighting back the tears after sharing so much through the written word with the women who participated.

Imagine the barrage of feelings that washed over me when I realized that this monumental breakthrough for my students and me took place at the site of the Poor Farm, where the forgotten souls who I had recently unearthed, suffered, lived and died in the 19th Century.

Imagine the validation of purpose and intent, when I began writing “Etched in Granite” a few months later, after I graduated from Goddard.

The parallels between the writing of the novel, the characters – the real ‘inmates’ of the Carroll County Poor Farm in the 19th Century – and the present day female ‘inmates’ who were my writing students and how they were all voiceless until we converged. Again, I refer to the Divine Spark that burns within, which led me to those otherwise unknown souls that span well over a century.

Nothing happens by accident.

On the Mountain Where Wretchedness and Inspiration Are One

2011-01-03T19:22:00.000-05:00

I learned the most when I stopped doing and started being. I did not consciously take this step; it happened when I wasn’t looking and least expected it. I find this to be true in the midst of most life altering circumstances.

We tend to live life on auto pilot, not thinking that what we once deemed the status quo could fall away, leaving us in a completely unexpected place. That is when the most learning, growth and development take place. For me, what seemed to be utter chaos and disaster was indeed a golden opportunity.

In order for me to completely grasp the true essence of the inmates of the Carroll County Poor Farm, it was necessary for me to comprehend an unimaginable destiny. It is through these transitions that one realizes the inner purpose of life.

In one instant, everything as we know it can change – the world becomes unrecognizable. Be it the loss of a loved one, a natural disaster forcing relocation (the list is long) – change is inevitable and is of various magnitudes.

When I was in the depths of notable transformation, I was forced to change my perspective and view the world through a new lens, as the old one no longer worked. If I clung to the old ways, which I had outgrown – whether I liked it or not – I would have failed. Moving ahead into the vast unknown is scary but necessary in order to evolve.

It was no coincidence that I discovered the pauper cemetery the same year that I experienced true poverty for the first time in my life. I had three children, no job, no prospects of being hired and a set of skills that caused most people to question why I was even there.

My set of circumstances shifted (I have to hold back from using the words crash or explode). My career as a professional trumpet player ended abruptly; I was forced to move away from our farm; I had been out of the traditional workforce for seventeen years. The duration of my time away from the mainstream was spent as a musician, farmer and home educator. A day did not pass when I was not outdoors on “Our Mountain” hiking, birding, collecting berries and living a highly productive, self sustaining life.

Trying to step out of my alternative lifestyle into the conventional world was painful. I didn’t do ordinary very well; I was anything but middle-of-the-road.

I applied to dozens of jobs, from supermarkets and donut shops to working at a shooting preserve. The latter was pathetic. I support the 2nd amendment and right to bear arms, but I personally have no use for guns. I am a pacifist. The irony was that this man really wanted to hire me. It would be my job to put blinders on pheasants, drive around in some off road vehicle and place them here and there on an obstacle course for well-to-do hunters. I would also feed and work with hunting dogs in the kennels and help tally up the scores at the end of the day.

When I told the manager of the preserve that I had never fired a gun and that my hand eye coordination was in question, he offered to teach me how to be a perfect shot. Then I told him that I cried at Bambi and Free Willey, hoping that he would get it, he still thought that I could overcome my adversity to killing and work at this establishment. I could not. I agonized over this. Me, the woman who nursed an abandoned baby Starling back to life; hand feeding it with tweezers and ignoring my friend who asked, “Starlings? Aren’t they the birds that people shoot because they’re pests?” I have rescued and tended to countless wild creatures, pets and my own farm animals. I could not be a part of the shooting place.

After making this decision, I continued to clean a handful of cabins on the lake until the harsh winter months came upon us, at which time I finally caved in and signed up for welfare and fuel assistance. That in itself was a most distressing experience. Like most things that I encounter, the welfare office became a classroom. I quickly learned about the system, how it worked, didn’t work, why and why not.

I decided to finish college, from which I had taken a break before becoming a mother. I was enrolled in Vermont College – a beacon in what seemed to be the darkest years of my existence. What I did not know at the time is that wretchedness and inspiration are one. At least that is true for me.

The faster and deeper I plummeted, the more I was forced to open my eyes, to allow my heart to unlock and to be in the moment, no matter how awful it seemed. It was through this trusting of the unknown and the “process” that I was able to see clearly.

My first semester was a continuation of my psychology studies; it was my plan to become a music therapist. I focused on various psychological disorders and the “mother / daughter relationship.”

The second semester, I needed to incorporate more social sciences into my curriculum, so I decided to tap into my rich genealogy. I am a direct descendant of the Ingersoll’s of Salem Village, therefore my study was based on the events that led to the outbreak of the witch trials; 17th Century Salem Village Massachusetts.

That study opened the door to the study of Puritanism. My eighth great grandfather, Richard Pettingel, was what I refer to as a church cop. He patrolled Salem Village with his brother-in-law – one of the Ingersoll’s – and reported those who broke the Sabbath. He also was a grand juryman in the Ipswich Tryalls, which took a great deal of time to unearth.

The following semester I examined the foundations of Christianity, the Gnostic Gospels and the Nag Hammadi Texts. I was immersed in ancient texts, spending countless hours researching and chipping away at my rapidly crumbling Christian foundation.

I also completed a thirty credit Excel program, writing about my work as a Civil War Era musicologist and performer.

As I became deeply connected to my ‘new’ mountain and pond, finding comfort in my natural surroundings and unlimited ancient texts and writing; my life continued to transform. The more I learned, the more I realized I did not know. This continuum was the grounding force for me. My former belief that I needed a certain level of materialistic and financial security had fallen away. Of course it is best to be comfortable and meet your needs and take care of your family, but it is worthless if you do not follow your inner compass or even know where to find it.

The more oppressed my situation seemed, the more awakened I became. The more hardship I faced, the more compassion I was able to feel for others. I discovered that the more broken the system was, the more corrected and healed I became. I was finally able to hear, see and comprehend all that mattered. The lessons that I was learning, I had learned before intellectually, but not completely, as it was necessary to actually inhabit poverty to know it. I needed to feel the hunger, which burns inside of me now.

This descent into neediness and material deprivation peaked during my culminating semester at Vermont College, where my study was entitled:
Pauperism in New Hampshire: Historical Research of the Life and Death of Forgotten Individuals of the 19th Century Poor Farms, Reclaiming Their Lost Souls and Existence. Studying the Pauper Cemetery.

After completing my study and graduating, I contemplated the next move. I wanted to go to Harvard Divinity School, learn Coptic and devote my life to studying the Gnostic Gospels and Nag Hammadi Texts, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Often, I found myself sitting in the grass beside the “Indian” woman’s grave in silence, interrupted occasionally by the sounds of nature in the surrounding woods.

I decided to go to graduate school and get my MFA in Creative Writing. I approached this with familiar uncertainty. My thesis was a memoir, something that I had to get out of the way. After I graduated, I returned to the cemetery, offering tobacco to the “Indian” woman and allowing the collective spirit of the paupers to emerge.

Photo Courtesy of: http://vintagecatnip.blogspot.com/

The Indian Women - I Know Them Both

2010-12-26T21:14:00.000-05:00

Nellie’s intriguing tendency to slip into another place and time, weaving her extraordinary narrative with elements of past and present, offers a glimpse of her rich inner life. Certain triggers evoke seamless transitions into memories and reflections that span her lifetime of a full century.

Personally, I gained a great deal from combining the actual “100-year-old Indian woman” as indicated in the Ossipee town records, with my own great grandmother, Nellie Baldwin. I never met her and heard only fragments about her from my father and his siblings. Through historical records and research, I was able to create a sense of what could have been my great grandmother’s life in the back story, thankful that she did not end up with the same fate as the woman in the pauper’s grave. In my way, I know them both.

The birds circled high above, waiting for our departure. Father Sky was clear and blue during the Winter Making Moon. The wind blew hard through trees that shivered; we were warm in clothing made from hides.

The warm blood covered the white snow like a bold red flower. We bowed our heads in thanks to the Mountain Spirit and to the spirit of the rabbit. My eyes watered from cold air when we moved from the woods to the clearing.

I made my snowshoes fit in the tracks made by my husband. The call of the small black and white birds, the flutter of wings and the tapping of beaks in tall trees sang the song of Our Mother, bringing thoughts of my earth mother who I would see only in the otherworld. I watched the rabbit on my husband’s pack; the silken white fur parted in the sharp wind.

We passed along the frozen banks of Cold River towards our home where the curl of gray smoke rose from the dying fire. We’re almost there Nanatasis. My husband took longer, quicker strides. The white creature moved with each step.

He reached the place where we made fires and hung the remains of the rabbit on the rope. Like a child, he dropped his outdoor possessions beside the door, removed his snowshoes and rushed into our home. We did not belong to the black robes who celebrated the birth of their dead king; my husband desired to celebrate the solstice with a feast and the exchange of one gift. My heart laughed with joy in his presence.

My friend the raven landed on the long branch of the maple. His black feathers shined green, purple and blue in the light. His wing brushed against me as it passed from the world of my dreams to the present dimming light of day. His cry grew to be the scream of a woman. – Nellie Baldwin, December 18, 1872

Sister Snow Angels

2010-12-19T15:22:00.000-05:00

“Excuse me; I’m not goin' far. Only to the edge of the field for a pine bough, sir.” I kept my eyes down and cinched my cape around the base of my neck. “Now if you don't mind steppin' aside.” I ducked under his arm and dashed down the icy walkway.

The thin cold air snatched my breath away. I stopped and leaned against the barn, keepin’ my back to him while he continued to stare. How did I manage to utter a word? I jumped when the life inside poked, like a compass pointin’ me in the right direction, any direction, urgin’ me to get on with it, to simply move on.

I heard not a sound except for the shoutin’ women comin’ from upstairs. I thought about lookin’ up to the window, but I changed my mind and walked on into the night. The fluffy snow sparkled in long rectangles stretched out on the ground from the light in the windows. I threw my head back; the flurrying pinpoints in endless black tunnels raced towards me.

With outstretched arms, I spun around in circles making my way to where the trodden path met the virgin snow. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my hand out to where Sarah would have been and fell straight back into the snow. I imagined her laughter. Abby, you must fall back neatly or your snow angel will be spoiled. I raised my arms over my head, spread my legs and swished them up and down into the snow makin’ an impression of an angel beneath me.

I stood up carefully, turned quickly and looked at the angel. It was perfect; certainly, the most perfect snow angel I had ever seen. Hot salty tears ran down my cheeks and into my mouth. I began rockin’ back and forth. One solitary angel brought forth more pain than I thought possible. I wrapped my arms around myself and squeezed tight as the snow started to blow sideways again.

I turned my back on the angel. This angel cannot exist without her sister. I threw myself back beside where I had laid before and ran my arms and legs into the snow embedding a deeper angel. I stopped with my arms above my head and feet out to the side. Sarah. Oh Dear God in Heaven. I cannot go on. What good is it to have one angel when there were always two? I lay in the snow with tears flowin’ from so deep inside of me that I feared they might not cease.

- Abigail Hodgdon, December 18, 1872 -

Photo: http://vintagecatnip.blogspot.com/

Tears for Kay: The Lapsed Notice

2010-12-12T17:00:00.001-05:00

Sweeping poor, insignificant people under the rug is not limited to our sordid, undocumented or well known past. This practice is thriving here and now. Hiding crimes against humanity and genocide – whether in a constant trickling manner in plain sight, in secret work camps or straight ambush attacks – often go undetected or those who see it choose to look the other way. This is a complexity that I will not delve into, however, as events become more transparent throughout history and in the present – I am learning how to effectively grasp and process that in which I witness.

The ignorant bliss that the general public has conveniently adopted has become a widespread epidemic. Evidence of massive injustice unfolds right before our eyes and it seems to have been accepted as the status quo. Sensitive souls, cognizant of the demise of the poor and rapidly vanishing middle class, feel powerless in the way of making changes or taking a stand against the powers that be. Compassionate folk sift through the relentless onslaught of heartache revealed in the media from around the world and in our own backyard, and take a deep breath and move on.

Anonymous, hidden and mass gravesites created out of necessity due to natural catastrophes and human atrocities are a gruesome part of human existence in most cultures. We discover them in horror and ask what went wrong, or we know what went wrong and only pray that it doesn’t happen again, although we know that it will and is happening in every living moment on some faraway corner of the planet.

Then we learn about the individual who dies because of a mindless glitch in paper work, or red bureaucratic tape. We shake our heads and mumble something about how wrong it is. We might discuss it with our friends over a cup of coffee, unwilling to truly comprehend the grimness of such a situation because we don’t know the victim.

Yesterday I sat down and read this article on page three of the Conway Daily Sun. Yesterday, I wept.

"N.H.: Utility not to blame in power shutoff death

CONCORD (AP) – New Hampshire regulators said Thursday an electric utility acted appropriately when it shut off power to a woman who didn’t pay her power bill and died after an oxygen machine she needed stopped working.

The state Public Utilities Commission reviewed the National Grid’s disconnection of service to Kay Phaneuf, 53 of Salem.

She died on June 24, three days after her husband found her unconscious, about an hour after power was cut. Police said that the bill wasn’t paid.

Her account had a medical protection notice to prevent such a shutoff in the past, but it had lapsed.

“The death of Ms. Phaneuf was tragic,” the commission report said. “However, the facts revealed during the investigations by the Salem Police Department, the Rockingham County Attorney, and the commission staff do not indicate that National Grid acted in violation of applicable regulations.”

The commission concluded there was no reason for it to take any action against the utility."

I ask you, is this really okay?

Photograph Courtesy of: http://www.graphicsfairy.blogspot.com/

The Soul of a Barn

2010-12-07T15:24:00.001-05:00

Remembering a barn and entering it, is to remember my heart and enter my soul. I am certain that a wide assortment of thoughts and ideas come to mind for each of us when we conjure an image of a barn. For those of you who have only books and movies for a reference point, I offer my condolences. Barns have been and continue to be one of the common threads woven throughout my life.

Several barns of my childhood come to mind. Our first family barn – a traditional, unattached, 19th century beauty – still stands in the quaint village of Center Sandwich, New Hampshire. It’s what is known as a “bank” barn, meaning that it is built into a hill allowing two levels to be entered from the ground. The lower level housed animals and was almost always situated on the south side to allow a sunny and dry spot. The upper hillside was convenient for wagons to enter the main entrance and thresh and store grain. This barn boasts a huge main entrance and open center surrounded by stalls and two additional stories that serve as lofts.

There is an outhouse in the back with two holes, shelves and a large horseshoe nail for hanging the Farmer’s Almanac or Sears catalogue depending upon the family’s preference. Of course when we inhabited the residence we had plumbing, so the outhouse was simply a relic or emergency stop for the kids when running all the way to the house was inconvenient.

Like many historic New England “bank” style barns, the lofts were not accessible by traditional stairs, so we shimmied up a pole to get to the second and third stories. The barn was solid; however you could see daylight between the cracks of the inner structure. I remember very old car doors stacked in one of the lofts and other oddities tucked in and around all of the unique rooms and spaces of the barn.

I had one of those plastic bouncing horses with springs that I kept in one of the horse stalls. That particular stall had a door that opened to the back yard, which was quite high above the ground. I am sure that if I returned, like other childhood memories, the height of the door will be much lower than my recollection. I used to climb down to the ground on a tree that grew beside the door. My earliest memory of deciphering art clouds came from that sacred spot on the ground near the base of the tree. To this day, I recreate the blue sky and puffy clouds when I close my eyes to meditate.

In our lifetime, the lower level for housing animals became a healthy vineyard abundant with Concord grapes. They were quite bitter at times, but we enjoyed them in spite of it.

This was the beginning of my long standing relationships with barns. I found myself spending a great deal of time in the barn. After I outgrew my bouncing horse, I parked my orange and chrome bicycle in the stall. I didn’t give it too much thought until this moment; it was as if I unconsciously brought my horse to and from the stable. It was a habit; simply a part of my routine.

Typical New England stonewalls meandered throughout the property, serving as boundaries. Our neighbor’s horses were in the pasture that bordered our back yard. At that time, I was horrified by their hugeness to the point where I panicked when they escaped and had nightmares about being trampled. My sisters, friends and I dared each other to touch the electric fence.

In Holderness – a bordering town – my grandparents operated one of the largest dairy farms in the region. I spent weeks at a time at their farm and my family celebrated holidays and regular visits. There were hundreds of dairy cows, chickens, pigs, horses, gardens and a maple sugar shack. The farm was set on a mountainside overlooking Squam Lake, known as “Golden Pond” from the classic movie.

That barn is a massive “bank” barn with a dizzying, forbidden silo in the back. The lower level built for housing dairy cows contained several hundred milking stations. There are dozens of stalls on the main floor for horses and several areas for more cows. In my time, the lofts were always filled with hay.

I loved that barn. I learned the basics of farming by observing my unapproachable grandfather. I watched him nurture, manage and herd the cows. The other animals and plants were in their appropriate outbuildings – coops, piggeries and greenhouses. The cows and horses were in the barn. I often wondered how the views would be from the cupola, but was never allowed to go above the main floor.

A little north and nestled in the White Mountains is my father’s birthplace – Campton. My Aunt Irene and Uncle Bill lived on a completely different style of farm; a New England Victorian. It was designed for a small, independent farm family, with neat rambling buildings attached.

This was a perfect example of how a barn reflects a person’s personality. Uncle Bill was a serious vegetable farmer. His barn housed an impressive tractor and attachments, equipment such as sharpening tools and lathes, and a wide assortment of standard tools. He also had a root cellar, canning room and potting shed. There was a modest area with a few stalls, which he used for storing an antique car. His barn was orderly, tidy and swept clean. He knew where everything was; this barn demanded respect and was always quite cool, even on the hottest summer day. Although I enjoyed family get-togethers there, learned how to throw a Frisbee and snap countless green beans; the barn was off limits to children, hence that barn remains somewhat in the shadows.

When we moved to Center Harbor, again we moved into an old farmhouse. The style of this farm was different than the one in Sandwich. All of the buildings were connected in a rambling fashion. Attached to the kitchen, the front part of the barn was a wagon or carriage house and the back area was for livestock, suited more for the gentleman farmer who had a few animals for plowing and working the fields and wood and a horse or two for practical use.

It did not have the down under place for the animals. There was a back area specifically for a blacksmith. There were several stalls and an upstairs attic accessible by stairs. The farmer who lived there before us left many treasures in the attic, including an old fiddle that my parents gave to the granddaughter of the previous owners after I found it creating a scribble over my head for many years.

However, there was a beautiful old upright piano in the main part of the barn that worked and for reasons unknown to me, was in tune for years. I played it day and night, in all seasons, and for one entire summer with a cast on my arm. It was that good.

Other than an occasional skunk and family of raccoons that stayed around for several generations – perplexing my father who finally caught me feeding them – we had no animals living in the barn. We had an impressive vegetable garden that my father worked in tirelessly and yielded a respectable crop.

That barn was the home of harmony; my companion. I went there for so many reasons in a myriad of emotional states as I grew from a girl to a young woman. The barn and my music both provided a sacred place. As I mentioned, there was the glorious piano. We left the big, green glossy piano in our home in Sandwich. The barn piano was better. Other than being cold and raw at times, I believe I played it every day. I had taken enough piano lessons to give me the foundation to continue exploring chord structure and basic harmony. I worked diligently on the piano and in my trumpet studies. I was driven and other than me, no one cared whether I did this or not. This time and exploration proved to be fundamental in my later years as a professional musician.

I think that the most important barn was the one in New Hampton. That was the barn of my children and of my motherhood. It housed chickens – sometimes more than fifty at a time – bunnies and goats. It was filled with life – or as Silas would say, livestock and deadstock. Not only did this farm provide a safe world for the animals, it was an invaluable learning experience for my children – who I was homeschooling at the time. I had always cared for animals at my grandparent’s farm and the pets that I had growing up. It was my wish to live a self sustaining lifestyle and to teach my children well. I became the farmer and the farmer’s wife.

The sounds varied greatly and each provoked different responses within. For example, the crowing rooster obviously signals the start of the day. I was warmed and inspired by the call of the rooster. I will admit that on very cold days, when the temperature was well below zero, I pulled the covers under my chin and rolled over in my nice warm bed. This comfort did not last, as every good farmer has a conscience. I threw back the quilt and went downstairs to stoke the wood stove and start my coffee. I looked up at the barn and smiled because I knew that the goats were romping anxiously in their pens, the bunnies wiggling their noses and the chickens that were not busy laying were shuffling, murmuring and pecking about.

I pulled my jacket on over my flannel nightgown and stepped into my barn boots. With my egg basket in hand, I made my way up the hill to the barn. The goats always bleated wildly when they heard the door and certain roosters increased their crowing. There is a great deal of mutual respect between the farmer and her animals. I care for them and in return they produce eggs and milk. I was never a meat farmer until quite recently with pigs, and I will admit that it did not set well and provoked a deep feeling of uncertainty in the philosophy of meat eating, even under the most favorable possible conditions – organic and healthy – I am presently at odds.

Various seasons produce various reactions. In the spring, the barn is filled with surprises. I adored the peeping and hatching of baby chicks. Watching them follow their mother around the yard is a sight to behold. The baby bunnies were cute, but useless to me and a lesson learned. Many people eat rabbit meat; we did not, so they were a rapidly multiplying problem.

The goats were quite eager to get out and eat after a long winter without fresh greens. Their excitement, curiosity and determination are like that of children. They are impatient and energetic and stop at nothing to get their way.

I love the smell of hay. Hay dust sparkles like gold in the sunlight providing a false sense of warmth in the dead of winter. It is surreal when hay dust shimmers in sheets of silence. In those moments it is difficult but not impossible to breathe. The ruffling of feathers reminds me that we are in it together.

The worst part about winter is providing fresh water. Of course the water freezes, so it is a constant chore. There are gadgets to keep water from freezing, but we did not have them. Their lives depend on us – was our mantra.

The energy in the barn was edgy and evident as I made my way up the pathway. The goats were stomping and the chickens fluttering. As I walked up the ramp, I paused. They paused. That moment of silence and anticipation was almost too much. When I opened the door, the goats shrieked, the chickens squawked. Goats are so dramatic. The bunnies hopped to the front of their hutches and pressed their wiggling noses against the mesh.

Other than pig manure after much rain in the heat of summer, so far I have not had an issue with the scent of farm animals. I actually like the smell of a farm; it is comforting and reassuring. It is the sign of life, earth, honor and how I like to conduct my life. It is unsettling that most people rely on the idea that food comes from the store. For me, if I can help it, it comes from the earth, the barn, the fields and orchards.

In “Etched in Granite” many of the scenes are connected to a barn. In fact, the barns are where some of the most pivotal events unfold. I am quite comfortable with barns and understand their importance in the lives of rural New Englanders.

Forget Me Not

2010-11-28T16:52:00.000-05:00

What is it like to be forgotten? That is similar to wondering if a tree that falls in the forest makes a sound if no one is present to hear it. When I discovered the graveyard with numbered stones, why did it matter so much for me to find their identities?

I believe that I was discovering for the first time what it was like to be hugely affected by a simple twist of fate. It is all too common and much too easy to end up in a challenging place brought forth by unforeseen circumstances. Whether or not it actually happens to you is neither here nor there. For me, at the time of stumbling across the graveyard, I stood at the edge of the abyss of a place that I never imagined. I knew that it was a dark place – lonely and previously uninhabited – and I was meant to be there for a multitude of reasons, which remain in a constant state of revelation. It is there that I was able to see clearly for the first time.

Poverty is constant. It comes in many forms, colors, and shapes brought forth by an assortment of conditions. Some are born into it, others fall into it, some are driven to it at the hands of others and some actually choose it. The poor have better overall survival skills than the middle and upper classes. Many have learned to be creative and innovative in order to exist. There are ineffective and wasteful government programs such as Welfare, Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid to name a few of these programs that have exhausted their resources – exploited by both recipients and those with political agendas.

To me, the dilemma is not only within broken systems. I want to know how one gets there and gets out, and if getting out is entirely possible. I know from my own personal experience, as I was free falling into financial destitution, unemployment and hopelessness, the only place to turn was inward. Facing fear in the way of raising children, keeping them warm, fed and under a roof became perilous and unpredictable. I became a survivor in a completely different sense than what I was accustomed to or even knew existed.

It stopped mattering how I got there. I needed to figure out where ‘there’ was, how to get out and where ‘out’ was. This is tricky yet simple. The drive to understand how people survived and didn’t survive in the 19th Century Poor Farm down the road became an obsession. As I walked along the rows of numbered stones, all I wanted to do was tell them that I was listening and that their existence would no longer be hidden, buried and burned in old town hall fires.

The more information that I discovered, illuminated the more that I needed to know. Collectively, we know quite little about the commoners and the very poor, because our history books are written by wealthy, affluent individuals, primarily from a male perspective. What we know is merely an illusion. It takes effort and diligence to get at the truth; it is worthwhile and I believe we owe it to the forgotten as well as ourselves.

I chose Abigail as a narrator for many reasons, mostly because I understand her fate. I understand how a series of events can falsely color a person’s character and make life unimaginably difficult. She was a victim of circumstances.

I became keenly aware of this phenomenon when I learned that I am a direct descendant of the Ingersoll’s of Salem, Massachusetts. I devoted an entire semester study at Vermont College to 17th Century Salem Village Massachusetts and the events leading to the Witch Hysteria. I wasn’t interested in the traditional, well-known assumptions packed in the history books as we know it. I obtained nuggets of vital interest, primary sources, tucked away in church and town records as well as various private collections, diaries and genealogical records – my own family history book! My ancestors played a critical role as plaintiffs and held inquiries and inspections in the famous “Ingersoll House,” which is still standing. I went to the Peabody Essex Museum and viewed documents that Nathaniel Ingersoll signed pertaining to witch accusations.

I continued digging and discovered that this church cop thing went back to the 1620’s when Richard Pettingel (my 8th Great Grandfather) patrolled the village to make sure that people were following the Sabbath rules. He was also a Grand juryman in the Ipswich Tryalls. I believe that this was his ticket to freedom from indentured servitude. I spent years researching the Puritans and my family’s role in the madness.

Perplexed and horrified by my findings, my studies brought me back to the origins of Christianity, the Gnostic Gospels and ancient texts, primarily the Nag Hammadi Texts. I became immersed in ancient feminine wisdom. I was at a fork in the road, considering Harvard Divinity School, when everything changed (like it always does). I obtained my MFA in Creative Writing, resumed my history studies and listened closely to the voices of the 298.

There is a combination of forces behind the writing of this novel. First and foremost, it is a story of remembering an ugly, dark time in our nation’s past that has gotten away with being forgotten. Abigail, Nellie, Patience, Silas, Moses and the others will have no part of it and neither will I.

The Man of a Thousand Voices Talking Perfectly Loud

2010-11-16T14:32:00.000-05:00

The Fool on the Hill
(Lennon/McCartney)

Day after day, alone on the hill
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him
They can see that he's just a fool
As he never gives an answer
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

Well on the way, head in a cloud
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him
Or the sound he appears to make
And he never seems to notice
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

And nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do
And he never shows his feelings
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around

He never listen to them
He knows that they're the fools
They don't like him
The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around.

Every time I envision the old and senile folks on the Poor Farm crushing rocks daily from sunrise to sunset, The Fool on the Hill, wails on the radio station in my head.

The lonely, wretched hill screamed silently like an obnoxious billboard. The muted light from the dying sun barely made it through the tall pine trees but was enough to illuminate the grayness of the day. Uneven snow drifts settled in and about the thick, granite stones. Pain and suffering hung over them all and nestled inside of me. It was clear that I would return to them and bring their stories to the light of day.

I had so many questions. Who are they? Why so many? The stones are identical and numbered? Why are they separated from the other, normal cemetery? When did this happen?

Nothing happens by accident. Many locals claim that they do not know about this graveyard, yet it is in plain sight on a main road and boasts 298 stones. It is beside a cemetery that is still in use with fresh graves, yet it goes virtually unnoticed. Perhaps this denial is collective generational shame. There are more forces at work here than one simple explanation.

I have already discussed the shame and disowning of the paupers both in their lives and in today’s society. I could pull out any file drawer at the town hall or local random business and at least 50% of the surnames match the roster of the dead paupers buried there.

I have the dreaded list. I gathered information and compiled data regarding their names, birth and death dates and grave numbers. I found out who they were in life, such as laborer, orphan, teamster or transient as well as who they were in death. The town records even offered up things like who was senile or feeble; one soul was a ‘100 yr old Indian woman’ who became Nellie Baldwin in my novel. I took this opportunity to delve into my own family’s Abenaki heritage. Writing this story brought me on a journey into the past; my past, your past, their past.

I have a ritual of listening to certain music when I write; it takes me into ‘the zone’. Once I am in that zone, there is no escaping. I love it. In this case, the music becomes an entryway into the 1870’s. The scents, sights and sounds transport through time and onto the page. I am there.

I enjoyed finding out things such as what types of apples were grown, harvested and used in Carroll County, New Hampshire during that time (Durgin and Farm Sweets). Then I learned which apples were sweet and for eating and which ones were for baking. It was those little details that reeled me into the heart of the narrative.

I became so involved in researching Nellie’s medicinal herbs and plants, that I am sipping dandelion root tea as I write this and have stepped up my naturopathic healing practices. The woods were always a vital component in my life, however now I am harvesting more than before the writing of this novel and the researching of Nanatasis or Nellie.

I completely inhabited the characters. When developing each persona, their particular voice drew strength from my own character and associations. Suddenly, many of my experiences had more value than I could have imagined. A lifetime of farming – living a self sustaining, rustic lifestyle in the rugged mountainous New Hampshire terrain – became a treasure trove of resources. My history degree, background as a Civil War musicologist and reenactor, researching and creating a historically correct performance, offered more insight into this book than the actual musical performances.

Each character demands authenticity, which became a way of life in the writing of this story, or should I say the many stories woven together. From visiting the medicine caves near the Canadian border to holding my breath in fear of getting caught when I found myself spontaneously driving through former Poor Farm fields; every fine point in every scene became a reality in my creative consciousness. I thrived on discovering details, which often led to many other details and distinctions that opened up another new world with each passing day.

Nobody seems to like him…however, the man with a thousand voices talking perfectly loud…has been heard.

Photo Compliments of: http://www.graphicsfairy.blogspot.com/

Timeless

2010-11-13T11:27:00.000-05:00

As I recently expressed in my blog, Heady Blossoms, November is not a month; it is a feeling. I share with Abigail this timeless awareness that resides within.

Thoughts churned about in my head. Through the frosted window, I watched and waited for the break of day. Heavy snow fell from swollen gray clouds that gripped the ridge. Moses and Mrs. Blake shuffled about the kitchen in muted disgrace. I finally mustered the strength to unclench my stiff body, remove the thick blanket and step onto the icy floor.

I tucked Hope into the chest before dressin’. The howlin’ wind reminded me of the woolen shawl that Mrs. Blake gave to me. Will she take it back? I tied the frayed ribbon under my chin and pressed the old straw bonnet firmly onto my head.

After a few small yet deliberate steps, I paused at the top of the stairs. The shutters wailed, thumping within the walls of my chest. Heat pricked my cheeks in spite of the bitter chill. I carried on until I was halfway downstairs. I stopped and watched Moses drum his fingers on the table while he sipped his coffee. Mrs. Blake with her scarlet face and untamed hair sproutin’ from her snood – urgently stirred some sort of batter. The door shook, threatenin’ to rip from the hinges, and a trifle of fluffy snow blew in through the cracks.

[…]

Broken corn stalks rattled in the wind and ice covered branches clicked against the remnants of the apple trees. Something wasn’t quite right. At breakfast, Moses, who ordinarily went on ‘bout the weather and such, joined Mrs. Blake and me in our usual grim silence. My boots crunched on frozen puddles as I made my way to the barn. I rubbed my woolen mittens together before reachin’ for the latch on the door. I shivered at the clinkin’ of metal against metal; it seemed louder that day. The reassurin’ scent of hay and manure burned my nostrils.
– Abigail Hodgdon, November 24, 1872

Barn Dances and Hoop Skirts

2010-11-02T20:56:00.000-04:00

Barn dances in rural, mid-19th Century New Hampshire provided much needed relief from the daily grind. Moses usually hosted barn dances in the relatively new barn that Silas helped him build. These occasions gave the town folk a chance to wear their best clothes and mingle. Young people took this opportunity for socializing and courtship; the men talked about farm business and the women gossiped.

Folks wandered in bit-by-bit ‘til the place was nearly full. The chatter hushed when the Gilman’s carriage approached. Jessie was peerin’ out from behind her fan. I jerked my head around when the music started with a sharp sour chord that quickly came in tune. I saw Jessie outta the corner of my eye; she was walkin’ my way wearing a dark purple gown. I never saw nothin’ like it. It was a kind of special material, silk or somethin’ with jewels on it. Her hair was all fancy with a big black feather stickin’ out. I leaned back into the chair.

“Good Evening.” She was all a flutter with her fan and her eyelashes.
“Evenin’.” The chair clattered when I stood up and removed my hat.
“I shall think it finer after I have had the pleasure to dance.” She fanned. She laughed.
I scanned the room for Abigail, stared down at my boots and then back at her.
“Will you accompany me to fetch some lemonade? It’s dreadfully hot in here.” A whiff of flowery perfume stung the inside of my nostrils.
“Ayuh.” I was a bit unhinged when I took note of folks gawkin’ and whisperin’. She placed her small gloved hand in the crook of my elbow and we walked over to the refreshment table where Noah and Mariah Jones served up lemonade and hard cider for the men folk. Silas Putnam – August, 1872.

Square dancing was popular and the caller was accompanied by local musicians – commonly a fiddle, concertina or banjo. Many standard fiddle tunes that they played such as Turkey in the Straw and St Anne’s Reel are still popular today.

My vast experience as a Civil War Reenactment musician was quite helpful in writing about the music of this era. In addition to playing the solo Eb cornet, my responsibilities in the Regiment Serenade band included insuring a historically accurate performance. We wore period attire, played on vintage 1860’s instruments and performed authentic music, some which was written in the field. At many Living Histories and Reenactments, we provided music for balls and dances.

I also play the cello. I enjoy orchestral and chamber music. My training was traditional classical, so when I was invited to jam with fiddlers at contra dances; it was a challenge as well as a great opportunity for me to learn improvisation. Improvising on the trumpet and cornet came easy to me, as it was my profession, however improvising at contra dances and following the caller and fiddlers soon became a useful tool for me as a cellist.

When adding music scenes, I was able to draw upon the musical experiences that I share with my family. We performed together frequently when they were still at home. Because of our home school life, we were able to practice together often and evolve. We played serious classical music as well as fiddle and folk music. My son – an accomplished violinist now residing and playing professionally in Boston – attended the NH Scottish School of the Arts while studying classical violin. His exposure to the world of fiddling opened doors for us all. My daughter who is also a cellist, my oldest son, a guitarist and pianist, and I joined in jamming and dancing; it became a way of life. It was typical to have a living room filled with fiddles, concertinas, tin whistles, guitars, cellos, Ulliean pipes, Bodhran drums, citterns and that is not even touching the brass.

The musicians showed up one by one. Frank Miles – well known in these parts – always had his fiddle under his chin. He was a string bean with long lean arms and wiry legs. I s’pose the women took to him cause he wooed ‘em with his fiddlin’. His brother John followed close behind with his banjo strapped on his back. He was more of a scrapper than Frank, brawlin’ in the tavern and takin’ to the jug. Their fiery sister Anna showed up last with her concertina. She was easy on the eye, broke all the rules wearin’ her wild, black curly hair free and her dress off her shoulders, exposin’ a good part of her breast. I sat and watched the three of them bicker while I waited for my pretty girl. – Silas Putnam, August 1872.

The men partook in hard cider and whiskey, while the women usually drank lemonade. It was at these dances that many difficult circumstances arose for Abigail and Silas.

Silas helped build Moses’ barn so he knew of a secret way to the hayloft. When Mother was not takin’ notice, Silas took my hand and led me out behind the stables.

“Silas, we should get back. What if Mother sees that I’m missin’?”

He leaned real close pressin’ his nose up against mine. “Shhh. It’s a secret. Your Mamma is busy with Mr. Tibbetts; she ain’t gonna notice.”

I thought that my heart might leap from my chest.

“Follow me.” He squeezed my hand and led me into the shadows. He lifted a black wrought iron bar on the heavy oak door; it creaked. We walked until we came to a wide ladder. “C’mon. You go first.” He whispered. – Abigail Hodgdon, August 1872 –

Music is important, especially music of the people. I am fortunate to be able to tap into my rich background to lend authenticity to the barn dances. After all, amongst other nifty things from that era, I have hoop skirts hanging in my closet (4 boned and flounced) and I understand everything that goes along with it.

All in a Day’s Work

2010-10-27T16:51:00.000-04:00

“Into many were herded the old and the young, the sick and the well, the sane and the insane, the epileptic and the feebleminded, the blind and the alcoholic, the juvenile and the delinquent criminal, male and female, all thrown together in haphazard fashion. Nakedness and filth, hunger and vice, and other abuses such as beatings by cruel keepers were not uncommon in many of these wretched places.”
Walter Trattner

A board of County Commissioners determined if a person or family should be committed to the County Poor Farm or Almshouse. If a person was caught begging, or if it became known that financial needs were not met, or if a person became a burden to society, he was sent to the Commission to determine his fate. There were and are no such things as a ‘Debtors' Prison’.

Moses hoisted himself up onto the sleigh. “We’ll go before the board first then get ya settled.” A fine white crust of ice clung to the tips of his moustache and beard.

The sleigh glided over the snow and the chuggin’ beasts huffed into the crisp air, keepin’ a steady rhythm with their hooves. Their harnesses jingled as if it were a festive event. “What board?” I shouted over the wind.

“Speak up. I can’t hear a word you’re sayin’.”

“What board is it that you’re talkin’ ‘bout?” I hollered.

His shoulders dropped. “The Board of County Commissioners, its jest procedure. It ain’t nothin’.” - Abigail Hodgdon, November 24, 1872

Inmates of the County Farm worked relentlessly. Their day consisted of rising before sunrise, working until sunset, eating a foul, thin gruel and retiring on a straw filled bed sack on the hardwood floor. A bell or gong signaled the beginning and end of the day. I could only imagine the effect of hearing that bell each day.

The bell rang out from downstairs and Miss Noyes hollered. “Breakfast!”

I scrambled out of bed, droppin’ Hope and kickin’ the tin cup across the room. Nellie reached for me. Her hand was warm and calloused, yet carin’ and soft at the same time allowin’ me to feel safe and loved in an unexpected manner. Abigail Hodgdon, November 25, 1872

In most cases, the work was difficult, demeaning and the treatment of inmates harsh and violent, as the farm bosses abused their power using excessive force. If an inmate spoke out of turn or rebelled in any way, the punishment was swift and intense. There were no laws in place to protect the inmates, so abuse was rampant. It was common for farm bosses to beat inmates; men, women and children. If the inmate was a repeat offender, he or she was placed in solitary confinement – a crude stall like structure – and left for days without food and sometimes chained like an animal.

Rest only came to the aged who were unable to crush rocks with the other elders and feeble minded at which time were frequently tied to their chairs or left in their own excrement in moldy straw bed sacks. Rest came to the sick, whose days were numbered due to lack of care and nutrition, and mothers had a day or two to recover from childbirth. Because of Nellie, referred to in the town records as the 100-year-old Indian Woman, the death rate was not as high. Nellie, or Nanatasis – her Abenaki name – was a medicine woman, healer and midwife and was permitted to treat her fellow inmates.

As expected, the infant mortality rate was high, however in the event of a live birth; a mother could work with the child in a sling providing the child does not take the mother away from her duties. Adoption was common and a child could be taken from the mother at any time and placed into an undisclosed home, never to see the birth mother again. The death toll for children at the Poor Farm was much higher than the mainstream population.

I have never seen a dead person, only pine boxes containin’ them. I hesitated before lookin’ at Mahitable, ‘spectin’ her to move or cry out for her son. She lay with the bleak mornin’ light gleamin’ in her eyes and her mouth opened; her final breath bein’ a timeless cry for her son. - Abigail Hodgdon, December 27, 1872

“No child between the ages of 3 and 15 could legally be kept at the poor farm for more than 60 days unless by consent of the state board of charities”. ii

Exceptions were typically made when a family entered the institution together, however they were separated and housed according to gender.

The elderly and feeble crushed rocks by hand for the purpose of brick making, roads and other such uses. The younger, able-bodied men worked in the fields plowing, planting, harvesting and haying. Using teams of oxen and draft horses, the men logged trees for firewood and the saw mill.

The stick hit, first soft, then hard. “Move along, old woman.” She smiled…not a smile to warm, but a smile to make cold in my spirit.

I swallowed the remains of grass that grew bitter on my tongue. I walked away from where the truth lay in waiting, leaving Nanatasis’ laughter at the banks of Crooked River.

She pointed to the other side of the field. “Git over there to them rocks with the other idiots. Go on.” Like he who watched over cattle, she pushed against my back with the stick. “Ain’t you ever got nothin’ to say?”

I looked to Father Sky. The small black and white birds searched and searched. All hushed as the red tail made great circles. I waited for him to depart to the North.

I walked to the gathering place of we who crushed rocks – men and women with age, women in yellow, and those with words that had no meaning. One laughed and the other wept. At nightfall, I slept on the banks of Crooked River under the shelter of stars. – Nellie Baldwin, June 30, 1872

In order to make tools, equipment and shoe horses, there was a blacksmith on the premises. Farm bosses were overseers of this sort of operation, however if a qualified skilled craftsman fell on hard times and ended up at the farm, he would be assigned to work under the blacksmith. This practice applied to all trades, however, the majority of those sentenced to the County Poor Farm and Almshouses were unskilled, emotionally or physically disabled, elderly or just plain unlucky.

Other aspects of farming were customary on the farm such as livestock, maple sugaring, firewood vegetable, fruits – apples, berries – planting and harvesting.

Although many women did men’s field work, they never worked side by side and were housed in separate quarters until well into their sixties to avoid more unwanted mouths to feed. The women sewed bedticks, shrouds, shawls, dressed, work shirts, night caps and other necessary garments; they laundered those same items, although not often enough to maintain healthy standards and they scrubbed floors and pots and pans when necessary.

The typical Farm Boss did as little as possible for his meaty paycheck and likely landed the job as a political favor. The budget was tight, the harvest was abundant, yet the overworked and underfed souls were close to starvation.

As in all stories, there are many perspectives, as we see through the eyes of Silas, who faced conflict every day while trying to live up to the expectations of his fellow bosses. Being cruel and mean did not come easily to him as he maintained a fine balance between integrity and status.
_____________________________________
i      Trattner, Walter. From Poor Law to Welfare State: A History of Social Welfare in America.
      New York: The Free Press. 1989.
ii    http://www.poorhousestory.com/NH_LegalSummaryExcerpt.htm

Holy Moses: Farm Boss, Father Figure, Magician

2010-10-25T15:53:00.000-04:00

Moses is that man in everyone’s life who possesses a crusty, straightforwardness that keeps us in line. His brute honesty can be annoying at times, but it is a necessary grounding force. As I have mentioned in other posts, I have drawn much of the male characters’ traits from my sons and in this case my grandfather.

My grandfather was a gruff Yankee farmer – a man of few words. The words that he did use were often peppered with profanity and he always made a strong point. Like my grandfather, Moses smokes a pipe and grumbles to himself. I learned from observing Grampa, that the farm animals and assurance of running a large farm as effectively as possible was the focal point of his existence.

I remember taking notice of the smoke from my grandfather’s pipe circling around his head and how he clenched the stem between his teeth; he seemed deep in thought when he held a match over the bowl and his scarce laughter often transitioned into a coughing fit. It was these seemingly trivial habits and characteristics that shined through to my mind’s eye.

We worked in silence. I watched over the women as they scrubbed the crusted brown pots. I ordered them to sweep the floors and then go out to the garden. All the while, I kept thinkin’ ‘bout Emery’s face all twisted up. What scared him?

“Silas!” Moses hollered from the yard.

I went out to the barn; he was standin’ by the cart. I looked at the box and the small linen bundle covered in blood lyin’ on top of Emery. “Ayuh?” I turned away. In the distance, I could see the sun shinin’ behind Nellie as she knelt by the pond lookin’ up at the sky. She was a curious one. No words, but her thoughts was always stirrin’.

“Bury ‘em.” Moses held a match over his pipe and took two long tokes.

Charles was fixin’ up the brown horse. Big Ben came over carryin’ the cover to the coffin; he bent down and picked up some nails from the bench and stuck ‘em in his pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see William in the field workin’ the team.

I put my hands in my pockets. “Moses. Was it a boy? Or a girl?”

“What good comes from knowin’?”

“I was jest…”

“If you have ta know, it was a boy. Now go.” His pipe gurgled.

Charles hopped on the seat. “Let’s get this done. I wanna git home.”
- Silas Putnam, July 21, 1872

Moses is the “Superintendent” of the Carroll County Poor Farm, which is a weighty position in town. Even though he has access to the products from the County Farm, he maintains his own farm, which consists of a few animals, crops and a small apple orchard; enough for self sustaining. His wife, Miriam begrudgingly handles most of the chores; she gives the false impression that she is a willing worker and it is quite important for her to prove to the world that she is an upstanding member of the church. The fact is; the bitter and childless woman is mean spirited and jealous. Her spitefulness shapes many lives in unimaginable ways.

Bringing out this couple’s behavior and subtleties is significant in the undercurrent of the story. Being in a small farming community, the residents of Ossipee, New Hampshire in the 19th Century relied on each other for survival. For example, they congregated for barn raisings, hay harvesting, logging and other basic chores necessary for survival. It is important to note that earnest, hard work was rewarded with occasional barn dances, the sharing of a jug of hard cider and good old New England Pot Luck suppers, still popular today.

The anvil rang out from behind Moses as he headed in my direction. I knew that he was goin’ to ask me to do a chore that wasn’t to my likin’; he had that look about him.

“Silas.” He chewed on the end of his pipe. “Go work with him.” He nodded towards the far edge of the field where William Quimby worked a team of oxen.

“Yes, sir.” I was pleased to escape the boredom of the rock crushin’ place.

“One more thing.” He spit.

“Ayuh?”

“Make sure you come to my place tonight for the dance!” He slapped me hard on the back and laughed from deep in his gut before breakin’ into a fitful cough.
- Silas Putnam, August 30, 1872

Through this common neighborly practice, Moses and Miriam – longing for a son – all but adopt Silas. This is a symbiotic relationship because of the condition of Silas’ father upon his return from the Great War of the Rebellion. Hiram Putnam, an amputee, barely managing to navigate his way through the world on an ill fit wooden leg, suffers greatly from PTSD and alcoholism. Silas’ mother caters to Hiram’s every need – enabling him – perpetuating their dysfunction. As a young boy, Silas worked at Moses’ farm and as soon as he was able, he was a hired ‘farm boss’ on the County Poor Farm.

I was pleased that Mamma and Daddy chose not to go dancin’. All eyes would be on Daddy if he took to stumblin’ and hootin’ and hollerin’ as he tended to. He would spoil everything, tuggin’ on his jug and all and I would have to carry him home.
- Silas Putnam, August 30, 1872

The bond between Moses and Silas is not merely a laboring relationship; Moses offers advice and instructs him as any man would his son.

At the end of the day, Moses came into the piggery where I stood watchin’ the men replace one of the stall boards. He took his pipe from his shirt pocket and packed it with fresh tobacco from his pouch. “You ain’t gonna be able to avoid her forever ya know.”

I didn’t move.

He struck a match offa’ the wall, held it over the bowl and sucked on it a few times before puffin’ out a trail of smoke rings. “It’ll get easier in time.”

“I know I can’t avoid seein’ her forever.” I stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets.

His pipe gurgled; the orange red bowl glowed.

“You’re wrong. It ain’t gonna get easier.” I buttoned my shirt and pulled on my coat. With Moses on my heels, I left the piggery to fetch Major. Without a word, I hopped on my horse and galloped into the jagged sword of darkness that sliced through all that remained.
– Silas Putnam, November 25, 1872

As the story unfolds, their relationship reveals a loving nature; Moses’ harshness is actually endearing at times. Developing Moses’ character was a natural process and the reader may rely on him to point Silas – often mislead – in the right direction. If intentions were wishes, Moses would be a magician.

Nellie on the Farm; Nellie in the Wild

2010-10-19T18:16:00.000-04:00

Nellie lived with her people on the shores of Bitawbagok – Lake Champlain – according to the natural laws of Our Mother and the changing seasons; she adapted well to the domesticated farm, possessing a higher level of connection to the spirit of the animal, while completely understanding the purpose of their labor and slaughter. Honor was more important than domination. She did not tolerate the abuse of any animal nor did she ever take their strength and offerings for granted.

The powerful beasts, once far away, were close. Sweat covered bronze and breath came hard…

The dragging of the oxen plow reached into my dream. I watched the tip of the orange wing depart into the golden grasses. I rose to my feet while the sun neared the end of day; I tasted the salt of my sorrow upon my lips...

Hunting, fishing and harvesting was a way of life. Her people traveled to various parts of lakes and streams based on the cycle of fish. Migration, observing nature’s behavior patterns, weather and the heavens were the compass of Nellie’s people. They traveled silently like a fox through the rough Vermont wilderness to hunt, using all parts of the animal for meat, fat for oil, skins for clothing, and bones and cartilage for utensils, tools and numerous other uses. After every bit of the animal was used, the few remains were honored – scattered and burned in the fire – to assure their return to the hunting grounds.

After the Sugar Making month, the ice melted away from the lower, quiet stretch of Crooked River, signaling the time for boat making. Four winters passed since Mamijôla perished in White River. I traveled with my people along the shores of Bitawbagok...

Creatures watched and waited in the killing season. Unlike my people, white men did not honor their kill. Burying the carcass of the hunted and offering the bones to the fire, prevented animals from leaving the hunting grounds forever…

The warm blood covered the white snow like a bold red flower. We bowed our heads in thanks to the Mountain Spirit and to the spirit of the rabbit…

Nellie comprehended the sacred existence of all living beings and the unending circle of life and death. She had an advantage over the white man; she knew how to farm crops, and she also knew how to cultivate medicine for a variety of rituals and practices. Herbal remedies gathered from the surrounding environment and often traded over long distances were used to bring balance and harmony with themselves, their tribe, and all of life. Her knowledge of indigenous healing traditions was rich and effective until her death.

The woman cried. I went to the place where I keep many medicines, removed the board and reached inside the floor. In darkness, my fingers traced the outer edges of bark in search of white pine...

White men came to me when the doctor had no medicine for healing. A kind doctor, Doctor Bennett, came often and asked many questions. We walked amongst the trees, rivers and fields; I showed where healing grows…

After eight winters, the fever came to Water Village. I had many good medicines: black spruce bark with white maple bark, ground hemlock tea and juniper berries. I did not sleep. Many died from what white men called pneumonia…

From the memories, dreams and reflections of Nellie Baldwin, 1872.

Women Folk: Recapturing the Farm Experience

2010-10-13T13:14:00.000-04:00

I dipped into the same well of farming experiences that I used for my male characters to develop my female characters in the farm setting. I tapped into my firsthand perspective of all that I experienced from childhood to present day.

My understanding of farming transferred to individuals, such as Abigail, Mrs. Blake, Silas’ mother and the female farm bosses and workers. As a single parent, my personal role as the ‘farmer’ and the ‘farmer’s wife’ proved to be a treasure chest of knowledge.

As the ‘farmer’, I carried out the duties once typically considered a male role; building fences, housing, nesting boxes and feeding stations, deciding on which animals to purchase or breed, and which animals to walk away from, mucking out stalls and pens, chipping ice from blocked barn doors, to name a few chores.

As the ‘farmer’s wife’, I collected eggs, harvested, canned and baked, cooked soups and stews on the kitchen cookstove, kept the hearth warm and swept, tended to the children, decorated the house with fresh flowers, slept with a cat curled up at my feet and sometimes shed a tear. After lessons, stories and playing music with my family, sleep came easily.

After feeding the animals, milking two cows besides Lizzy and collecting a basketful of eggs, I washed and readied myself for a day of cookin’.

Mrs. Blake was in the kitchen hummin’ Rock of Ages, a hymn that was no longer a favorite seein’ she sung like a moose in the rut. “It’s about time you finished with the barn.” She wiped her hands on her apron. The kind woman who took me in after the fire was no more.

“We’ll be needing apples for bakin’. Take the basket here and fill it to the brim. Remember to pick the ones from the ground; they’re good for pies. Bring in a pumpkin for a pie too; make sure it’s big enough but not too big.” She smoothed her hair. “We’re havin’ roast duck with all the fixin’s. Have you roasted duck before, Abigail?”
- Abigail Hodgdon October 4, 1872.

I inhabited the joys of a warm barn with sun illuminating golden flecks of hay dust, the murmuring and cooing of chickens roosting at sunset, the bleating of an impatient Nubian goat wanting to rush outside to eat everything naughty, the scritch scratching of soft, wiggling bunnies in their hutches and being woken by the roosters’ crow each morning.

The danger of namin’ a baby chick too soon is that you’re apt to mistake a rooster for a hen. My favorite rooster Pearl was pure white with a bright red comb and wattle. He was a high-spirited creature; he crowed each day for at least an hour before sun up.
- Abigail Hodgdon August 22, 1872.

I imprinted the sorrow of a dead baby goat, still warm to touch followed by the tears of my children when we planted crocus bulbs after burying her on a knoll high on the mountain, a barn filled with bloody chicken parts after raccoons finally broke into the coop, making eye contact with a hungry mother fox who stops with your cochin hen – who Anna named “Pretty” – dangling lifeless in her mouth. Mother to mother, I knew that she did what she had to do.

My heart thumped hard at the sight of Pearl lying still on the floor. “Oh Lord, Pearl. What happened?” I dropped the bucket; all but the layin’ hens scurried around the spillt grain on the floor. Pearl looked up, stiff and unblinkin’, his bright red comb on one side frozen onto the floor and one tail feather stuck out to the side. There was no crowin’ this mornin’. I knew he was dead; I didn’t want to touch ‘im. I looked for blood, but found none. He must’ve taken sick.

Hot tears slid down my cheeks. Pearl was no ordinary rooster. I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my cape. He was clever and more ‘fectionate than any other chicken I came across in all my years. My thoughts turned to Pearl as a fuzzy yellow chick that I carried around in my apron pocket. Mother warned me. Don’t you be gettin’ attached to them farm animals, Abigail or you’ll be grievin’ for them when they are brought to the table. I promised her that Pearl was the only one and besides, at the time I believed her to be a layin’ hen. Mother promised me just the same that Pearl would be spared from the pot. In a short time, Pearl started crowin’. That changed everything. We did eat the other roosters and the hens too when they stopped layin’, but Mother kept her word.

It was quite important for me to keep our promise to Pearl and make sure he didn’t end up sittin’ in with boiled potatoes and turnips. I took a deep breath. It was one of them things like steppin’ on a spider. You want to kill it but not touch it at the same time. So I learned early on to leave the spiders alone. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them.
[…]
I rushed to the back of the barn, towards the woods. I walked fast, lookin’ behind me now and again before I broke into a run. The wind picked up and crispy brown leaves hurried across the hayfield as it started to spit snow. My breath puffed in steamy white clouds as I reached the edge of the woods.

I weaved my way through the birch trees, duckin’ under branches and steppin’ over fallen limbs before I stopped at an openin’. I thought it best to feed Pearl to the critters. Perhaps the turkey vultures would get him first or maybe a fox or a raccoon. I brushed away the layer of snow atop the leaves with my foot and stood holdin’ his stiff body. My face flushed and I sweat like it was a summer day under my heavy cape. I waited for my chest to stop heavin’ before I bowed my head.

Heavenly Father, I give to you one of my dearest friends and rooster, Pearl. I return him to the earth from where he came. He was a well mannered rooster and done a fine job wakin’ us up every mornin’ and he kept good care of the hens. Bless him. In the Lord’s name, I pray. A-Men.

His body thumped against the ground in the center of the circle. He was magnificently white against the golden leaf pile. I stood still for a few moments not really wantin’ to leave. A silky white tail feather swayed in the wind. I walked over and plucked it from him and slid it into my apron pocket with the tip up, careful not to tear the fine edges. I plodded back to the barn through the quickly accumulating snow with frozen blocks of ice instead of toes inside of my cracked soaked boots.

The wind calmed and the sun shined softly like a gauzy ball peerin’ through layers of dark gray and white clouds. The snowflakes were wet and heavy and fell gently. I stopped and looked up at the swirlin’ sky. Why does everyone have to die?
– Abigail Hodgdon November 20, 1872

Life and death took on new meaning.

Men Folk: Recapturing the Farm Experience

2010-10-11T16:34:00.000-04:00

My collective experiences as a longtime farmer provide a rich source of substance for my writing. I recall situations from my farming days in childhood, raising my family and life on the farm today. Many of my actions and reactions and those of my children and grandparents broaden the scope of scene and character development.

My kids and I worked hard on our farm; I incorporated the farm routine into our home school curriculum. If one were to take a glimpse of our every day life during that time, it could easily be mistaken for a scene from the 19th century. We maintained an authentic, rustic, self sustaining lifestyle.

I relied on my sons’ strength many times for carrying 50 lb feed bags, bales of hay and heavy water buckets. Their ability to split, lug and stack wood, and lift animals such as small goats was a core element of our success and the way of life for 19th century folks in rural New Hampshire.

Sweat and rain soaked my shirt and my arm muscles burned when I picked up the axe and wailed it into the thick maple log. The wood split in two and fell onto piles on each side of the choppin’ block. I swung harder each time and the pile kept on growin’.

“Silas.” Moses came up from behind.

I delayed my swing, holdin’ the axe in mid air. “What?” I slammed the metal axe head into the wood too much to one side causin’ it to splinter.

“It ain’t necessary for you to be doin’ all that.” He struck a match and held it over his pipe. “That’s what the folks here is s’posed to be doin’.” He puffed. “It’s Sunday.”

I leaned the axe against the choppin’ block. “You ain’t tellin’ me what I don’t know.” I ‘spected a talkin’ to because he was always watchin’ out for Jessie and me.

“We have more than enough wood and more than enough men to split’ it. You should be home with the Misses.” He kicked at the pile. “What’s a doin, boy?”

I crossed my arms and stared at him. “Wood is good.”

He laughed hard. So hard that he held his stomach and leaned against the rail. “Wood is good?” He doubled up and went from laughter to a coughin’ fit.

I shook my head, picked up the axe and swung, splittin’ it right down the middle with one strike. The wind blew my shirt up exposin’ my back to the rain. I reached into the pile for another piece of wood, the biggest one I could find. – Silas Putnam November 1, 1873.

Many of Silas’ encounters and traits were inspired by my eldest son, Miles who was quite focused on animal care. I also adopted mannerisms from my crusty grandfather – a long time Yankee dairy farmer. It was his crude, abrupt actions and straight forward language that worked quite well in the older male characters – Silas’ father, Moses and other farm workers. It was also useful to employ the dialect and expressions of the locals to appropriately color dialogue and action.

Ayuh, Daddy was right; dyin’ was jest a part of livin’. My goat died when I was ‘bout ten; I cried somethin’ wicked. He told me, son, if you have a farm, there’s gonna be livestock and there’s gonna be deadstock. I took the shovel and buried my goat behind the barn and never cried at the likes of deadstock again. – Silas Putnam, June 30, 1872.

When we first got our chickens on our small family farm, we had six hens and one rooster named Elvis (for obvious reasons). Being an assistant in raptor care at his job at the Squam Lakes Science Center, my son Miles was skilled in handling the chickens, frequently carrying them perched on his arm walking about in the yard. At first he didn’t realize that Elvis was viewing him as competition.

Within a short time, Elvis started to become aggressive towards Miles; the building agitation escalated to full blown attacks complete with spurs. Soon we were forced to collect eggs with a tennis racket, which led to Elvis’ demise.

We had many chickens following Elvis and some roosters became ill tempered because that is their nature. Many times I would hear a ruckus in the yard and look out to see Miles fending off a mean rooster, or one of the other kids – Shelby and Anna – screeching and running with a flared up rooster on their heels.

I have battled aggressive roosters, given shots to sick goats, adhered bandages to injured hens’ wings, and dressed a few wounds from over pecked hens (the roosters’ favorite ladies) and injuries sustained in miraculous escapes from a rare unlucky fox. I have stared into the eyes of a rooster and know what it means when their pupils disappear into a tiny speck. I have buried my share of deadstock and triumphed over the miracle of birth on the farm that happened to occur when heavy spirits were in need of uplifting.

His shockin’ red comb flapped each time he jerked his head. He scuttled down the path with his wings drawn back; his pace quickened. I glared, ready to take on the ornery bastard – the Rhode Island Red that we got from Leavitt’s farm as a fuzzy yellow chick. It was the last time he would screech outside my window, invitin’ me to scrap.

Every damn time I went to fetch the eggs, he come runnin’ after me with them spurs achin’ to fight. This mornin’ was no different. It weren’t a problem for me; I could kick him, but Mamma didn’t have the nerve and chances are she’d get hurt.

My fingers slipped over the well-worn walnut stock of Daddy’s rifle; I pressed it into my chest. Red took to flutterin’ about in the yard gettin’ all the hens in a tizzy. I closed one eye and looked down the barrel tryin’ to predict his next erratic movement. I took a shot; rusty brown and white feathers burst from the center of the flock followed by a hush. Then they all got to natterin’ and circlin’ round him. His pupil damn near disappeared into that yellow eye of his, as he cranked his head above the crowd, mockin’ me and thinkin’ I wouldn’t spare a hen. I blasted him; he got what he was fixin’ to get.
– Silas Putnam July 20, 1872

These times were the well that I drew upon to bring the incredible stories of New England farming to life in the pages of my novel.

The Medicine Caves

2010-10-06T15:56:00.000-04:00

In order to connect with Nellie, my own Abenaki great-grandmother and Nanatasis, the character in my novel, I decided to visit the ‘medicine caves’ in a small town in Northern Vermont, near where my family once lived. I discovered the existence of these caves during my research and learned that they were not a public attraction. In order to get to them, it was necessary to go to a rather large dairy and maple farm near the Canadian border. I spoke with the owners of the farm and got their permission to visit the caves.

Once we found the farm, we parked and went into the store that is attached to the barn. After looking at numerous dairy and maple products, I approached the owner – a friendly farmer’s wife of good Yankee stock – and introduced myself. She gave us directions to the caves.

We had to walk through several milking stations and out into a rough pasture. On the way through the barns, we stopped to pet and mingle with the beautiful Holstein (black and white) cows, which inspired Abigail’s beloved Lizzy. The clanking of chains, murmuring of contented milking cows and overwhelming scent of hay and grain transported me back to my grandparent’s dairy farm. We walked through the muck and mud of the first pasture and did the limbo under a short length of electric fence to yet another pasture. By then, healthy unassuming dairy cows were quite curious and meandered in our general direction (the way cows often do).

We dipped under yet one more fence to a wooded knoll and headed for the caves. Not far beyond the safety of an assortment of tall pines and hardwood trees, large granite rocks and caves were nestled into the hillside.

I had to duck to enter the main entrance of the dark cave. Once inside, I could stand up straight. I used my cell phone to illuminate the marbled walls. The view of the sprawling green landscape – framed with moss and evergreens – from inside the cave was almost surreal. I immediately sensed a connection with my ancestors when I imagined them inhabiting the caves – sheltered from harsh winter winds and snow – sitting around a fire.

The coolness was inviting after walking through the barns and pastures in the heat of the day. I ran my hands along the rough walls, inhabiting the powerful energy. There were several narrow tunnels that led to other sizable chambers or rooms, which I decided must have been used in the dead of winter for sleeping and storing groundnuts, meats and other harvested food sources.

I pondered the idea of taking photos, aware of the firm belief that capturing a photo of a person steals fragments of the spirit. I decided that this was a place; not a being and that taking photos would be acceptable.

The link between the granite walls of the cave, the township of Granite – a part of Ossipee where I lived during the discovery of the pauper cemetery – and the granite stones, which led to the title of the novel, “Etched in Granite,” provided a strong sense of validity.

I visited the medicine caves during the beginning phases of crafting the novel. Visions and positive energy derived from the physical experience of being there carried me through certain scenes and theories when developing Nellie’s character. Now that I have completed the narrative journey, I am compelled to revisit the site with a new lens and broader intentions based more on what I have learned about my ancestors and to honor and respect them with this knowledge and spiritual awareness that continues to evolve.

Would the County Poor Farm Work Today?

2010-09-27T11:28:00.000-04:00

I cringe when I visualize the wretched conditions of the 19th Century Poor Farms or Almshouses. The inmates of the farm were over worked, beaten, starved and cast out of their families and communities. Many died of malnutrition and diseases that gripped the community as well.

The point of the poor farm was to provide relief for the towns and counties from the burden of the poor. At first, the town took care of its own and auctioned off the poor to the lowest bidders, but when that became overwhelming, the county stepped in and pooled its resources and came up with the ‘County Farm’.

The farm consisted of crops, firewood and livestock. The farms were quite profitable. Although there was a great deal of corruption that continues to trickle down to today’s county complexes, if one takes a long hard look at this model, it could be the answer to America’s financial and productivity issues on a variety of levels.

I will begin with the denigration of our farms, resource production and welfare system. With the outsourcing of our manufacturing, technology and productivity, our unemployment rate soars and we live in a wasteland, as most of what we consume comes from China and other countries. Factories, plants and farms in America are skeletons. Rich soil, abandoned factories, overgrown orchards and groves and listless people now remain.

We could solve this problem by combining welfare with production and reinstituting our resources. If each state returned to its abundant industries and effectively utilized those who are eligible for welfare, we would be taking advantage of our vast resources by training and offering work skills for the unskilled welfare recipients who so not have to do anything for their benefits other than filling out a sea of forms and meeting low or zero income requirements.

As it stands now, there is no motivation for welfare recipients to get work; in fact the system rewards them when they increase their family, hence burdening the system when they have more kids for more benefits. This is a vicious cycle that seems unending. Essentially, we are throwing pennies at them and encouraging them to procreate. We then end up with generational welfare with families that know no other way.

We could pinpoint each state’s resource and rekindle the industry. For example, New Hampshire could set up farms with vegetables and livestock, Maine – potatoes and fishing, Florida – citrus fruits and fishing, Washington – apples, etc.

Current welfare recipients would be required to take a test that measured which areas are best suited for them. The jobs would consist of laboring on the farm, factory, warehouse, office, or transportation. It would be a training program with steps to work towards the public sector. These would not be permanent positions, simply training and advancement into the real working world in lieu of required bureaucratic form filling and ineffective measures.

Instead of food stamps and EBT cards, they would be given an allotment to purchase goods from a wholesale warehouse and would be paid according to their work schedule. If a worker wished to be trained in accounting or office skills, he would apply for work in the office. If a worker was interested in trucking, he would be trained to drive a tractor trailer, which transports products between states.

If a person is handicapped or disabled, then obviously there would have to be a program in place to insure that his needs are met, and he would not be eligible for the welfare work program.

This would address a variety of issues. It would be a way to reclaim and jump start our country’s agriculture and resource production and we would no longer outsource to foreign countries. We would transition from a consuming nation to a self sustaining nation once again.

Also, we could put these able bodied, dependents to work on our nation’s crumbling infrastructure, rebuilding bridges, roads and waterways. Instead of paying money to people who have no motivation to join the work force and contribute to their own well being, we would have high level production that would stimulate jobs, the economy, severing our dependency on other countries that we are making wealthy.

I believe that the concept of the ‘County Poor Farm’ was noble, but because of corruption, abuse of power and lack of foresight, it failed.

Nanatasis Takes Her Christian Name

2010-09-23T12:53:00.000-04:00

Trust. Nellie gave that word a higher meaning. She lived according to her ways of her people at Bitawbagok, known to the White Man as Lake Champlain. She was very close to her mother and sisters and brothers. The only White Man that she ever trusted was Elijah Baldwin, a trapper and trader from the White Mountains and Lakes Region of New Hampshire.

Unlike the others who came to trade with her people, Elijah was knowledgeable in the ways of Our Mother. He did not speak loudly or drink too much spirituous liquor and stare at her. He was kind and respectful.

Nellie mourned the loss of her daughter Mamijôla and preferred to sit quietly by the fire and make dolls from scraps rather than dance. She enjoyed watching and listening to the music. Her mother often invited her to dance, but she would not. She was not unpleasant; she did not feel celebratory since the death of Mamijôla.

Elijah Baldwin’s visits became more frequent and he began to pay attention to Nellie. She liked to listen to his tales of hunting and traveling between Bitawbagok and the Great White Mountains of New Hampshire. In her silent, inner world, she renamed Searching Owl.

The day came when Elijah asked the elders for permission to marry Nellie, then known as Nanatasis. Since her people respected him, permission was granted. Nellie was happy, but knew that marrying this man meant leaving her home. Imagine the trust that it took for her to leave as an “Indian Woman” in the early nineteenth century, married to a white man and to leave the safety of her people.

She married Elijah and left. She even had to take a Christian name for her marriage to be legal. Her husband took her to church once and she was adamant about not going to pray to a dead king. They never returned to church. Nellie underwent a great deal of prejudice gossip and hateful comments throughout her life. However, she maintained her integrity and actually assisted the local physicians during outbreaks of various illnesses when their methods did not work. They came to her secretly and obtained her homeopathic remedies. She was known to many as a witch.

I was of six winters when my father’s spirit departed. He and others were sick with the white man’s fever. Before the marriage, he appeared in my dream. Nanatasis, Searching Owl is good. He will honor you. You will live in a land far from Bitawbagok. Go. Be fruitful.

I was wet with tears. I wanted to see him longer. The vision was clear. I went to my mother and lay beside her. She opened her eyes. Nanatasis.

We slept in embrace until the break of day. Her heartbeat gave comfort. Searching Owl talked long with Standing Bear and the elders. We filled baskets with offerings and prepared for the celebration. I had not danced since the river took Mamijôla. At our wedding, I danced.

When it was the time to leave, the child of Searching Owl grew in me. Each night I knew could be the last with my people. I looked long at my mother, imprinting as a baby bird would. Yellow flames danced in her dark brown eyes. Her skin was clear and her thick black hair had shiny silver strands on each side. She was graceful and strong.

The last night came. She stood tall. Nanatasis, come.

I followed her to the shadows, away from the light of the fire. I feared leaving. Who would help me with the birth of the child that I carried? Who would comfort me?

You must not be afraid. Elijah is a good husband. He is strong and knows the ways of Our Mother. He will care for you and the child. You must welcome this journey. She placed her hand on my unborn child. Her eyes were peaceful and she smiled. You will know the great smiling spirit of Wiwninbesaki. The Wawôbadenik hold many secrets. Be strong, Nanatasis. She held me in her arms making me warm.

Searching Owl stirred before the rising sun. Nanatasis, we should go before the others wake. You said farewell; this is the better way.

I took the doll that I had made during the summer, went to my sleeping mother and left it beside her while she dreamed. With great sorrow in my heart, I looked upon her face once more.

After four days of travel, we arrived at a place in New Hampshire called Water Village. Searching Owl’s house was on the bank of Cold River. It was not a large house; it withstood winter winds and spring rains.

Searching Owl took me to his church to hear a man like the black robes. I received my Christian name – Nellie Baldwin. I did not want to be inside of walls to pray to their dead king. I honored the Great Spirits of Father Sky, the mountains, lakes and rivers of Our Mother. I honored animals and birds; they offered wisdom and ways of knowing. I was pleased that my husband did not make me go with him.
Nellie Baldwin – October 15, 1872

Abenakis and English Glossary

Nanatasis – Hummingbird.
Bitawbagok – Lake Champlain, Vermont

Mamijôla – Butterfly

Wiwininebesaki – Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire
Wawôbadenik – White Mountain Region
Laurent, Joseph. New Familiar Abenakis and English Dialogues.
Vancouver: Global Language Press, 2006.

Three Rivers - Nellie's Solemn Vow

2010-09-20T17:45:00.000-04:00

Nanatasis – Nellie, her Christian name – lived in the moment. She trusted that her past was behind her and that the future was a mysterious gift. Although she often dreamed in a way that suggested visiting her loved ones who passed; she knew that at the right time, she would be reunited with their spirits in the afterlife. Her visions offered wisdom and her awareness of nature provided insight into the unfolding miracles of every day life. No miracle was ever too small or deemed insignificant.

Her work on the poor farm was natural and the way that she lived her life. She did not heal and protect those on the farm out of duty, for notoriety or any egotistical gain. She did so because it was her natural essence. She was a true medicine woman who comprehended the power of nature and acted accordingly.

I admire Nellie for her ability to comprehend that everything that happened was because it was exactly as it was meant to be. She did not try to force, control or overcome nature; rather she observed the bigger picture and moved forward in a defenseless manner.

She was mute by choice. The trauma of losing her daughter brought her to a place where only she could understand. She made a vow to herself and honored it.

It was the season when the wind was uncertain. The sound of the rushing water grew stronger. I pulled the fur around us more. We neared the crossing where the three rivers flowed roughly into the other. We would reach my people before nightfall.

Great white teeth and the fury of winter past stirred in the three rivers. The wind changed. There was much white water close to the edge of the crossing. We traveled carefully upon the land trail to reach the other side. The water hurried above the ground; I held my daughter closer. The howling river filled my ears and the wind carried a spray that made us wet. The earth fell away and the horse fell away too. I held Mamijôla when the horse cried out.

The river swallowed the horse and Mamijôla and me; the water was with ice and fury as it tore my daughter away. The great rush silenced my screams. I reached for her before the river pulled me below where the rushing sounded no more. The currents pushed me to the deep rocky place where the river shakes. I faced the death struggle.

When I arose from the water that flowed under rocks and branches, ice struck me until whiteness was all around. The wind blew cold. Mamijôla was not in my sight. Each time I cried for her the river took me back in her rage. I fought White River until I could fight no more. The darkness came; I fell into peaceful slumber.

Nanatasis! Nanatasis! The rushing waters of White River returned when I opened my eyes. The outstretched arms of the giant pines waved against the gray sky. Mother held my head. Pain was great; it took much strength to move.

Mamijôla. Where is Mamijôla? My spirit shook.

Nanatasis, Mamijôla is not here. There is no sign of her. Speak of your path taken after we parted. She was with sorrow and wet eyes. You are hurt.

Wnegigw and the others searched the banks of the river. My head was warm with blood. We were at the crossing of three rivers. There was many great winds and white water. The earth departed, swallowed by the river and swept us away. I fought; White River defeated me and I lost Mamijôla. I moved; the pain made me still. I must find her. She is in danger and may perish.

Wnegigw approached and with Mother, wrapped a wool blanket around me. He spoke with quiet. The night will be upon us; it grows late. We must take Nanatasis to warm by the fire. We will look for Mamijôla into the night.

The thunderbolt pierced my neck and back when he lifted me onto his shoulder. I returned to darkness under a blanket of shadows and the river was silent.

The night approached. Nanatasis, you must drink. Mother held the hot medicines of the hemlock near to my mouth.

I looked long into the fire and turned away. I would not take of it. She pressed the inner bark of white pine onto the swelling of my leg. I closed my eyes to see Mamijôla slip under the fierce waters of White River. Until she returned, I would not utter a word.
Nellie Baldwin – August 30, 1872 Memories and Reflections

Abigail and Letter Writing and Questioning Authority

2010-09-16T21:57:00.001-04:00

It is just as important for Abigail to write letters to Sarah as it is for her to receive them from her. As I discussed in an earlier post, it is evident that letter writing was a vital element in the lives of many in the nineteenth century. The actual act of writing was elaborate with much emphasis on embellished penmanship and detail, especially in comparison to present day hacking. Thanks to the convenience of high technological devices, we are leaning towards illiteracy when it comes to utilizing pen and paper. The art of letter writing is becoming extinct. We know this to be true when the Post Office cuts down on their hours and continues to increase the cost of postage.

It is through collections of letters and diaries, that we are able to get an accurate and truthful account of history as it unfolded. I prefer to learn about history through the voice of the ordinary person who had nothing to gain by spinning the facts or creating propaganda. Of course we had few options when we were taught history from the basic history books available in learning institutions and libraries, but it is advisable to poke around in unsuspecting places and fill in the blanks. It is also important to note that American women weren’t even permitted to vote until 1920 let alone contribute to or write the history of our country. This is probably another reason why I am drawn to the feminine perspective of the past. It feels fresh and exciting; it is up to us to bring the other side of the story to light and to do this we have to bother unearthing the previously unknown.

I also suggest being open to possibilities that contradict what we once thought to be true. Yes. Question authority. Just because it is in the history book doesn’t mean that it is accurate or that there isn’t a 'whole other truth' that has been omitted. Of course I am not suggesting that everything that we have come to know in history is sketchy, but much of what has been documented is merely a slice of the whole picture. We can see how this may happen simply by observing how the present day media is often unreliable and in most cases agenda driven. Why would writing history be any different?

In addition to the feminine perspective; we also have much to learn and acknowledge from the stories of the poor and other than white population. Like today, many of these people were at the mercy of the upper echelon of society – a small percentage of self serving people who will stop at nothing to maintain power and control.

More and more books, movies and documentaries are emerging with the voice of the previously unknown. This is a positive experience in the ways of wisdom and knowing, but also as a collective healing process. We cannot correct and make wise choices if we do not know our true foundations. We are doomed to repeat mistakes if the same actions continue in a cyclical manner.

The correspondence between Abigail and Sarah offers a glimpse into another facet of their simple yet complex lives. Both girls face challenges partaking in the letter writing process. The obstacles that they face differ – Sarah works from before sunrise to after sunset and Abigail struggles to find writing materials – but they manage to continue to stay connected. It is even more distressing for Abigail because the people who receive her mail are unreliable and indifferent to her needs.

My dress was both moist and cold and my thoughts leapt in many directions. I have lost my way, my compass. I must be calm.

I tore a blank page from Grandmother’s prayer book and rooted around in my pocket for Moses’ pencil. When I sat at the table, the giant hand pressed down on my chest, nothin’ seemed to afford a ray of light.

Dearest Sarah,
I write to you consering sad feelings that are restin upon me. After wateing a long time, it aperes that Silas will marry Jesy Gilmen. This is a fate far worse then you can imagen. I tryd fathfuley to take the oportunite to talke to him, even sendin him too letters and he chose not to replie.

I had no choyse but to tell the Blakes of my condishon. It has been desided that I will have to live at the county farm. I will leave tomorow. I have endured much conflict and humiliashon. I asked God not to turn his back on me. But I have sinned and it is my sin that got me to where I am.

Do not worry of me dear sister. I am strong and will accept the conseqences.
Patience Cook had a baby boy. I will have a frend there and she will know the ways of the farm.
All letters from you must be adressd to the county farm.
Your Sister,
Abigail

-Abigail Hodgdon, November 23, 1872-

Abigail - A Letter From Sarah

2010-09-13T17:53:00.000-04:00

The Blake farm was only a few miles down the road from where Abigail’s family lived. After her initial tragic loss and prior to being sentenced to the poor farm, she stayed with the Blake’s. They were prominent in the small town of Ossipee, New Hampshire. Moses Blake was the superintendent of the poor farm and his wife – a vindictive busy body – took advantage of Abigail, making her a servant.
Abigial did her best to overcome the loss of her family and her home; however it became increasingly difficult to maintain her sense of self. As her circumstances continued to deteriorate, letters from her sister Sarah – away working at the mills – became her only beacon of light.

The white letter stood out against the dark oaken table. I walked closer to see my name penned in Sarah’s familiar writing. Oh dear Lord, she has written to me. Tears threatened. I held it to my lips. I must tear it open at once. I turned and looked at Mrs. Blake hunched over and bitin’ her lip as she peeled potatoes. No. I will bring it to the barn and read it with Lizzy.

My boots crunched on the hardened hoof prints embedded in the earth. I kicked the dried curled up leaves and blazed a pathway to the barn door. The wind whisked them into frenzy and to circlin’ about my head. I pulled my cape tighter around my shoulders. We had gotten a killin’ frost the previous night and it was simply a matter of time before the first snowfall.

Like I did every mornin’ and evenin’, I headed for the empty stall to see if Silas had left a letter. My hope dimmed with each passin’ day as I found not a trace of a letter from him. I stopped. Not now. I took hold of the milk bucket and headed for Lizzy’s stall. “Good mornin’, girl.” I rubbed my hand on her black and white nose. “I have a pleasant surprise.” I waved the letter in front of her. “A letter from Sarah.”

I dragged the milkin’ stool up close beside her and carefully opened the envelope.

Dearest Abigail,
I apologize that is has taken me so long to write a word to you. My health is very good and I am very well contented with my work. I want to give you the perticulers. I have been working very hard & have little time to take such plesures as penning a letter. I have made the aquantans of a girl from Rochester and her name is Wealthy Norton. She invited me to go with her to the freewill babtist church. I must confide in you, sister. It is not as pleasing as our dear church in Ossipee, but I will not be in favore of the other girls here if I attend another church. They will become cold and indifferent if I do not acompanie them.

I have a good friend here in Fall River that is a mother to me as it were. For that, I pray to God to bless her for her caring wayes.
You occupy my thoughts. I hope to hear a word of what came about from your talk with Silas. I have much to write, but time does not permit.

I think fondly of you and Mother. I await your response.
Faithfully,
Your Sister, Sarah.

I sat in the stillness. Fragments of hay and dust shimmered in long, straight lines in the sunlight that poured through the cracks of the hayloft. Sarah, Sarah. I miss you so. Pearl crowed just a half a crow. I folded the letter and put it inside of my apron pocket.

I took small, uncertain steps to the empty stall beside Lizzy and reached under the bench. Nothin’. I sat down and rocked back and forth, squeezin’ my arms around my knees. My chest was tight and heavy; if I let go, I would’ve crumbled into a pile of stones

[…]

The anger grew in me, but I refused to welcome it. I gulped the crispy air and struggled to swallow. I have sinned and for this, I will pay. I will hold my head up and take what is delivered to me and Silas will get what comes his way. I must never look back. I pulled the stool closer to Lizzy and held the milk bucket under her. I mustered up the strength to sing.

We gather together
To ask the Lord’s Blessing
He hastens and…
-Abigail Hodgdon, October 30, 1872 -

Abigial, Autumn and the Empty Basket

2010-09-11T12:16:00.000-04:00

For Abigail, the autumn of 1872 brought many grim realizations. She was at a crossroads in her life, suffering unimaginable losses. I admire her ability to maintain civility when she was dealing with PTSD, uncertainty and the basic loss of her family and life as she knew it. Somehow, her self esteem always remained intact.

Thick fog wrapped around the morning like a tight fittin’ glove. Sleep did not come easily to me since the fire and I had endured another week of tiresome house chores. Sweat dripped off the end of my nose as I scrubbed the floor in the summer kitchen and prepared my words for Silas.

“You worked hard. After you pick a basket of apples, you may take a rest this afternoon.” Mrs. Blake hovered over me and wiped her hands on her blue calico apron.

“You are too kind.” I looked up at her through my monocle curl and returned to scrubbin’.

The crows cackled and pecked at the remnants of the cornfield. I stood up slowly, ignorin’ the sharp pain in my lower back. I tried to imagine which dress would be the most becomin’ for my meetin’ with Silas. My thoughts lingered on the red dress that Mother sewed; she made a blue one like it for Sarah. We bubbled with pride the first time we wore them to a church picnic. Mother sewed all of our garments and we were all the better for it.

The dim sun worked its way through the cool mist. I spotted a bright red maple leaf in the middle of the path, curiously far from the cluster of maple trees across the field. I picked it up and slid it inside of my apron pocket to add to my collection of pressed flowers.

I froze; a pang shot through my chest and continued thumpin’ wildly. I no longer have the family Bible. I envisioned our family names scrawled throughout on yellowed marriage, birth and death certificates. I pulled the leaf from my pocket and stared at the redness that happened to match my rough, lye irritated hands. I took a deep breath, crumpled it, dropped it and continued down the path with the empty basket on my arm.

I stopped at a gnarly tree in the middle of the orchard and twisted the stem of the oval red apple ‘til it was free from the branch. I couldn’t resist the Farm Sweets and ate two while fillin’ the basket; they were much tastier than the bitter Durgin apples that were only fit for bakin’.
-Abigail Hodgdon October 11, 1872 -

The Death of Technology Awakens Life

2010-09-03T18:33:00.000-04:00

I will return to my blog, Etched in Granite, after recovery...which is going well.

A few days ago, my much-loved computer died. Well...maybe it isn't completely dead, but so called reliable sources from the Geek Squad and local computer shop prepared me for the reality of the situation. The hard drive is history. This is the first time since 1998 that I have been without computer access.

I detest "woe is me" stories. I will try to make this brief. I am currently unemployed, so dashing out and replacing my computer is not an option. The crash of my computer was completely unexpected, so I was faced with a certain feeling of disempowerment, or more appropriate; hopelessness.

As a writer, I know the significance of backing everything up, which I do on an external hard drive and I have a few flash drives kicking around. The good news is that I did not lose my novel, memoir and many photos. Although the latest drafts of the novel are not there, fortunately they are not major and I guess I was meant to revisit those areas.

I must admit, I was spiraling into a deep, dark pit. I hadn’t felt like this for a long time. This came on the heels of releasing my two younger (grown) children back into the wild, after a good solid month of being together. It’s a healthy thing, a part of life that surely every mother must face and sometimes that means more than once. It had been a long time since I was blessed with the sounds of Mozart and Bach and the others being played brilliantly on the violin at all hours. No matter how logical and balanced I am, I knew that the nest would be empty once again, and that is the way it’s supposed to be. I expected the separation anxiety and know that to be a mother (for me) means that I will experience the maternal joys and disappointments associated with the process. Like all of life, it ebbs and flows.

So, how did I deal with a seemingly dead computer? I allowed the whole thought of being cut off from the internet and Microsoft word to sink in. I went to the “Potholes” up the road and dove into the ice cold water. Sure it was breathtaking, but somehow I thought that by immersing myself without inching my way in safely, that the shock would miraculously wash away the impending doom. Maybe it was a dive into a fresh approach to everything in my life. My inner world had been rocked; nothing like a plunge into a pristine river to gain clarity.

When I went under, I opened my eyes. The rocks were vibrant; some were huge and smooth. I started to dive down and pick up the ones that caught my eye. Then my son went over to an area that appeared to be a simple rock in the middle of the current. It was about a foot high and water gently cascaded over it and meandered into the deep pool where I swam. He called for me to watch as he disappeared under the water. It was like watching a magician. He came up laughing. In front of that rock, is a somewhat narrow hidden pool. He is about 6’3” and the water was about to his chest.

I could not believe it. I have been swimming in some of the most amazing rivers, lakes and oceans my whole life, but never seen this. He climbed out so that I could give it a shot. I slid into the hole and pushed myself down with my hands. It was an entirely new world. Before going into the hole, I noticed that there was a deeper voice in the river chorus. Being an artist over a scientist, I chose to marvel at the various pitches in the water flow rather than dissect the cause. However, descending into the underwater hole explained it. While I was under water, I looked up at the water pouring over the surface of the small pool. It was deafening. The sky and trees wavered through the lens of the untamed rush of water. It made me laugh and I swallowed a bunch of water. I came up choking and giggling madly. God, I needed that. I went down again. This unusual hiding place in the river was a miracle; a miracle that I needed that day.

Refreshed and relieved, I went home to realize that in order to capture that moment, I had to resort to a pen and paper. I was edgy. This sucked. I needed to fire up my computer and start wailing on the keyboard as fast as I could. But hold on. Was this really so bad? Was my dependency on modern technology so intense? Yes. It was. I faced the hard truth; I was addicted to the ease of writing on my computer.

This was something to ponder. What about all of those who came before me? Am I that removed from them?

I needed to check my email. Because I am a perennial hermitess, it is a requirement for me to live in the woods; therefore, I was suddenly at the mercy of the local libraries and their random hours. I opted to drive forty minutes one way in the morning so that I could combine my computer time with going to the grocery store.

I sat on the porch and looked at the stars. Can I go to the library and write my blogs and queries and op eds and letters and all of that stuff that consumes me? Even chocolate wouldn’t help with this one.

I lay awake and thought, this was meant to happen, I have to spend more time making jewelry and candles to sell. I have to catch up on my reading. I need to play my cello.

When I woke up in the morning I walked into my office and stared at the carcass of my computer. It was time to put it in the case. The shock of the sudden death was starting to transform into anger and betrayal. I always did updates and virus checks. I never took chances of it being zapped by power surges. I kept my drinks far away. I pampered it like a baby and this is what I get?

It was a sweltering 97 degrees. I had to go into that secret hole in the river. I needed a head change.
I practically ran over the rocks to plunge into that magical hole when I hit a wall of pungent smoke. A rather self important, white haired man sat right next to the magic rock reading the newspaper and toking on a fat cigar. Sigh.
I wasn’t in the mood for small talk and certainly was not ready to divulge my secret. I would return to the hole another time.

I spent the evening detaching from my son who was leaving for Boston in the morning. My daughter left a few days before. I have to scream at myself not to be overly doting. I asked him to please, please, please pick up the “bunk room” so that I did not have to go through it. If I go through it, I will be sad. Plus, I have other things to do than pick up after people.

I did well; I gave him some of my homemade blackberry jam and fresh herbs and refrained from exposing my true feelings. My eyes filled with tears and I hugged him hard. He was sweet; he knows how much I appreciated our time together.

He left. I sat on the porch and had a huge meltdown. It was cleansing. I wanted to make sure that whatever feelings were raging around were able to be. I acknowledged them. They are a healthy part of who I am. Now that I was sitting there alone with no link to the outside world, it was time to simply be in the moment, ickiness and all.

I walked over to the vibrant pink phlox and inhaled. What joy! I kicked off my well worn flip flops and walked on the wet grass. Walking barefoot was always a requirement for me; lately I had forgotten and needed that connection with Our Mother. The dragonflies were thick. I noticed a large green one hovering nearby and a small bright red one on a goldenrod. I attached myself to the moment. The clouds were moving fast; it was muggy and the air was heavy with the scent of pine.

I emptied the well inside of me so that I could take in what was around me in that moment. It was liberating. I would not allow a computer to have power over me. The world around me is life waiting.

I went into the bunk room without sadness or a feeling of abandonment. I was grateful for the meaningful experiences that I shared with Shelby and Anna. What a gift. As I was about to turn around and leave the room, I noticed the old laptop that Shelby had left. I worked on it about a month ago; cleaning it up and restoring it. He wasn’t interested in it. Wow. I went into my office and set it up. At this point it is fine. It will work until I am able to replace mine.

I am not certain of what is really lost as far as documents, but I know that the critical documents are intact on the external drive. It doesn’t matter. A piece of equipment makes life easier and is necessary to navigate my world in many ways, however, nothing replaces life; breathing, living, all encompassing life.

It isn’t the experiences that we go through that matters, it is how we react and turn these experiences into opportunities. Missing possibilities is not an option.

I will catch up on my blogs soon.
Have a safe and glorious weekend

Nellie’s Pilgrimage

2010-08-27T15:19:00.001-04:00

It was vital for Nellie (Nanatasis) to visit the resting place of her husband, Searching Owl and their infant son on the banks of Cold River, where she used to live. Before sunrise, she set out for this annual pilgrimage, until she was too old to walk the distance.

As a part of her native customs and while on her annual journey, she collected groundnuts, berries and roots for medicine. Staying true to her Abenaki traditions, Nellie bartered with the farm bosses when necessary to maintain her spiritual rituals. In order for her to leave the premises and obtain a pinch of tobacco for offering, she traded a wooden whistle - made by her husband - with Asa, the farm boss willing to look the other way, delighted to bring the wooden trinket home to his son.

I departed before the rising sun, for the journey would be long. During the Corn Making Moon, the days grew shorter and darkness exceeds the light. It was a time for harvesting groundnuts, bark, pine needles, plants and roots for many medicines and sweetgrass for drying. I found joy within the walls of the trees, when the world was in slumber.

Creatures watched and waited in the killing season. Unlike my people, white men did not honor their kill. Burying the carcass of the hunted and offering the bones to the fire, prevented animals from leaving the hunting grounds forever.

Dry fallen leaves rushed beneath my feet in the quiet of morning. The acorns that filled my basket were for making soup in the deepest part of winter. The soft green moss welcomed me to sit and rest. The poplar tree sheltered me from the north winds. Soon I would reach Cold River.

[…]

My friend the crow called from above the tree. The sun had risen, making warm my face. I continued my journey to Cold River.

The house before me was without life. The roof crumbled and emptiness stared where windows once were. A red squirrel came out from the stone hearth with an acorn; he too was wise to prepare for winter. I put my sack and basket on the ground and walked to the back of the house. The small black and white birds called out. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Cold River sang a stirring song. I crossed the field to the East. The sun cast light on two granite rock piles that pressed close to Our Mother’s breast. The wooden crosses were no more.

I reached inside of my belt and felt for the folded birch paper. I opened it and pinched the fresh tobacco in my fingers, thankful that the farm boss accepted the whistle in trade. I spread it over the rocks and ground as an offering. I sat on brown pine needles before their graves facing the sun. Another winter will pass. I closed my eyes and listened to the song of the river and waited for the departed ones.

When the sun was high, I stood tall and walked to the West to return to the farm with my basket, sack and heart filled with the strength to face the bitterness of the winter yet to come.
-Nellie Baldwin reflects, October 15, 1872-

The Dividing Fence: Keeping Out the Poor

2010-08-24T14:15:00.001-04:00

The dividing fence between the paupers’ graveyard and the active cemetery indicates the sharp difference between the abandoned and the honored. As you stand facing the hill, on the left side of the fence is an active cemetery with flags waving and splashes of color from real and plastic flowers. The gravestones on the left vary in size, shape, color and age. Some are crumbling a bit while others are glossy and new. The grass is green and there is a main gate and several roads within.

However, on the right side, 298 small, thick stones remain together in a tight flock. No names, witty epitaphs or wreaths adorn them, which have no variation in style, color or form. Instead of silky, green grass, a carpet of brownish moss and crunchy lichens cover the ground where there are no waving flags, simply a few random wildflowers.

Then and now, the paupers are swept under society’s rug, too painful a reminder of what could have been for the lucky ones, had they not been dealt the best hand. Then and now, although many individuals and agencies devote their lives to helping the poor, there is a system in place that makes it impossible for the poor to emerge from the depths of poverty. Certainly, money is thrown at them, yet the problem does not resolve itself. The poor remain poor, continue to reproduce and perpetuate their lot and stand with outstretched hands because that is what we all know.

In the 19th century, the poor were sentenced to Poor Farms or Almshouses, slaving on prosperous farms, never seeing the fruits of their labor, while a few wealthy people cashed in. Many overseers (not all) skimmed from abundant harvests while the inmates ate a thin gruel, often lacking the nutrients necessary to sustain good health with or without harsh working conditions. Farm overseers, leaving the inmates in freezing cold, drafty quarters, also took coal and firewood for themselves. Naturally, a handful of people worked in the system with integrity and good intentions, but the majority of the institutions were corrupt with little or no safeguards in place to protect the inmates from abuse and to insure their well-being.

Churches and townspeople frowned on poor, filthy, sinners and made sure that to separate them from view, the better side of society. As I stated in an earlier post, unwed mothers were banished from the community, church and their own families, sentenced to the farm and singled out by having to wear yellow. Most of the women were forbidden to return home, even after the birth, stillbirth or adoption of a child, because once shamed, always shamed.

I look upon the fence and wonder if those who built it actually worried that in death the poor may somehow escape and mingle with the upper echelon of society? Was it necessary to divide them in death as they did in life?

Apparently, this is an ongoing fear. When I first began my research, the town website had a photo posted of this particular cemetery with the pauper side cropped out. I looked on the website today, and there are no photos of the cemetery at all. Perhaps it is because I mentioned this at my presentation. I don’t know.

As I stated in a previous post, initially, the people of Ossipee wanted no part of my work – identifying 268 of the 298 paupers. I gave my presentation to many other historical societies. Then I was approached by Ossipee and asked to give my presentation, but to withhold the names. I refused and explained that the identities were the point of the project. A year later, I was contacted again and told that it was okay for me to mention the names. My power point presentation ends with the names scrolling over a photo of the graveyard with a beautiful soundtrack played by my son Shelby on the violin.

Today I see in the archives that there is no mention of my program amongst the others and no mention of the paupers. That dividing fence may be old and rusted, but it is definitely still in place.

Graveyard Blues, Purples and Yellows

2010-08-19T18:02:00.001-04:00

The first year of my ongoing relationship with the 298, I drove by the Pauper Graveyard at least four times a day on my way to and from the bus stop with Anna. Oftentimes I stopped and always I looked, keeping my eyes on them in the rearview mirror until they were out of sight.

Sensations ebbed and flowed as the world around them was in a constant state of change pulsing with the seasons. They, however, remained steadfast, unchanged, buried beneath the parched earth and thick gray stones.

In the beginning there was desperation in the act of taking photos, therefore I snapped numerous photographs. Perhaps in my unconscious I believed that I might capture some unanswered questions on film, which may or may not be true. At that point, I had to do something.

In the beginning, it felt as if a heavy hand pressed down on my chest, which is why that particular phrase often appears in Abigail’s narrative. I know the sensation well and the clarity of it stems from my connection to the paupers and the graveyard. Of course, in my own life I have been known to experience anxiety, after all, I am a perennial hermitess who prefers the company of nature to humans. The hand on the chest is unique and directly related to the paupers’ graveyard.

Naturally, Silas has his moments of anxiety and Nellie – grounded and wise in the ways of Our Mother – maintains her Native American philosophies, attributing to her healthy coping skills. She experiences sheer panic as she faces unimaginable loss and devastation in her life, but she has an edge over the others.

For me, the heavy hand, high-level anxiety, subsided with the gradual unearthing of information and unfolding of stories. Now when I visit, I bring a tobacco offering for Nellie, sit on the crunchy brown moss that blankets the earth, taking in their presence, and rejoicing in the sun.

Embedded in the ground in front of grave 287, was a beautiful blue tile with a sun design. This struck me as odd; other than an occasional splash of color from a few random purple and yellow wildflowers, this was the only color amidst a sea of grays and browns.

Soon I discovered that in 1985, Jason Hannan was buried at the site of the blue tile at age twenty-eight. This was a surprise because it was well out of the 1870 – 1930 period. I was unable to find a death record for Jason in the town vital statistics, although he is listed in the funeral home records.

I regret to report, two summers ago, someone amongst us robbed a pauper’s grave. An indention in the dry earth remained where the blue tile once was. The heavy hand, which pressed down on my chest had returned for another season.

Nanatasis Watches the Fire, She Will Not Dance

2010-08-17T10:00:00.001-04:00

We can piece together Nellie’s life story as she offers glimpses through dreams, memories and reflections.

After the Sugar Making month, the ice melted away from the lower, quiet stretch of the river Wintegok, signaling the time for boat making. Four winters passed since Mamijôla perished in White River. I traveled with my people along the shores of Bitawbagok. With uplifted voices, they danced around the fire. Mother asked me to join the circle. I, hummingbird, the muted one, danced no more.

  The men fished, hunted and made things such as snowshoes and canoes. The women made baskets to sell to the white man. We planted and harvested from Our Mother, cared for the children and kept warm fires. The women sewed bark for canoe making. I looked beyond the laughter and children who played by my feet. I searched for Mamijôla. The warm wind carried her to me on the wings of the orange butterfly.

  A strong white man came many times to trade with my people. Unlike his people, he respected Our Mother. The day he spoke, I made a doll with cattails and scraps of deer hide. He waited for the men to accept his offer of spirituous liquor to trade for baskets and snowshoes. Do you mind if I join you? He had a good face, blue eyes and hair the color of corn.

I watched the fire.
Don’t be afraid.

White Flower came forward. Nanatasis does not speak.

He spoke. Can she hear me?

  The wind blew gentle. She hears, but has not spoke since the waters of White River took her daughter, Mamijôla. From that day, she is with great sorrow.

  He rubbed his hands over the fire and looked upon me. It is heartbreaking to lose a child. I do not know from experience, but I wish to say that I’m sorry, Ma’am.

He spoke the truth. His gaze warmed me on the new day as the men came. Running Bear spoke. We will talk. Come. Sit.

He went with the others; I did not want him gone.

He returned and bid farewell. I will see you again, Nanatasis.

To the others he was called Elijah Baldwin. He wandered much and spoke wisely; to me he was Searching Owl.
A Reflection - Nellie Baldwin, Nanatasis. September 15, 1872.

Abigail: Affronting Eve

2010-08-13T14:06:00.000-04:00

Abigail maintained a dialogue with God, relating all circumstances to Him and her standing in the church community. She was a good Christian, which resulted in harsh self-judgment and well deserved punishment. She always held herself accountable for her actions and accepted the consequences for her sins.

Mother always insisted that we sing every last word of any song that we sung. If you’re gonna bother singin’ it, then sing the whole song or never mind. I fell asleep with a vision of her standing – eyes closed and arms uplifted – like an angel singin’ directly to God Himself.

A surge of thick warm water gushed from between my legs. I lay still. Lord, what is happenin’ to me? Is it blood? I pulled the saturated blankets away and stared into the dark with my yellow dress clingin’ to my sticky wet legs. I started to stand when a sharp pain gripped my stomach bringin’ me to my knees. I leaned against the wall. Dear God. It’s time.

Swallowed in blackness I glanced around the room quickly. At last, I could stand. With drenched garments still stuck to my skin. I sat in the chair. Now what? I shuddered and remembered the blanket on the other side of the room from the person before me.

Who used that blanket? I thought of the people who may have been in this room. I peeled the pantaloons away from my skin. Perhaps it isn’t soiled.

When I got to my feet, a pain – far worse than before – pierced my body. I knew that it must have been the Devil squeezin’ so tight that there was no breath left in me. I toppled into a heap on the floor and bit so hard on my knuckle that I may have drawn blood. The pain swelled. I shrieked like a fisher cat.

I released my finger as the pain subsided. No one told me about such pain. This can’t be from God. Surely, my sins have summoned the Devil himself.

I pounded my fist on the wall and screamed. “Damn you Eve! It’s all your fault for eatin’ that apple.” Immeasurable tears flowed as I thought it best to die rather than lay alone in a dark, filthy room givin’ birth to my child with only the Devil by my side.
~Abigail Hodgdon, March 20, 1873~

Robert Frost - Chicken Farmer - Kindred Spirit

2010-08-09T16:42:00.000-04:00

In my search for the true spirit of the rugged 19th century community of Ossipee, New Hampshire, I took a literary journey through the historical poetry of New Hampshire writers. This enabled me to view the lives of those before me through the eyes of those who wrote during the diverse and trying times of New Hampshire natives.

The great poet, Robert Frost, shared my love of nature, belief in wood faeries and the intensity of living in the harsh yet awe-inspiring Granite State. However, our ultimate bond strengthened when I learned that he too was once a chicken farmer. From the heart of one chicken farmer to another, I honor his words, which capture the unique essence of our quirky, feathered, friends.

When I was in the early phases of researching my novel, I came across an unknown collection of Robert Frost’s writing when he was a chicken farmer. His work – Farm-Poultry Man – is a remarkable unearthing of eleven prose pieces contributed to two New England poultry journals approximately ten years prior to the writing of his first book. Two experts – Edward Lathem, and Lawrence Thompson – discovered this notable literary work. The full texts from the essays of magazines were not greatly exposed, making this a rare find.

Lathem and Thompson portray Frost as a captivating writer of spirited tales and humorous examples of a subject matter that readers of his poetry will recognize instantly as the background pieces such as “The Housekeeper,” “A Blue Ribbon at Amesbury,” and similar works.

Farm - Poultry Man offers both scholars and critics the opportunity to study Robert Frost as a young poet, offering a greater perception of the art of producing dialect, cadences, and speech idioms of native Yankee traditions. In his later verse, these distinctive traditions are evident.

Through an extensive introduction and abundant notes, the editors provide a fresh glimpse through rare and insightful information pertaining to one of America’s finest and most beloved writers. Prior to the publication of this book, the significant personality of Robert Frost the chicken farmer was not well known.

The restoration and compiling of Frost’s contributions to Farm-Poultry and Eastern Poultryman Magazine during 1899-1906, when he was a breeder and fancier of hens, is invaluable to those who wish to have a meaningful literary understanding of Robert Frost and his early foundations of thought. These accounts illuminate many facets of Robert Frost’s later, more prominent work.

Although a modest volume, it is monumental for those interested in previously unknown treasures in American Literature. To me, most importantly, Farm - Poultry Man, verifies the full measure and high spiritedness of Robert Frost’s nature from his very core.

Prior to when he had become a highly acclaimed poet, Frost often referenced his early years. It was during this time he had tried various occupations. Under certain circumstances, he fondly recalled these experiences and expressed the diversity of his adventures through his writing.

It was not well known to the general public or reader that Robert Frost was in fact a serious and devoted chicken farmer. He did not often directly refer to the years in which he earnestly devoted his early life to the raising of laying hens.

Frost made more than one attempt to attend college. After one of these attempts, he experienced unusual pains in his lower chest. After seeking a diagnosis from several physicians with little or no luck, he finally discovered the possible reason behind his chest pains. One particular physician learned that Frost’s father had died of consumption at the age of thirty-four, and this information led to suspicion that it was likely that he too might be suffering from tuberculosis. As a result, the doctor urged him to find outside work, preferably on a farm.

Even though Robert Frost was city-born and bred, he did have some work experience on a farm. He knew enough about farm life to be concerned with the daily drudgery and tedious labor. Frost weighed the alternatives. During this process and transformation, he recalled some chicken farms that he had encountered during long walks in the countryside. This recollection provided the encouragement that he needed to follow his dream and insure good health. He decided that it was possible and even likely that poultry farming might be a tolerable and pleasant way of following the doctor’s orders.

The farm became a serene retreat for Frost and evidently laid the groundwork for his later writing. It was a typical New England farm with the farmhouse, outbuildings and barn connected. Orchards, gardens, pastures, woods, and hayfields surrounded the buildings. It seemed a perfect environment for the shaping of a great American writer. During these important youthful days, Robert Frost never seemed to forget about his literary aspirations

The lifestyle Frost writes about relates to his upbringing in Lawrence Massachusetts and lifelong encounters in the woods, fields and farms of New Hampshire. His poems skillfully illustrate the intimate details of his connection to the woods, sky, climate and lifestyle of a true Yankee. Through his poetry, one is able to visualize the scene that inspired each work and the depth and intensity of his experiences.

His writing highlights the rigorous, daily routine of the hard working farmer, landowner of his time, and the challenges of facing each season. There is a sense of melancholy in his work as he expresses the harshness of winter, yet embraces the solitude that one must encounter in the depth of a chilling winter evening.

Frost’s poems are brilliantly woven facets of the beauty and sharply contrasting bleakness of barren winter. However, the feeling of redemption is overwhelming in his warm and enlightening expressions surrounding the beauty of flowers, streams, woods, and ice glittering on birch trees.

I have imprinted the contrasting and conflicting emotions that surround real New Hampshire life in the bitter cold depths of winter, when the days are short and the nights are long. Frost articulates the promise of spring and warmth from the sun and the reassurance of the twinkling stars that sparkle at night with hope and beauty.

His ability to capture his nature-based fantasies is an example of emotional survival, a necessity for true New Englanders faced with long winters, hardships on the farm and daily drudgery. Clearly, his creativity born from nature was a vital mechanism and healthy alternative to manic depression; this I know too well.

When thinking of Robert Frost, one does not usually conjure up an image of a chicken fancier and farmer with an in-depth knowledge of the science behind successful chicken farming.

Each breed has distinctive characteristics either desired or dreaded by the seasoned chicken farmer. Reading Frost’s chicken accounts based on my own experience as a chicken farmer were amusing and provided a certain kinship to Frost that I had not previously known.

In his early writing, Frost’s literary genius shined through, as it made its way boldly through the pages of something as simple as a poultry journal. He had a way of adding colorful detail, character and whimsy to what may have otherwise been a monotonous, tedious account. This collection is the foundation for his later poetic work and is quite evident as is demonstrated in the following passage:
“Welch usually had his chickens out early, and the showing season seldom found him unprepared. But one year his first hatches were so exceptionally fine that the gods fell in love with them, and they died young” (61).

Other passages from his book indicate a poet in the making:

“The bird has made some stir already, then; that’s what they call the fatal gift of beauty, isn’t it” (100).

“But even if she hadn’t feathered legs, and the other hadn’t a bad comb, and both of them were all that they ought to be, they wouldn’t be any more alike than the animals in a happy family at the circus” (86).

In Robert Frost: Selected Poems, the significant tone of his poetry greatly reflects the emotion, struggling, courageous and rugged character of a New England farmer. Not only does Frost’s work seize the essence of the Yankee spirit, he does so from the perspective of a spectator, observing his surroundings both in nature and of his fellows.

His work – indicative of his existence – spans across generations, ringing true to life, as we know it in New England. He writes of his wife's struggles with the everyday tireless tasks of the farmer’s wife. It is evident that Frost worked through his conflicts through writing. He captures the quintessence of the poverty-stricken poor farm worker, the daily chores and writes about the loneliness of a pauper's death. Once again, we unite.

A Servant to Servants focuses on those who are less fortunate than Frost, and he expresses the injustice he feels through his own eyes and with his pen he writes
“My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once – yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea – the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human” (121).

I share with this fellow chicken farmer, naturalist and writer, feelings of concern regarding the poor farm (social welfare system) and its function in society. When reflecting on the 298 buried anonymously in the ‘Pauper’s Cemetery’, I say a simple prayer. In God’s eyes, we are the same, not one better than the other.

Frost, Robert. Farm – Poultry Man. Eds. Edward Lathem, and Lawrence Thompson.
Hanover, NH: Dartmouth Publications, 1963.

Gramercy Books. Robert Frost : Selected Poems.
Avenel, New Jersey: Outlet Book Company, Inc., 1992.

Ashes to Ashes

2010-08-04T17:47:00.000-04:00

Due to the scarcity of land today, some believe that it is not necessary to preserve graveyards and that the early remains of such graveyards should be returned to the earth as dust from whence they came. I disagree. There are many significant records and stories available at these historical sites that are not documented in town, church, or family records.

As was the case with the Carroll County Pauper Cemetery, many times records were lost, destroyed in fires, floods or other similar disasters, leaving no documentation or vital statistics. Upon reading the information written on gravestones, one can easily make connections between the people who are at rest and the times in which they lived.

Some of the most profound personal histories ever discovered regarding early inhabitants of our country, is present in graveyards. A single-family plot may tell of the early death of a young physician who specialized in herbal medicine. It may also bring to light the demise of his mother upon giving birth to his younger brother, who lies buried with her. We may then learn that his own daughter lived to the old age of eighty-two, yet sadly, he lost his wife to cholera when she was only twenty- years-old.

Graveyards also depict the ravages of diseases that wiped out entire families and communities. Remarkable stories are often revealed simply by reading dates, names and epitaphs.

It is rare for me to pass a graveyard in the middle of the woods on a dirt road without stopping. I don’t always have hours to meander throughout and gather fascinating information. Sometimes I have to scan the headstones, make a mental note of my location and return when I have the time to do it historical justice.

When I discovered the 298, there was no end in my desire to know who they were in life as well as in death. Were they really so irrelevant that they were buried in a nameless grave with so many others? I had never seen a site such as this – small, numbered, granite gravestones. In the society in which they lived, their lives were considered insignificant enough to remain nameless in time.

Is it a coincidence that the granite stones at this almost hidden location in the “Granite State” are small, thick and sturdy? Their numbers remain clear and plain while enduring harsh New England weather for a century and a half?

In graveyard history, we know that the earliest stones consisted of what was available to the inhabitants at the time. The colonists simply desired to remember their loved ones, and what was accessible is what they used to place at the burial site. This aspect varied from region to region, and even within the various levels of the social structure. The stones in some regions indicated what was obtainable to them based on trade routes. One village may have had access to marble, while another did not because it was not feasible to transport. If a person had the financial means, he would by-pass local stones for the more prestigious stones that in many instances lasted longer.

Sometimes, the local materials proved to be a lasting tribute, such as granite while in other instances, the stones have weathered to obscurity. In well-to-do communities, and with the advance of culture in the New World, sophisticated Americans chose from various marbles, English limestone and the lesser sturdy New England slates.

Many of these materials persevered well throughout the centuries, while others crumbled and deteriorated during the test of time. The craftsmanship of these stones was an art in itself. The colonists had available to them a fine quality of expertise, which is evident in the early stones. Research of early central motifs and border carvings indicate the development of symbols and iconography, which transformed both regionally and with the development of the country. From these carvings, we learn of the evolving outlook towards death and immortality throughout different periods in American history.

Early (Puritan) gravestones with dramatic expressions of death and border carvings such as skulls and crossbones, hourglasses and scythes, imply mortality and that one’s time has passed, underlying the finality of death. The high mortality rate of the early colonists may account for this solemn outlook.

Throughout history, the images on gravestones shift from the dramatic, to reflect a more gentle comprehension of death and dying. Culture was evolving as well as the spiritual and religious community towards a more sentimental attitude. Hope was emerging, and the way of death and dying was transforming to a faith-based religion with a focus on the afterlife. The skulls and crossbones were being replaced with angels and cherubs.

Thus, the motifs and symbols tell a story of the perceptions of life, living, death and dying. The same holds true for the inscriptions. Not only can we the observer, grasp the family connections of those in final rest, but we are often able to learn of personal and local events of historical interest. A stone may summarize an account of a suicide, drowning or heroic attempt to save a life. Many stones indicate the character of the deceased person. Some are humorous, while others write of unworthiness, or despicable character. There are entire books in print on the subject of witty Yankee humor found on New England gravestones.

Not only were the 298 paupers of Carroll County without inscriptions, they were without their names. Initially, the record keeping was not in their favor, nor the legacy of shame, as the local officials urged me to give up looking for their identities; the math was not in their favor either, as there are still at least 30 souls still missing. I hope to find them.

It is my calling to return their voices and perhaps through the narratives of Abigail, Nellie (Nanatasis) and Silas, we will be able to honor them and create our own epitaphs for them.

Abigail and Patience

2010-07-29T22:39:00.001-04:00

Although Patience’s family tried in vain to fabricate a story about her going away, Abigail knew the horrible truth. Even though they were mere acquaintances, Abigail found comfort knowing that she would have a friend at the farm. Patience started out as a role model for Abigail, since she was a seasoned inmate and had already given birth. In a short time, however, Abigail was the stronger, wiser of the two.

“Take off that dress and git into this.” Polly gritted her teeth and ripped the yellow gown away from me. “Since you ain’t got much hair, we don’t have to chop it off.”

I unbuttoned my blouse and stared at the bed sacks settin’ on the floor linin’ the walls. A woman in the far corner held a baby in her arms; with great effort, she turned. Tufts of matted yellow fuzz covered her head. I tried to see her face as she walked through the vague shadows.

“Patience.” I grinned.

Smudges of dirt dotted her small heart shaped face. She smiled faintly. “Abigail Hodgdon?” The baby squirmed. “What are you doin’ here?”

I looked at my feet and whispered. “I’m with child.”

“Oh Lord. Of course. That ain’t good.” She ran her hand over the baby’s head.
[…]
Patience sat on a board positioned between two blocks. “Nellie has some dried up moss that you kin stuff in with the straw and it ain’t so bad.” Like a baby bird, her son bobbed his tiny head in search of her breast.

“When you hear the bell, come to the dinin’ room with the others.” Polly marched away leavin’ a trace of stench in her wake.

I jumped when I heard two loud bangs comin’ from the barn and then returned to the reassurin’ sound of the sucklin’ baby - unaware of the awful place in which we were – nestled in Patience’s arms.

----------------------------------------------------

I pulled the blanket up to my chin and stared at the ceilin’. All the groanin’ and screechin’ prevented me from movin’.

“Abigail?” Patience whispered.

“What?”

“Don’t be scared.” Her baby wimpered.

“I’m not.” I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried to ignore the cries from down the hall.

“They can’t take away your soul.” The silhouette of Patience carryin’ the baby passed in front of the window.
“I know.” I rolled onto my side.

Heavenly Father,
I have sinned against you, and there's no turnin’ back. I am fully aware that I must surrender to that which is my fate. I pray that you take me into Your hands and in thy own time, restore to my bosom the enjoyment of peace. Though I am poor and needy, I pray that you think of me. And while reviewin' my past life and my sinnin’ and forgetfulness, that you will guide me through my distress in my needful time. I pray for strength and forgiveness. In the Lord’s name I pray, A-men.
-------------------

Unconcerned with their surroundin’s, the women dressed in silence. After Patience nursed the baby, she got into her yellow dress and pulled a holey snood over her gnarled and frayed hair. “Nellie’s got secret potions.” She buttoned her dress. “She’s better’n most of them doctors.”

The bell rang out from downstairs and Miss Noyes hollered. “Breakfast!”

I scrambled out of bed, droppin’ Hope and kickin’ the tin cup across the room. Nellie reached for me. Her hand was warm and calloused, yet carin’ and soft at the same time, allowin’ me to feel safe and loved in an unexpected manner.

“I don’t want to get in a heap of trouble by bein’ late.” I watched the women as they filed out of the room mumblin’, detached from themselves and each other.

“If you go with Nellie, they won’t give you no mouth.” Patience called out.
- Abigail Hodgdon, November 24, 1872

Abigail: The Ties That Bind

2010-07-27T16:26:00.001-04:00

Nellie was right to think of Abigail as a warrior. From the first harrowing days at the farm to the last, Abigail demonstrated nothing less than unimaginable courage.

Terrifyin’ screams woke me. I held my hands over my ears. My chest heaved; my damp nightdress clung to my skin. I found myself standin’ before a fogged window with a ragin’ crack down the middle. Where am I? Two women sat on the floor starin’ at me while at least four others lay in motionless bundles along the wall. My heart pounded as I touched my head and my fingers happened upon a tuft of stiff hair. A baby cried from across the room. This is no dream.

Sarah used to calm me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I stood stock-still as cool air whistled through the cracked window, dryin’ the sweat from my skin. I jumped when I felt a hand on my arm. As quickly as she appeared, Nellie vanished into uncertain shadows.

“Folks probably heard you all the way down at the train station.” Patience whispered. “Don’t worry. I had nightmares when I first came here. I still get ‘em from time to time.” She situated herself on the bench with her baby.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” I sat on my bed and pulled my knees to my chest. “It was somethin’ else. Somethin’ more terrifyin’ than a nightmare.”

“Shhhhhh.” Mahitable pulled her blanket over her head.

“Sorry.” My breathin’ returned to normal.

“She ain’t one to talk.” Patience sighed. “She screams more than anyone else.”

The murky gray skies surrendered to gauzy pink and amber clouds. A rooster from the barn crowed, soundin’ almost like Pearl. I thought about him lyin’ alone in that field with his bones picked clean and smiled. I finally understood what Grampa Wills meant when he ranted about that old general. Live free or die.

It is within feminine nature for women to nurture through bonding and circles. Maintaining loyal sisterhood ties is a vital, global element in sustaining family, community and a sense of general well-being. On the farm, this union was essential for the survival of all.

Nellie and Abigail almost immediately assumed the role of mother and daughter. Nellie quickly took Abigail under her wing and Abigail instinctively trusted her.

Men’s voices from outside mingled with rattlin’ pots in the kitchen. Where is Nellie? Her empty bed sack sagged in the middle. The hay crinkled beneath me and the rooster crowed again.

The door creaked. Nellie scuffed across the room and sat down beside me. I peeked through half opened eyes. She stirred an old crumpled tin of brew with a notched twig. I watched. She stirred and stirred, lookin’ into the cup with great interest. The women shuffled about and joined the refrain of clangin’ chains and male voices that echoed from the barn. Nellie handed me the cup. The scent was familiar.

I brung the cup to my lips and blew on the steam. I puckered when the black, brown and green specks that peppered the tea lingered on my tongue. Nellie watched with warm chocolate eyes. It tasted like dirt; I drank it all.

Abigail was frozen by fear of the unknown and wretched conditions. She did not want to make a wrong move. Not only did she fear the farm bosses, but she feared the inmates as well. The population consisted of elderly, young, senile, weak, destitute, men, women and a few children.

Nellie brushed past me, picked up Hope, and went to her secret place. I looked away so that she wouldn’t think that I was snoopin’. She waited by the door while I ripped off my nightdress – stiff from lye and dried sweat – and stuffed it under my pillow before wigglin’ into my yellow dress. The churnin’ in my stomach grew louder with each step towards the kitchen.

I tried to become a part of Nellie. When she moved a certain way, I moved that same certain way. Polly handed over my bowl and spoon without speakin’. We went to the same table, only this time the pot had brown, runny gruel in it instead of stew. The bread and lard were in the center of the table; folks ate desperately with hunger I had never seen.

She faced her biggest fear, coming face to face with Silas.

I stood in line tryin’ to make out faces of folks I knew. We all filed into the kitchen together but in the dinin’ room, the women sat on one side and the men on the other. My hands trembled as I constantly looked for Silas. What will I do if I see him? I will run. No, I cannot run; I have nowhere to go. I moved forward in the line stayin’ close behind Nellie. I will stare at him until he leaves the room. I imagined his face, and his eyes lookin’ back at me. I will look away and pretend he is not present.

Abigail Hodgdon, November 24, 1872.

-------

I returned to my pole and swirled the clothes around watchin’ the white trail of lye on the water. I thought of Mother putting a drop of lavender oil in the water. That little extra sweetness makes a difference. She told Sarah and me.

“Ooh. A lovely new face.” A man’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

His laugh was loud and deep.

Without liftin’ my head, I peeked up at him. My knees about gave way when I saw Cyrus Trask. Sarah spoke of him often. He always took to boastin’ and fightin’ in town when he got all liquored up. Silas pushed and poked him from behind.

I can’t run. I can’t hide. Our eyes met. I returned my sights to the clothes in the warm gray water. My heart throbbed madly in my temples.

“You never mind.”

The familiar voice reached a different place, a place where I kept all the love that I once had, a flower garden where I could not see the flowers, touch them, or even smell them. I could only conjure up an image. When that garden gate opened, it was simply to remind me that they were in there, and that if I dared to pick them, they would die.

Abigail Hodgdon, November 25, 1872

"R" is for Red: Honoring Nanatasis

2010-07-23T13:28:00.000-04:00

In the Ossipee, NH Town Records, the registered deaths for the year ending December 31, 1895 included the death of “Mrs. Lewis” with an asterisk beside her name - * “Indian Woman.”
Age – “C”
Place of Birth – “Old Town, Maine
Occupation – Pauper
Disease or Cause of Death – Old Age
Sex and Condition – Female
"White Column" Blank except for the "r" which stands alone beside her name.

Of course, this stood out to me. I was searching for the identities of the 298 buried anonymously. I selected the one hundred-year-old “Indian Woman” as one of the three narrators of this novel. I changed her name to Nellie Baldwin after my Native American Great Grandmother from Northern Vermont. I gave her the Abenaki name, Nanatasis, which means hummingbird or muted one. Her narrative is not the spoken word, rather reflections, memories and dreams.

  Unlike the others in this book, she is not a Christian or Gnostic, although she was given a Christian name upon her marriage to Elijah Baldwin or ‘Searching Owl’ as she affectionately refers to him. Nanatasis (Nellie) is authentic in her spiritual existence, which does not wax and wane with the moon that she relies on for knowing the seasons. She lives in a manner that honors the earth and its inhabitants with integrity.

  “R” is for red. A mark of distinction not wholly comprehended at the time of recording in the town records in 1895.

Her voice is the divine spark that dwells within and yearns to be heard.

The spirit of my daughter came when the corn-making moon revealed images in white clouds; dreams were plentiful. To keep from communing, the men worked in the field to the east and the women in the field to the west. I carried two baskets for late harvest, one with yellow and green squash and one with the last tomatoes. I gave thanks to Our Mother for bountiful gifts.

I brought the baskets in the room with the others and returned to the fields. The yellow and black butterfly called to me. It was necessary to follow. The departed spirits of those who came before us returned on the wings of the butterfly. The sun was past the middle of the inner sky and the truth would make itself known.

The masters shouted at the old man who walked with the help of a stick. He could not hear, but they did not take time to know this. Their voices grew like howling wind that fell upon deaf ears. He had fear in his eyes and bowed to the earth.

I went after the butterfly to the edge of the pond, and it is there that I sat upon the soft grass. The stillness of the pond reflected the sky. I no longer heard the men, only the quiet song of rattling chains on great beasts in the open field.

I faced the west; the butterfly rested upon my knee. The wings opened and closed, opened and closed. All that surrounded me became the color of the harvest moon.
-Nellie Baldwin, August 30, 1872

Elijah Baldwin, the love of her life, is often in her reflections. She weaves her history, which spans a century, throughout the novel.

Searching Owl – a white man, a trader – hunted, fished, trapped and farmed. He came to my people many times and sat long by the fire. The men, women and children heard his stories and he heard ours. He spoke of a place of many lakes and one much the same as Bitawbagok called Wiwninbesaki, the great smiling spirit. He lived amongst great White Mountains - Wawôbadenik - they reached past our Father the sky.

My heart beat with joyful song when White Flower told me that he would meet with Standing Bear and the elders. He brought many gifts and asked for me to be his wife.

I was of six winters when my father’s spirit departed. He and many others were sick with the white man’s fever. Before the marriage, he appeared in my dream. Nanatasis, Searching Owl is good. He will honor you. You will live in a land far from Bitawbagok. Go. Be fruitful.

I was wet with tears. I wanted to see him longer. The vision was clear. I went to my mother and lay beside her. She opened her eyes. Nanatasis, what brings you?

I moved close to lie on her breast. Her heartbeat gave comfort. We slept in embrace until the break of day. Searching Owl talked long with Standing Bear and the elders. We filled baskets with offerings and prepared for the celebration. I had not danced since the river took Mamijôla. At our wedding, I danced.

When it was the time to leave, the child of Searching Owl grew in me. Each night I knew could be the last with my people. I looked long at my mother. Yellow flames echoed in her dark brown eyes. Her skin was clear and her thick black hair had shiny silver strands painted on each side. She was graceful and strong.
[...]
The last night came. She stood tall. Nanatasis, come.

I followed her to the shadows, away from the light of the fire. I feared leaving. Who would help me with the birth of our child? Who would comfort me?

You must not be afraid. Elijah is a good husband. He is strong and knows the ways of Our Mother. He will care for you and the child. You must welcome this journey. She placed her hand on my unborn child. Her eyes were peaceful; she smiled. You will know the great smiling spirit of Wiwninbesaki. The Wawôbadenik hold many secrets. Be strong, Nanatasis. She held me in her arms making me warm.

Searching Owl stirred before the rising sun. Nanatasis, we should go before the others wake. You said farewell; this is the better way.

I took the doll I made in the summer and walked to my sleeping mother. I left it beside her while she dreamed. With great sorrow in my heart, I looked upon her face once more.

After four days of travel, we arrived at a place in New Hampshire called Water Village. Searching Owl’s house was on the banks of Cold River. It was not a large house; it withstood winter winds and spring rains.
-Nellie Baldwin, October 15, 1872

Abenakis and English Glossary
Bitawbagok – Lake Champlain, Vermont
Mamijôla – Butterfly
Wiwininebesaki – Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire
Wawôbadenik – White Mountain Region, New Hampshire

Laurent, Joseph. New Familiar Abenakis and English Dialogues. Vancouver:
Global Language Press, 2006.

Silas and The Many Faces of God

2010-07-20T16:20:00.000-04:00

To avoid confusing the term Gnostic with Agnostic, I have provided a definition.

Gnosis: Pronunciation: \ˈnō-səs\
Gnosticism: From the Greek gnosis (knowledge). A diversity of pre-Christian and early-Christian beliefs. A central tenet is the corruption of the physical world, and the ability of some to transcend it through acquisition of esoteric spiritual knowledge (1).

Silas is a true Gnostic. He does not believe that one must be within the walls of a designated building or go through an intermediary to connect with God. He disagrees with the restrictions that Christians place on themselves and he does not hesitate to voice his opinion.

I took a gander down Brown’s Ridge Road and thought of my pretty Abigail. Well, she weren’t mine really. I used to meet her in the field behind the Blake farm and talk about this and that. I weren’t a church goin’ man, but Abigail liked to talk ‘bout God and nature and things. I tried to tell her that she didn’t need the likes of no preacher to talk to God, but she never missed so much as one church meetin’. I had to laugh when she held dandelions under my chin and told me I loved butter. I listened and looked into them soft brown eyes and my heart lit up like a tinda’ box.

She was a proper girl, but it kept gettin’ harder to resist. Her touch got my heart to poundin’ and I nearly lost my wits. We came close many a time ‘til them fires inside got to burnin’ too hot and there weren’t no turnin’ back

Going up to the hayloft was wrong; we could no longer resist temptation. Then after, when we was down at the river, she was all tearful, claimin’ that she was a sinner. I was a man of honor, not sin. I promised myself that I would not get familiar with her, but I lost my way, somethin’ that altered our lives in unimaginable ways. - Silas Putnam, June 30, 1872.

He respects others’ religious beliefs, but adheres to his own. He thinks – as an authentic Gnostic – that we all have everything that we need inside of us. He believes in a higher power and acts accordingly.

Jessie seemed to float to my side. All that tingled inside of me musta’ showed in my face; I couldn’t hold back from grinnin’. At the direction of Pastor Leighton, we kneeled down on the small bench for a silent prayer. I tried to think straight, to take the time to do what we was supposed to do. Every time I thought of somethin’ private to say to God, somebody coughed or wiggled in a creaky chair. I cleared my throat.

God? I know you don’t hear much from me and all, but it ain’t ‘cause I don’t think highly of you. I jest get tied up in every day affairs. With all the work at the farm and takin’ care of my folks, I don’t take the time out to talk to you. I’m thankful for all this…Jessie and the house and good folks like the Gilmans. I pray that Jessie and me can be happy. I pray that I can take my mind off Abigail and be a good husband and…

“Silas?” The Pastor whispered. “Silas. You can stand up now.”
            - Silas Putnam, December 27, 1872

Of course, it is not surprising that Silas’ father is actually dangerous in church. One does not know what to expect, since he is intoxicated most of the time.

My hands shook when I tried to slip the ring on Jessie’s finger; it wouldn’t go over her knuckle. When I tried to pull it off, it fell to the floor makin’ a ringin’ sound and rollin’ right under Daddy’s chair.

“Uh. I’ll get it.” My heart pounded clear down to my feet as I got on my hands and knees in front of him.

At first, he chuckled and then he got to coughin’ and gaggin’ and howlin’. “Jesus Christ, son. You ain’t off to a good start.” Tears rolled into them prickly whiskers that started on his cheeks and ended in his long untamed beard.

“Hiram.” Mama nudged him hard with her elbow. “That’s enough.” She hissed in his ear then gave me that apologizin’ look.

I reached way under his chair and snatched the ring. I took my time standin’ up, not takin’ my eyes off Daddy while he kept on laughin’ under his breath. He quieted down and I returned to Jessie. Her bottom lip quivered.

I smiled. “Let’s do this agin’.” I lifted her hand and forced the ring on her finger. She let out a long breath and we turned to the Pastor.     - Silas Putnam, December 27, 1872

The Putnams rarely attend church services. Mrs. Putnam tries. She tries in every aspect of her life but always comes up short. Her spiritually, physically and emotionally devastated husband takes a toll on her.

Silas struggled with his father, lookin’ quite red in the face and sweatin’ in spite of the cold. Every time Mr. Putnam almost got to standin’, he wobbled and stumbled back into the pew. Mrs. Putnam chatted with Mrs. Weeks as if attendin’ church was a regular occurrence and like her husband weren’t fallin’ down and cursin’ under his breath loud enough for all to hear. Folks generally took their merry time gettin’ out, which invited that giant hand to pressin’ down on my chest.   – Abigail Hodgdon, November 9, 1872

1 “The Lost Gospel of Judas.” National Geographic.com.
  1999 – 2009 National Graphic Society.
<http://www.nationalgeographic.com/lostgospel/about_glossary.html>.

Yellow is the Color of My Sin

2010-07-14T13:44:00.001-04:00

During the Post-Civil War Era, the reoccurrence of witch-hunts and denunciation were present in alternative forms, leaving ordinary folks in a constant state of fear and paranoia. For example, the unwed mothers at the Carroll County Poor Farm were distinguished from other inmates by the requirement to wear a yellow dress or smock. This is another form of the letter “A” for adultress. In fact, in most cases women were required to wear yellow following the birth of their bastard children. This form of sentencing proved to be humiliating and convenient as far as quickly identifying a woman as a sinner with low moral standards simply because she wore yellow.

A tall woman with dark hair pulled into a painfully tight knot at the nape of her neck approached me. “Bring her over here Moses. I’ll fit her for a dress.” She scowled. “Another pregnant one?”

Moses’ eyebrows rose in apology. “Git her one of them yellow smocks Polly.”
- Abigail Hodgdon November 24, 1872

Most families disowned their sinful daughters, as they had blackened the family name. In an attempt to hide this shame, some went to great lengths to create stories about their daughters going to work at the mills, living with distant relatives or attending teaching college, never to return.

I often wondered what happened to Patience. Some folks said that she went to Boston to become a schoolteacher; others claimed to see her down at the County Farm. It wasn’t a secret; she was with child. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Cook carried on as if she never existed. No one had the courage to mention Patience in front of them but tongues wagged when they turned their backs.
[…]
We hadn’t reached the end of the hymn and Mr. and Mrs. Cook were out the door to avoid talkin’. Mother primped the feather that hung from her hat and tucked her Bible under her arm. I waited and watched a fly plummet from the top of the window down to the corner of the sill, desperate for a way out.
– Abigail Hodgdon August 24, 1872

Sometimes the town gossips let the cat out of the bag, but tight-lipped Puritan descendants pretended that their daughters were gone for good, not even allowing their daughters back into the family after the birth took place. As far as the scorned families were concerned, their daughters were dead. A woman who did not make her way out of the Poor Farm following the birth of her child, worked on the farm until her death, ending up in an anonymous grave. Poor Betty, she did not carry her child to term; the Poor Farm Commission sent a letter to her family and this was the result.

I unfolded the crumpled letter. Lord, please forgive me. Mother used to scold me for bein’ a busy body. This was different, and besides, Betty gave it to me herself.

Dear carrol County Farm Commishionners,
We are respondin to the leter that you sent to us in Januray conserning our daughter Betty. She has shamed us & blackened our name. We did not speake of her sinful ways to folks in town but we carry the burden evry day. Many folks know the fate of Betty as most other girls who leve home do so because of shame. It is the unspoken truth.
Even thoughe the child did not live, it is after much thoght that we have desided that we do not want Betty to return to our family as ther is no longer a place for her.
Please do not contact us agan with any more informashon regarding Betty. We have donated a sum of money to the county Farm in return for her never coming home.
Sincerly,
Jonathan & Elizabeth Wallace.
Freedom, new hampshire
- Abigail Hodgdon March 20, 1873

---------------------
She looked at the outhouse and then back at me. “Good mornin’.” Her dingy yellow dress flapped in a wind gust exposin’ her tattered leggin’s.

The women had to wear yellow even after the child inside was gone. Folks wanted to remember the sinners and keep ‘em separate from the others. – Abigail Hodgdon December 25, 1872

Sadly enough, women died swathed in the color of their sin.

About a week passed. The sun shined brightly and the bird chorus sang cheerfully. When I went to the outhouse, I saw somethin’ out of the ordinary. I stopped and looked at what I believed to be the corner a yellow dress flutterin’ in the gentle mornin’ breeze. I ran past the barn to see Patience hangin’ from the big oak tree with the clothesline tied around her neck. I screamed and reached for her, but it was simply too late. I leaned against the tree and heaved.
- Abigail Hodgdon June 28, 1878

Jessie – privileged and unaware – never knew about the color of sin.

“I was thinking of getting a bright yellow dress with a bustle. Did you know that it’s the latest fashion?” She tapped along the top of her other eyebrow. “Yellow is such a bright color and I feel so drab after the long winter.”

I crawled under the blanket. My shoulders ached from choppin’ ice and carryin’ bodies to the shed in the field where we keep ‘em on ice until spring. Even the small folks felt heavy when they were dead. Poor Mrs. Kennison. She was a sweet ole lady.

“Do you think yellow will look good against my fair skin?” She blew at the lamp.

I tried to blot out the vision of Abigail with her curls bustin’ out from the yellow cloth that she wore on her head. Her cheeks blushed when she fussed over Patience’s baby. I tried to blot out the sadness in her eyes. I tried but I jest couldn’t blot out the fact that she looked beautiful in her dirty yellow dress clingin’ to her round belly. “Yes. Yellow.”

“Not every woman can wear yellow. But I think that it will be eye catching on me.” She fiddled with the blanket and climbed into bed.

“Yes Jessie. That’s true.”
- Silas Putnam February 25, 1873

Nellie observes.

The shadow of a crow flew overhead shaking wings and calling to me. The wind changed with the passing of time. I sat with the others crushing rocks. The young woman who sat near me wore a dress of yellow, the color worn by one who gives birth without a husband. Many at the farm wore dresses of yellow. Her child would come in two moons.
– Nellie Baldwin September 15, 1872

Onward Christian Soldiers: Abigail the Sinner

2010-07-12T15:53:00.001-04:00

Religion played a significant role in the lives of rural New Englanders in the 19th century. Oppressive Puritan beliefs trickled down through the generations, shaping the dark side of the perception of every day life. Although the practice of hanging alleged witches and sentencing individuals to the stockades faded into our collective history, the judgmental attitude and practice of condemnation was not so quick to diminish.

The transformation from outward accusations to inward guilt became the tradition. Americans tended to inhabit the fear of God rather than point the proverbial finger, although denunciation still existed when necessary.

When Abigail wasn't pouring her heart out to her beloved cow, she prayed. She was the quintessential Christian – the keeper of guilt – accepting her fate as a sinner.

I was grateful for the time to share with those who thought well of Mother, Sarah and me. Especially dear Mr. Tibbetts, the main bent of his heart was to please Mother. My sinful disobedience brought much spiritual poverty upon me in recent months past. I longed for the time when God shined His candle about my head as in the days of my youth. I looked forward to goin’ to church; I was in want of spiritual refreshment and needed to escape from the humiliation brought about by Mrs. Blake. She was kind in the presence of the folks at church, foolin’ everyone with her smilin’ plump, rosy cheeks. I was fooled myself until I saw what was inside of that doughy head of hers, and it was no sweet berries or sliced apples with cinnamon; behind all that thick crust was pure evil. - Abigail Hodgdon October 5, 1872.

Going to church each week was an important part of the Post-Civil War Era. This was a communal requirement and the smallest details contributed to the defining of social status. Churchgoers paid close attention to who attended and how often, what they wore, how they arrived at church and which pew they occupied. Some churches charged pew rent.
Abigail did not restrict her prayers to church. She was mindful of her relationship with God in all aspects of her life. Her faith had great depth and integrity.

I lifted the latch on the door and peeked out before I pulled my cape over the dead chicken. I didn’t want to invite Mrs. Blake to questionin’.

I rushed to the back of the barn, towards the woods. I walked fast, lookin’ behind me now and again before I broke into a run. The wind picked up and crispy brown leaves hurried across the hayfield while it started to spit snow. My breath puffed in steamy white clouds as I reached the edge of the woods.

I weaved my way through the birch trees, duckin’ under branches and steppin’ over fallen limbs before I stopped at an openin’. I thought it best to feed Pearl to the critters. Perhaps the turkey vultures would get him first or maybe a fox or raccoon. I brushed away the layer of snow atop the leaves with my foot and stood holdin’ his stiff body. My face flushed and I sweat under my heavy cape. I waited for my chest to stop heavin’ before I bowed my head.

Heavenly Father,
I give to you my dear friend and rooster, Pearl. I return him to the earth from where he came. He was a well mannered rooster and done a fine job wakin’ us up every mornin’ and he kept good care of the hens. Bless him. In the Lord’s name, I pray. A-Men.

His body thumped against the ground in the center of the circle. He was magnificently white against the golden leaf pile. I stood still for a few moments not really wantin’ to leave. A silky white tail feather swayed in the wind. I walked over, plucked it from him, and slid it into my apron pocket with the tip up, careful not to spoil the fine edges. I plodded back to the barn through the quickly accumulatin’ snow with frozen blocks of ice instead of toes inside of my cracked soakin' boots.

The wind calmed and the sun shined softly like a gauzy ball peerin’ through layers of dark gray and white clouds. The snowflakes were wet and heavy and fell gently. I stopped and looked up at the swirlin’ sky. Why does everyone have to die? – Abigail Hodgdon November 20, 1872.

Abigail came from a devout Christian family. She attended church because it was politically correct, however the purest form of her love for God took place outside of church walls. Staying true to her nature; she had an eye for detail and often sifted through her conflicts during mundane weekly services.

A fly inched its way from the bottom of the window to the top only to buzz back down and start all over again. In an attempt to clear her throat, Mother chirped and glared at the Bible that lay closed on my lap. She ran her finger along the page mouthin’ the words from Corinthians along with Pastor Leighton. Sarah looked beyond him, unblinkin’.
[…]
I felt a thwack in my chest when the pastor closed his Bible. “And that ends our readin’ from the Old Testament. Let us pray.”

His bushy eyebrows gathered like rain clouds over his beady eyes and he glared at me. My mouth went dry. I closed my eyes while Sarah rested her head on Mother’s shoulder.
“…sinners shall repent, O Lord thy Father…”
- Abigail Hodgdon August 24, 1872.

.

Honoring Richard Hathaway

2010-07-09T16:50:00.001-04:00

In 2005, Dick Hathaway was my mentor during my culminating study at Vermont College. He affectionately referred to my Pauper Cemetery study as a “monster project.” In my evaluation he wrote, “Maryjane’s passion for historical research was evident throughout the venture. She was also able, in the final analysis, to exercise a measure of control over her materials, which at times seemed destined to spin out of control given the enormous breadth of her readings and her desire to include everything. […] Ultimately, however, she was able to create a final product, which successfully reflected the passion and dedication that she brought to these tasks. Her study reflects academic research, her passion to rehabilitate the memory of those buried anonymously, and her personal feelings about her role as a historian resurrecting the past.”

When I decided to transform my academic piece “Etched in Granite” into a historical novel, the first thing that came to mind was, I wish I could share this with Dick Hathaway.

When I finished each chapter, solved a craft riddle within the plot, discovered something historically off the charts I thought, Dick Hathaway would love this.

When I completed the final chapter of my first draft I thought, Dick Hathaway would be so proud.

I felt very comfortable with Dick Hathaway as my mentor to the point where I shared my companion journal as I worked on my study. Because of our mutual trust and my insight to honor him as a master in this area of study, I completed a powerful academic piece.

One evening I returned home to find a message on my answering machine. It was Dick asking me to return his phone call. I had concerns because it was customary to maintain correspondence through postal mail or the internet. I called him back and we discussed my latest packet submission. He told me that my “process journal entry” was so powerful that he sat on his porch in his rocking chair and read it aloud. We talked.

At the time of my study, I had fallen on hard times, which I see now was no accident as I am a firm believer that nothing happens by accident. I lost my job, which was not enough to begin with. I had three children at home. I was alone. It was frightening, but not unheard of. I faced uncertainties and bleakness like never before. I put on a brave face for my children and did whatever was necessary to survive.

Being in a survival mode brought me closer to the paupers. My desire to understand them became more urgent with each passing day. The study quickly evolved from being important to being critical and all encompassing. Suddenly I knew hunger, anonymity, frustration and possible homelessness all while protecting my young. I faced a broken system and reached a higher level of being. Forced to draw upon my resources, I became all of who I am.

Looking back, I can say that, it was the most significant time in my life. I found my authentic self and did so in finding the 19th century paupers. My already strong connection with Gaia strengthened as did my faith in the fact that everything happens for a reason. I took my hands off the wheel and focused on my research and the integrity of my work.

As I continue my work, I have this photo of Dick Hathaway and me on my desk. It is the magic moment when he signed my final culminating product . It did not come easy. He insisted that I revise and edit until the last possible moment. My fellow graduates who worked with other mentors were finished days before, but Dick pushed me to the limit. I’ll admit that I was exhausted, gritting my teeth now and then, but I knew that he wanted me to rise to the fullest extent of my abilities. I exceeded the requirements set forth by the college and my own expectations.

He is with me as I write. I hear his words. I envision seeing him in that classroom in College Hall where he looked out at his favorite view of the mountain. I imagine sitting down beside him to talk. I miss him. His spirit remains, cheering me on and reminding me that there will always be more editing and revising. For this, I am grateful.

Nellie is Nature.

2010-07-06T15:25:00.001-04:00

Nellie’s profound connection with animals does not consist of venting or any form of neediness other than practicality. In accordance with her customs, Nellie (Nanatasis) honors nature. She acknowledges all creatures and values their wisdom, spiritual significance and physical importance to survival. Remember, Nellie is mute; all of her ‘quotes’ are memories, dreams and reflections.

The blue heron smiled and flew above my head, beyond the giant pines. The leaves on the tall oak trees shivered and bowed to the wind. – Nellie Baldwin, March 20, 1873

The following passage is a recollection of one of her husband's hunting experiences.

After the doe took flight, he spread tobacco on the ground. He honored Deer Mother and Whiteface Mountain and asked for consent to take a deer to sustain his family in the harshness of winter. He continued to climb. A buck of medium size passed before him; he lifted his ashwood bow and killed swiftly. This pleased him. With his hand on the warm heart of the buck, he offered thanks and respect to the mountain for the nurturing of the deer and all creatures that dwelled therein. He then gave thanks to the spirit of the deer before he tied it on the sled.

When he departed from the top ridge and down the mountain stair, he lost his footing. Wearing snowshoes, he passed over rocks not firmly planted and he fell for a great distance. On his injured leg, he returned to the sled. He applied sphagnum moss and balsam fir sap to the wound and made a splint with birch bark. He built fires at night and ate dried salt pork, hard tack and cheese from his sack. He melted snow for drink and had a small flask of spirituous liquor. At night, he covered with moose hide and warmed his feet by the fire. Four days and three nights passed before he returned home.

The deer provided us with meat to survive the strong winter winds and snow. We made clothing and bedding from the buckskin and returned the carcass to the fire so that its spirit would not depart from the hunting grounds forever. – Nellie Baldwin, November 24, 1872

Nellie takes cues from nature; her awareness is a powerful source of energy and wisdom.

The dragging of the oxen plow reached into my dream. I watched the tip of the yellow and black wing depart into golden grasses. I rose to my feet while the sun neared the end of day and I tasted the salt of sorrow upon my lips.

“Come on Old Lady! Git on inside now!” The woman with the hair the color of a fox called to me. My steps to the big house were heavy. I went to the long table to eat the stew of carrots, potatoes and warm brown water. The spirit that came on yellow and black wings took hunger away. – Nellie Baldwin, August 30, 1872.

In fact, Nellie relates almost entirely through natural metaphors.

Her head fell forward as the animal remains warm after the kill. She stared without seeing when I lay her down for the last time. She would not rise in the morning. – Nellie Baldwin, December 27, 1872

Livestock, Deadstock and Silas Putnam

2010-07-02T17:07:00.001-04:00

Silas’ relationships with animals illustrate his general frustrations in life. He can be quite comical at times while at other times his more serious, basic philosophies shine through. For example, he often refers to an incident in his youth in relation to his struggle with facing death at the poor farm. This is also one of the few memories that he shares which suggests a hint of his long forgotten respect for his father.

-I pictured Josiah all wound up in the cloth inside of the box. Ayuh, Daddy was right; dyin’ was jest a part of livin’. My goat died when I was ‘bout ten; I cried somethin’ wicked. He told me, son, if you have a farm, there’s gonna be livestock and there’s gonna be deadstock. I took the shovel and buried my goat behind the barn and never cried at the likes of deadstock again.- Silas Putnam, June 30, 1982.

This reference surfaced more than once, ironically, at the death of his father.

-Two days after Samuel’s birth, Daddy became deadstock when he up and died leanin’ against the woodpile with a half a jug of whiskey froze in his hand. -Silas Putnam, May 22, 1873.

Silas worked with animals both at the farm and at his home. Incapacitated throughout most of his adult life, Silas’ father proved to be a nagging presence in the background. Silas seems to take it out on the animals as evident in this somewhat amusing scene.

-His shockin’ red comb flapped each time he jerked his head. He scuttled down the path with his wings drawn back, his pace quickened. I glared, ready to take on the ornery bastard – the Rhode Island Red that we got from Leavitt’s farm as a fuzzy yellow chick. It was the last time he would screech outside my window, invitin’ me to scrap.

Every damn time I went to fetch the eggs, he come runnin’ after me with them spurs achin’ to fight. This mornin’ was no different. It weren’t a problem for me; I could kick him, but Mamma didn’t have the nerve and chances are she’d get hurt.

My fingers slipped over the smooth walnut stock of Daddy’s rifle; I pressed it into my chest. Red took to flutterin’ about in the yard gettin’ all the hens in a tizzy. I closed one eye and looked down the barrel tryin’ to predict his next erratic movement. I took a shot; rusty brown and white feathers burst from the center of the flock followed by a hush. Then they all got to natterin’ and circlin’ round him. His pupil damn near disappeared into that yellow eye of his, as he cranked his head above the crowd, mockin’ me and thinkin’ I wouldn’t spare a hen. I blasted him; he got what he was fixin’ to get.

I propped the gun in the corner by Daddy’s old cracked saddlebag and wiped my hand on the leg of my trousers; damn chicken blood was sticky. Major pushed his head out of the stall with his nostrils flarin’ and stomped his hoof into the dirt, always eager to go. I rubbed my hand over the white patch on his nose.

“Silas. Damn it, boy; help me out.” Daddy wailed as he clumped out from the kitchen dragging his bad leg across the floor. “Where’s my chair? God damn thing ain’t where I left it.” He banged his cane on his wooden leg supposin’ that it might make his chair appear or worse, make me run to him.

“Comin’ Daddy.” I punched my hand on the bar post, shreddin’ the skin on my knuckles. He weren’t tryin’ to git me mad, he just didn’t wanna wait is all. The hens clucked and scattered away from my feet when I passed them by on my way to the house. I lugged the chair out from the kitchen, resistin’ the urge to heave it down the steps. The flesh rolled back when I daubed my hand onto my trousers next to the chicken blood.

Daddy’s head bobbled as he watched Mamma teeter out with coffee spillin’ out of the cup. He squirmed, his eyes flittin’ here and there thinkin’ of somethin’ to say. They rested on me. “What was all that ruckus this morning? Ya didn’t shoot Old Red did ya?” He jammed his stubby thumb into the bowl of his pipe. His nose made a whistlin’ sound with each slow breath. His wispy gray beard nearly hung down to his trousers.

I stumbled on the steps and ran to the barn. A handful of red feathers drifted past my boots when I snatched the dead bird by his golden feet and swung around. “Ayuh, I shot him by Jesus. No more battles. Damn thing won’t be crowin’ outside my window no more either.” I dropped him on the ground lookin' him straight in that yellow eye of his. - Silas Putnam, July 20, 1872.

Abigail's Connections

2010-06-29T13:29:00.001-04:00

I honor my connection with nature and animals. The awareness of deep, natural essence is a valuable tool in the telling of this story. Each narrator has his or her unique bond with animals in the wild, on the farm and domestic animals. Being able to draw upon my experiences as a farmer and naturalist aided in the authenticity of this colorful element. It is significant in my own life; therefore extending this energy to my characters makes perfect sense. How one relates to the outside world is an indication of the richness or bleakness of one’s inner life.

Abigail relies on her interaction with her farm animals to work out her problems. Following her sister’s departure, the fate of her mother and love lost, it is imperative that she confide in Lizzy, her favorite milking cow. Her secrets are safe with Lizzy.

The field was empty except for a few crows that had returned. I entered the barn and walked into Lizzy’s stall. She looked at me with her affectionate brown eyes. I sat on the edge of the trough and looked down at my dirty pink toes. “Oh Lizzy, the fault is all my own. What will become of us?” She came closer to me and licked my arm. - Abigail Hodgdon, October 11, 1872.

Like every mornin’ and evenin’, I headed for the empty stall to see if Silas had left a letter. My hope dimmed with each passin’ day as I found not a trace of a letter from him. I stopped. Not now. I took hold of the milk bucket and headed for Lizzy’s stall. “Good mornin’, girl.” I rubbed my hand on her black and white nose. “I have a pleasant surprise.” I waved the letter in front of her. “A letter from Sarah.”

I dragged the milkin’ stool up close beside her and carefully opened the envelope. – Abigail Hodgdon, October 30, 1872.

I am able to relate to this ‘confiding in animals’ phenomenon, as I partook during my own childhood growing up as a middle child in a family of five girls. I fully comprehend the importance of a good listener, willing to die with your secrets.
Old Gray Mare – Abigail’s horse since childhood – is altogether different. She is more like a partner in crime. Some of Abigail’s riskiest behavior has involved Old Gray, and they are clearly in ‘it’ together.

Old Gray Mare walked towards the fence and snorted.
I gasped. “Shhh. Go back.”
She kept on comin’. I went behind the barn and stepped into my petticoat and skirt. I forgot my snood.
I ran my fingers through the mass of unruly curls.
The rusted gate moaned when I touched it. My breath came in short, shaky bursts while I stood waitin' for signs of movement before carryin' on.

Old Gray Mare followed me ‘til we got down the road a piece, then I climbed on her back and rode towards Moses’ Farm. With no one to scold me, I took the liberty to go fast. I leaned forward, gripped her mane and kicked into her sides. I nearly forgot my woes in the cool night air. It had been some years since Sarah and I climbed down the tree to frolic in the night. – Abigail Hodgdon, August 30, 1872.

Abigail offers a detailed description of her natural surroundings; the rooster’s crow is a vital part of her day. She lets us into her inner world and exposes the child within, illuminated by her natural connections.

The danger of namin’ a baby chick too soon is that you’re apt to mistake a rooster for a hen. My favorite rooster Pearl was pure white with a bright red comb and wattle. He was a high-spirited creature; he crowed each day for at least an hour

before sun up.

We had our share of roosters and of course, their fate was to end up on our table with turnips, potatoes and fine meal bread. I simply could not imagine Pearl comin’ to that end and I knew that complainin’ would invite Mother to throwin’ him in the pot. – Abigail Putnam, August 22, 1872.

Abigail is a keen observer of her surroundings, which brings the reader into the scene and enables all of the senses.

Pearl crowed at precisely the same time that the sun burst in through my window. The birds chirped urgently and the trees blushed in the peak of autumn. – Abigail Hodgdon, October 12, 1872.

Domestic animals were no stranger to Abigail; like me, she preferred the company of a good mouser.
He stormed down the stairs, mounted his horse and rode down Brown’s Ridge Road; I watched until he vanished around the corner. Miss Emily purred and rubbed up against my ankles; I picked her up and held her and stared at the empty road.

Mrs. Blake burst through the door with her pulsin’ red face and her hair flyin’ about in a rage. She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “You ain’t bringin’ that cat in the house.” She grabbed Miss Emily from my arms and thrust her into the air. The cat landed with a thud, crouched, and then sprinted into the barn. – Abigail Hodgdon, October 30, 1872.

All three of the characters profoundly relate to animals in life and death providing a strong sense of self.

Silas : Compassion and the Gravedigger's Shovel

2010-06-21T16:47:00.000-04:00

It is interesting how Silas reacts socially and in work situations. He is in conflict at the expectation to abuse the inmates at the Poor Farm. His coworkers are often brutal and accuse Silas of being soft. His inner dialogue illuminates this struggle.

********************
As we neared the stalls, a muffled female cry came from behind one of the doors. We looked at each other before I reached for the latch. I loosened my grip on his shoulder and cleared my throat. I can’t be gettin’ soft.
The heavy oaken door creaked opened. Cyrus stopped; his shoulders sagged as he looked at the chains and then at the board propped on two crates. “You ain’t gonna chain me are ya?” He peered at me from under his thick filthy hair. The cries on the other side of the wall continued.
“Nope. Jest stay in here for the day and think ‘bout it next time ya wanna fight.” I turned and left the dark room, pullin’ the door tight and then hitchin’ the outside latch. - Silas Putnam
********************
Moses Blake is the superintendent of the Poor Farm and a well-respected member of the community. The Blakes are childless and Moses has taken Silas under his wing much like a father. This is a symbiotic relationship, as we know that Silas’ father is a burden and unable to meet Silas’ needs as a child.
****************
“I know that Silas has learnt everything that I could teach him. He’s a good worker, that boy.” Moses grinned.

“That is quite an honor and a worthy position to have. It takes a certain kind of man to obtain such a position at his age.” Dr. Gilman’s voice was considerably lower in pitch than Moses’ was.

“Well, like I said, he ain’t got no worries. He knows all ‘bout farmin’ and he works them folks the way they need to be worked. He’s ripe for the job.” Moses laughed. “But I ain’t goin’ away jest yet. Probably two more years.”

“I think it is exceptional to have such status.” Jessie clasped her perfectly mitted hands to her chest.

“In town? Lord, he would be the Farm Boss of all of Carroll County. It ain’t jest Ossipee, it’s the whole entire county. It’s the County Farm.” Moses cleared his throat.

Silas spoke up. “I always wanted to follow in Moses’ footsteps, but it ain’t been easy. He’s tougher ‘an nails, sometimes.”

“With Hiram bein’ injured in the War, it’s been a hardship for him to teach Silas all that a boy should know. Moses has been like a father to Silas.” Mrs. Putnam’s shaky voice was almost apologetic.

“You’re right, Sally. Moses and I have taken to Silas like the son we never had.” -Abigail Hodgdon
***************
Wielding authority over the paupers, Silas seeks balance between his gentle nature and the insistence of fellow farm bosses to abuse his power. One of his jobs is a gravedigger. He tries to cope with his natural compassion.
***************
I put my hands in my pockets. “Moses. Was it a boy? Or a girl?”

“What good comes from knowin’?”

“I was jest…”

“If you have ta know, it was a boy. Now go.” His pipe gurgled.

Charles climbed on the seat. “Let’s get this done. I wanna git home.” -Silas Putnam

********
The sound of dirt hittin’ the coffin brought me to my feet. The thought of William and Bella made my throat itch; I gagged and coughed a spell. I didn’t like it because I was s’posed to be different. I wanted to please Moses. I pressed my shirt on my eyes. Jest like Daddy said, livestock, deadstock. Can’t have one without the other.

- Silas Putnam

Silas Putnam : A Male Perspective, Adult Child of Alcoholic

2010-06-17T12:48:00.000-04:00

In addition to the rich feminine perspectives of Abigail and Nellie, Silas Putnam shares his story as a young man and overseer of the farm. He struggles with his expected role in the brutal treatment of inmates, his forbidden love for Abigail, and issues surrounding his alcoholic father who suffers from physical and emotional wounds sustained in the Civil War.

When I got home, Daddy was tuggin’ on his whiskey. “Damn! I thought you was never comin’ home.” He leaned on the chair, grippin’ the jug with white knuckles.

I walked past him and stood before Mamma while she laced up her boots. “Silas, there ain’t a lot of time. We’d better leave soon. The Blakes are expectin’ us before long.”

“I know; we ain’t bringin’ him are we? He’s drunk and cussin’ and fallin’ down.”

“Silas, I know it ain’t the best situation, but he is your Daddy and we must make allowances.”

“He won’t know the difference. We oughta leave him right here and spare ourselves the discomfort.” I took the hot water from the stove for bathin’.

The jug toppled onto the floor and rolled over and rested by his feet. Mamma hurried over and fetched it like one of them trained dogs fetchin’ a stick. He mustered up the strength to open one eye, and then only half way. His smile drooped down on one side wantin’ to escape from the cruel trenches of his face and the stench of the rotten air that he breathed, insulted in its own right. It was just a matter of time before he started in singin’ one of his favorite songs.

Instead of spa, we'll drink brown ale
And pay the reckoning on the nail;
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garryowen in glory.

He fumbled with the jug, took another swig and slammed it down on the table. He put his head in his hands and weaved back and forth; his beard straggled across his lap.

“I ain’t sure if he’ll take notice if we leave him here.” I hung my head over the washbasin as if awaitin’ a reply from the grayish water.
- Silas Putnam, October 4, 1872

Nellie: Bridges Connecting to a Rich Spiritual and Earthy Past

2010-06-12T14:49:00.000-04:00

The beauty of Nellie’ narrative is how the bridge that spans time is often formed in nature. She is acutely aware of her surroundings, sounds, sights, scents and images, which transcend her through time and allow the reader a glimpse into her rich spiritual and earthy past.

The stars of the fire flew up to join the others in the night sky. The maple burned brightly when I danced with song in heart. In the Planting Moon, we celebrated the fertility of Our Mother. My hair flowed free and my feet rejoiced in the night dew.

Play for me Nanatasis. Searching Owl pleaded. He carved the flute for me to make music. This made him proud.

I lifted my feet and moved with the quiet wind from Cold River; she sang with the crickets through giant pines. Laughter came from within when I took the flute from him. I put the smooth wood to my lips for the birth of a new song. I closed my eyes; the fire warmed me and music found its way to Our Father the sky.

My husband spread a woven blanket before the fire. Come and sit, Nanatasis.

I sat with my head on his shoulder. The night chorus swelled and begged me to join. I drew in a breath and made music to please.

After the songs, I gave thanks. Searching Owl took the flute. The moon cast a glow on our nakedness as we touched skin to skin. We became one in body and spirit.

The barred owl called insistently from the tallest oak. The embers and all of the night quieted.

A scream pierced the darkness. The spotted wings of the owl brushed past in flight. The flow of Cold River ceased. The safe arms of Searching Owl fell away. I opened my eyes. Shadows of the oak tree swayed above; the moon and stars were no more.

-Nellie, November 25, 1872

Note
Nellie Baldwin - Christian name.
Nanatasis - Abenaki name meaning hummingbird or muted one.

I Went to the Banks of Crooked River

2010-06-09T16:27:00.000-04:00

Nellie’s dreams, visions and memories sustain her. The reader drifts through a passing century through her narrative. Nellie is able to transfer her knowledge gained from her people to the residents of Water Village and later at the Poor Farm.

Nellie is a guardian of the older people and mentally impaired inmates sentenced to long days in the courtyard crushing rocks for roads, buildings and brick making. Sometimes expectant mothers crush rocks as well, but it is a chore mostly for the elderly. In the winter, the same people sit in the long hall, some tied in their rickety chairs from sunrise to sunset. Nellie administers natural, homeopathic remedies for all of the inmates. Her role as healer is vital to those she heals and to her own sense of being as well.
_______________________________________________

Mother came to me. “When the time of fishing has passed, we will prepare for the hunt.” The light of the new day showed lines of knowing on her face.

“I know this.” I bent towards Bitawbagok to drink.

“We must make ready for winter snows and winds”. Brown eyes to brown eyes – held sacred knowledge.

My breath hurried when coldness touched my skin.

Mamijôla was three winters. Her hair was black and her blue eyes held questions not yet asked. She was still while remains of the dream world fell away.

The others awoke. The boats on the shores would go to deeper waters for fishing. The women prepared food, made clothing and some would make baskets to sell to the white man. I went in the woods to gather hemlock, roots and plants for many medicines. I no longer carried Mamijôla on the cradleboard; she walked by my side.

Sharp pain struck. The large woman with hair the color of a fox stood above my bed sack. “Git up, old Squaw. Come get your gruel ‘fore it’s all gone, then you’ll go without.” Mamijôla and Mother returned to the spirit world. My feet were no longer cold from Bitawbagok, but from being with age.

I was slow to rise. Another day of crushing was before me. I looked beyond the piles of stones and did not hear the cries, laughter or senseless words of the others. When it was time, I went to the banks of Crooked River. – Nellie, July 21, 1872.

She is Mamijôla, My Daughter

2010-06-06T09:28:00.000-04:00

I carried the sorrow of men, women and young ones upon my shoulders to where the shadows of trees divided the light. I looked to the spirit of the mountain for calm.

A red tail soared above in the inner sky, making circles and hunting for small creatures. Soon the tall white man with much hair would come. He carried his stick to move me to the place where the elders and those who spoke words with no meaning, gathered and suffered.
I found my place to rest, closed my eyes and faced the north wind. Seasoned fingers drew small circles in soft moss that became fur. Day became night. Old became young.
________________________________________________________________

I clawed at the fur beneath. Mother looked into my brown eyes with hers. Nanatasis, do not fight. She stroked my face.

Pain struck like the claw of the great black bear. I did not hear words of my mother. My screams filled my ears as I looked at the circle of women around me. When I closed my eyes, I saw the face of the one who hunted me –the white man with blue eyes and hair like corn silk. His spirituous liquor burned my skin. A thunderbolt fell as he thrust himself inside, bringing shame upon my spirit, bringing life where there was none.

The flow of water and blood came and the rising and falling of harsh pain brought forth the child. My screams stopped when the cries began. Then silence. In the stillness of twilight, the one from my womb looked at me. The violet flame from the other world flickered in her eyes. Mother held her. You have a daughter; you will not be the same.

First, I feared her. Mother pushed her closer. I took her into my arms, pressing her warm body to mine. She was wet with our blood – a baby bird, searching. She found my breast with her small lips. When she turned her head, I saw on her neck the mark of mamijôla; the butterfly.
She is Mamijôla, my daughter with a mother and no father. Like a warrior, I will protect her, and like a warrior, she will survive. She will not know how she came to be.
__________________________________________________________________

Tears became the rain that washed away Mamijôla and the spirits of my ancestors.

Sorrow departed on silken wings of yellow and black. I walked and walked to collect roots and groundnuts for many medicines and I gave thanks to the spirit of the great white pine when I gathered bark that bore thick pitch. I placed it with the hemlock inside of my belt.

Pine needles on the forest floor gave way to grass in the field as I walked with no shoes. The weight grew as I neared the place where many were without hope.

The long shadow of the white man and his stick moved towards me. I looked to Our Father the Sky. The raven watched from the leafy limb as thunder fell from the gray clouds that rested on the ridge, silencing the crying child.
- Nellie Baldwin, July 20, 1872

Nanatasis - From Bitawbagok to Wawôbadenik

2010-06-02T20:36:00.001-04:00

Nellie’s history spans from her childhood in Northern Vermont to her fateful arrival at the Carroll County Poor Farm following the death of her husband, trapper Elijah Baldwin. Touching on such diverse subjects as homeopathy, midwifery and mixed racial marriage. Nellie offers valuable lessons in patience, tolerance and natural justice. She steadfastly remains true to her Abenaki beliefs, rejecting the Christian church, although she was required to take a Christian name in order to marry Elijah.
______________________________________
After four days of travel, we arrived at a place in New Hampshire called Water Village. Searching Owl’s house was on the banks of Cold River. It was not a large house; it withstood winter winds and spring rains.

Searching Owl took me to his church to hear a man like the black robes. I received my Christian name – Nellie Baldwin. I did not want to be inside of walls to pray to their dead king. I honored the Great Spirits of our Father the Sky, the mountains, lakes and rivers of Our Mother. Animals and birds offered wisdom and ways of knowing. I was pleased that my husband did not make me go with him.
– Nellie Baldwin, October 15, 1872
______________________________________

Often labeled a witch, she survived the harsh scrutiny of the overly conservative townspeople of Water Village and Ossipee, managing to maintain her empathic spirit and authentic wisdom. She participated with her husband in the rituals of hunting and trapping, travelling the rugged terrain between the White Mountains of New Hampshire and northern Vermont. When their patients were on death’s door, local physicians – husbands, fathers and sons of those who called her a witch – regularly consulted Nellie for her knowledge of herbal remedies; she responded with integrity.

_____________________________________________________
The cart shook hard. Witch! Witch! You killed my boy! The young mother ran beside us on the dusty main road. I pressed into the strong shoulder of my husband to shield from fear and hate. I watched the black horse.

Three days before, the woman went into the village store. Her child had the fever and lay bundled in her cart. She spoke to the storekeeper with worry. Please rush; my child is sick.

Searching Owl filled our cart with goods he traded. I followed weak cries to the young boy wrapped in a blanket; he shook in the heat of the midday sun. His face had many angry sores and the fever burned my hand. Death waited.

I hurried to our cart and searched in my baskets for medicines. I broke a piece of willow bark for the fever. The boy coughed and tried to sit. I touched his arm.

The mother cried. Take your hands off my boy! She dropped her sack of goods.

I stepped away and looked into her eyes as one mother to another. The sun burned.

Did you cast a spell on him? She looked at her child then at me.

I held the bark out to her.

What is this? She struck my hand; the bark fell. She gathered her goods and returned to the child. Stay away from us with your wicked ways, the ways of the devil!

She rushed away. Searching Owl came out of the store. What is all the hollerin’ about, Nanatasis?

I watched until I could see the cart no more. I picked up the willow bark and returned it to my basket. Folks don’t understand you. He lifted me onto the cart and took my hand in his. The face of the boy would not leave me. The wheel struck a hole. I started to fall; my husband held tight. I would not fall awayfrom him.
– From the memory of Nellie Baldwin _______________________________________________
Nellie wasn’t always mute; after suffering a traumatic loss in her youth, she was unable to speak. However, she was an effective communicator through her body language. She expressed her rich spirit through her music, playing a spruce flute, hand carved by her husband.
______________________________________________
It took the strength of a bear to push through the heavy snow scattered by the north wind. With snowshoes strapped on beaver skin boots, I went into the woods in search of lessons written in leaf and rock. I followed the path of a doe by the river’s edge where two white birches grew as one and creaked in the wind. Our eldest brother, the sun, broke through the milk white clouds of the tempest and fine snow dust sparkled in the light.

Nanatasis! Searching Owl called into the bluish glow of the fading day.
I reached inside of my belt for the wooden whistle and blew, warbling over and above the strains of Cold River. The creaking birches grew loud.
– Nellie Baldwin, December 12, 1872
_____________________________________________________________
Nellie’s story goes back one hundred years to the shores of Bitawbagok (Lake Champlain) where her people fished, hunted and lived quietly in the woods. She tells of their lifestyle, sharing her vast knowledge that led to her being a healer and midwife on the poor farm.
In addition to gathering and implementing many medicines from groundnuts, roots and plants, Nellie made dolls and baskets. When Abigail discovers that Nellie made her precious doll, Hope, they form a resilient bond.
________________________________________________________________
Abigail sought after what she remembered to be beautiful and good. Her face did not glow after the loss of many. She hungered for truth and fought to stand tall with firm roots. With her inner eye, she saw beyond what she could hold in her hand. We communed many winters before, when she became the caretaker of the doll. She carried with her the spirit born from the labor of my hands and the elements of the earth from which the doll derived. She was a daughter not of my own blood.
– Nellie Baldwin, December 12, 1872
_________________________________________________________
By nature, farm bosses are cruel. However, they accept Nellie because she offers relief for them, easing the load. She cares for the sick and elderly and delivers babies. Her role as healer allows her to wander freely at all hours. She shares her sacred native traditions, vital in the survival of the merciless conditions at the county farm, the foundation of our country’s present welfare system.
_____________________________________________________
I guided her from the bed to crouch as my people did. Her son entered our world in twilight, as I knew he would. I searched his eyes before the veil from the other world vanished. His cries rose above all else. She looked away as I did at the birth of Mamijôla. I placed his warm body upon hers, melting fear and anger.

When I cut free the birth cord that joined them in life, my mother’s words came to me. Nanatasis, the twine that connects a mother and child will not be severed. It grows longer and longer and roots as one. - Nellie Baldwin March 20, 1873

Nanatasis – Hummingbird, Muted One

2010-05-29T22:11:00.001-04:00

When I discovered the 100-year-old “Indian Woman” who was buried at the Pauper Cemetery, I knew that her voice would be imperative in the telling of this story. Nellie – a mute Abenaki elder – weaves a narrative comprised of reflections, dreams and memories. She offers wisdom through natural healing and nurturing, exemplifying her earth connection associated with the Native American way of life.

From this unearthing, I took the opportunity to explore my own Abenaki roots. Firstly, I named the “Indian Woman”, after my own great grandmother, Nellie Baldwin. My wonderful Aunt Irene used to tell me how beautiful her grandmother Nellie was and how much she enjoyed brushing her long, thick hair. Her eyes sparkled every time she said, she was a full-blooded Indian, you know.

My father Ramsey – who looked like he fell off the face of the buffalo nickel – laughed and joked, as did my Uncle Milton, at the ‘Indian’ reference. It irked me more with each passing year. Clearly, they were of an era where admitting your ‘Indian’ roots was taboo.

I’m one of those lucky folks who have very detailed genealogical information available on both of my parents’ lines. The pages of the “Pettingell Genealogy Book” are filled with heaps of information including my grandfather and trailing back to Richard Pettingell who came from England to Newburyport, Massachusetts with the Winthrop Fleet in 1629.

As a Civil War musicologist and former Eb cornetist of the 2nd NH Regiment Serenade Band, I was able to base our historically accurate performances on my connection with William Pettengill, distant uncle and musician of the 2nd NH Regiment, as well as my great-great grandfather, Hollis Pettengill of the 8th Vermont Regiment. There were over 90 Pettengills in the Civil War. I present a dramatic portrayal of my great-great grandmother Augusta Porter Pettengill (Hollis' wife and Nellie’s mother-in-law, also Abenaki) wearing my hoop skirt, reading letters and playing my cornet.

Then I discovered that my family – the Ingersolls – persecuted witches in Salem during the witch trials. I lost sleep over that, but while a student at Vermont College, I found peace through my in-depth study of 17th Century Salem Village Massachusetts. (This is the subject of my next historical novel.)

In the midst of this overabundance of information is an obvious hole surrounding Nellie Baldwin Pettengill. Compared to the others in this big fat book, there is very little written about her. I have tried to find out as much as possible, but have come up empty handed time and again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My father was quite ill and passed away in 2006. During the end days of his illness, he acknowledged his Native American spirit. The symbols were quite bold and significant in his passing from this to the other world. Together, we discovered and embraced our roots. For both of us it was accepting and processing his death from an other than typical Christian viewpoint, which neither of us bought. (I know that he tried).

Even if he wanted to disown his Abenaki heritage, his ancestors would not allow it; they made themselves known through dreams, visions and guides, making a grueling journey more peaceful. (He had MSA, Multiple Systems Atrophy).

This happened all at once. He was gravely ill and I tumbled into poverty while discovering 298 anonymous paupers who came before me – synchronicity at its finest. The profound opportunity to know Nellie Baldwin and the 100-year-old “Indian Woman” buried at the pauper cemetery had presented itself.

A Simple Twist of Fate

2010-05-26T11:27:00.005-04:00

Two hundred and ninety eight people plagued me. I possessed an urgent need to know how they ended up in numbered graves, which goes back to the question of how they landed at the poor farm. It was – as Bob Dylan so eloquently sings – a simple twist of fate.

Upon my 1872 visit to Ossipee, New Hampshire, I was determined to capture the essence of the ordinary folk who probably lived life virtually unnoticed and maintained a simple existence. Unlike notable politicians, historians and well-to-do individuals who shaped history and were the sources for accounts of the past, these men and women – locked in survival mode – did not write history books. Finally, they have spoken. Once obscure and not influential, their significant stories have been reborn within the pages of my novel.

I often wonder about historical events that unfolded according to the average person. How can we truly comprehend what has occurred before us if only those of the upper echelon of society write what we read? Is it fair to base history only on the records of the high and mighty? For instance, stories told of slavery by wealthy slave owners, conflicts with Native Americans told by Puritans and politicians who were trying to rid society of their existence, or lifestyles of the elite indicating the economic climate, do not represent the complete picture. The foundation of our history books – chiefly written by men – provides a patriarchal view, which does not serve the whole. Abigail, Nellie and Silas – a single (welfare) mother, an Abenaki Elder and a Poor Master – were far from prominent, which is the beauty of their narratives.

It was my goal to find equilibrium and insight in my research. Letters and diaries written by women afforded them their proper place in history as written by the women themselves. This was a critical element in my investigation; I am grateful for the records that have been preserved so that we may have a more honest and balanced depiction of the lives that came before us.

As previously stated, even though women’s efforts and impact that they had on their communities during the nineteenth century are mentioned in history books, it is recorded by influential people of the era. The problem with this is that the focus on the women’s role is based on their subservience – a limited viewpoint that tends to exploit the women by leaving them in a passive role. This perspective shifts dramatically when women are placed in the spotlight through their letters and diaries, allowed to speak for themselves.

Women stayed home when their husbands, fathers, sons and brothers left to fight the Civil War. They held it together, maintaining their farms, families and basic functions of the community. If their men returned at all, often they were without limbs, sight or suffered greatly from PTSD. The fallout from the Civil War is a strong element in “Etched in Granite”. Abigail and Silas’ fathers fought together in the Sixth New Hampshire Regiment.

We knew. We knew that Papa was gone. Yet we were afraid that if we approached Mother, somehow it would be real. After several hours passed, we finally gathered the courage to go to her and learn the dreadful news. Papa was dead. He was shot straight in the heart while breakin’ up a rebel camp at a faraway place called Roanoke Island.
Abigail - June 30, 1872.

“I’ve known Abigail since we was children. Our daddies went off together to fight the Rebs. Only her Daddy came back in a pine box, and mine came back without a leg or his soul.” I fiddled with my hat, thinkin’ I said too much and invited her to talkin.
Silas – September 3, 1872

______________________________________________________________________

By the 1870’s, many men and women had already left their farms in Northern New England and found employment in expanding factory communities. The majority of females who undertook this journey were typical, young and single women. They worked in the red brick mills of Lowell, Chicopee, Holyoke, and Lawrence Massachusetts and Manchester, Nashua, and Dover, New Hampshire as well as Saco and Biddeford in Maine, to name only the largest of the mill towns that still stand today.

It was common to work in these factories for a few years and then get married, move west, or return to their hometowns to have families. Collections of letters from women who worked in the mills provide the opportunity to consider the human substance of this momentous development in history. This expands our understanding of women’s role in history during the middle and late nineteenth century – the economic and social forces behind this movement based on the lives of rural women of Northern New England.

Of course, it is important to note that letters and diaries also provide insight to the men of the era. The relationships to men in various capacities are mentioned in letters in regards to death, daily problems at home and in the working environment, and illness, which illustrates the parallels of working women today. One can feel the significance of the impact of diseases such as typhoid fever and the tragedies of work related accidents as written in the letters. Also emphasized were the financial struggles, a constant uncertainty.

It is clear that strong family bonds existed during this time, as well as a powerful network of friendship and support between the women while they endured the hardships of leaving home and facing the tough work environment. They managed to stay in touch with one another and those who remained at home even when they were moving about constantly from one mill town to another.

Certainly, this transformation affected the farm tremendously. With young men and women leaving the farm to work in the mills, the need for farm work became a priority. Many farms dwindled away, while others turned to the poor for labor. This was an important connection to the needs of the farmer and relief of the poor houses. It was during this time that farming out the poor, homeless and orphans to individual farms became a temporary solution for both problems. Going to the mills was also an escape ‘from’ the poor farms.

Abigail’s sister Sarah was fortunate to hop on a train and go to the mills of Fall River, fleeing the depressed little town of Ossipee, New Hampshire. Abigail’s fate was not so optimistic, as she gave in to temptation on a beautiful moonlit night, becoming an unwed mother – an adulteress – forced to pay for her sins as an inmate of the Carroll County Poor Farm.

“Abby. Don’t.” Sarah rushed over and took me in her arms. “I will not be gone forever. I promise.” Her voice cracked. “You could come with me, but it is best for you to stay with Mother. Do you agree?”

We shared the moment with words unspoken. What she meant was that I could not go with her because I was with child. She could not stay; she had made plans for nearly a year to move to Fall River, Massachusetts and free herself from the farm, from Ossipee, to become an independent woman.

Mother’s needlework fell to the ground with a clatter and she dashed into the house. Her cries followed her as she fled to her bedroom. It was best for her to be alone. Sarah and I walked hand in hand to the backyard to our favorite childhood spot – the sittin’ rock by the brook – a trickle in late August.

The wind blew hard and the sky was a blush with a pinkish yellow hue as the warm rain pelted down hard on the roof drownin’ out the cries of our mother. We sat together until our clothes were soaked and clingin’ to our skin. We cried for Papa. We cried for Mother. We cried for each other and for the child that grew inside of me.
Abigail Hodgdon – August 24, 1872

Understanding Her Place in Society – From Farm to Factory or Almshouse

2010-05-22T14:24:00.000-04:00

It is interesting to compare the women of the late 19th Century who were able to enjoy piano lessons, needlepoint and reading with the women who worked on the farms, mills and those sentenced to the poor farms (almshouses). It was critical for women of all classes to share strong bonds with one another and to maintain close family ties. It did not matter which economic level a woman belonged to, in addition to understanding her place in society as the dutiful wife and mother, this sisterhood bond was a life force.

Friendships between women have thrived in all ages and cultures. This perpetuates the role of women’s dependency on relationships with others, and her contribution to family, church and community. An example of this is the importance of the nuclear family and women being the central figure throughout the ages, yet remaining subordinate. A woman who knew her station in life was a wise woman. Sermons, magazine articles and the general attitude of society reinforced this viewpoint and significant personification of a woman. This is precisely why the element of women’s friendship was critical to their preservation.

The bond of women’s friendship was a safe haven. The patriarchal society viewed women in the sense that they did not know of substantial matters pertaining to business, politics or church affairs to name a few. Therefore, a woman’s opinions were not valued or even considered. Of course there were women who dared to speak out on such issues, and they were usually dismissed as being out of control or ungrateful, which likely provoked her even more.

It was (is) expected that a woman be the one who comforts the anguished heart and quieted those who exhibited tempers and daring attempts to rock the boat. By rocking the boat, I am referring to those who questioned their stations in life to pursue the role they were destined to fill. A woman who challenged her place in society was considered a troublemaker as well as ungrateful. Acceptance was the key word during this time, and even somewhat in today’s society.

How does this fit into my novel? I conclude that women of all social stations quietly went with the flow when the homeless and the poor were placed in poor farms, orphanages and asylums. Women and children were subordinate. There was a great deal of heartache and compassion for these unfortunate souls, but few answers. Armed with endearing maternal instincts and characteristics, I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for women not to have a voice when it came to the fate of the paupers of their society. They dare not speak out, only watch and help the less fortunate, utilizing the best nurturing qualities permitted.

Of course, Christian religious judgment was a factor in dealing with the poor. The paupers who could not meet the needs of their families and themselves, fell into the 'unfortunate soul' category. This perception changed drastically in regards to (other than White Anglo Saxon) ethnic groups such as "Indians", "Negroes", "Immigrants" as well as drunks, beggars and unwed mothers.

Tongues wagged without as much as a second thought when it came to condemnation. Once a name was blackened, there was no turning back. Even after an unwed mother gave birth, the families rarely if ever accepted their sinful daughters back into their homes. They preferred never to hear of them again; hence, the perpetuation of shame that still trickles down today leaving them in their numbered graves.

In researching my novel, for an insider’s point of view I referred to letters, diaries, town histories and church sermons in addition to numerous other historical sources. I was most affected by letters, especially correspondence between women. I believe that the most extraordinary experiences are accounts of ordinary people.

Abigail’s sister, Sarah, is based on a particular woman whom I came to know through a collection of letters. She was a New Hampshire girl who worked in the textile mills in the mid 19th century. Her letters illuminated the guts and fortitude required to leave home – the dreary yet familiar farm – and set out to work grueling hours, all in the name of independence. For pennies (often spent on required pew rent) and wretched conditions, these brave women paved the way for the feminist movement.

Sarah is conflicted about leaving Abigail – her best friend and sister – home with their mother. She represents the pioneering, self-determined women of the era. She had no choice; she sought a ‘way out’ and wanted to experience freedom and independence, which simply meant trading the enslavement of the farm for the enslavement of the loom. The reader is afforded a glimpse of this lifestyle through her letters written to Abigail. Both women endured a great deal, but maintained a strong bond through minimal yet vital correspondence.

After losing their father in the Civil War, the sisters grew up with their mother on their small farm. They worked tirelessly under the constant threat of ending up on the County Farm.

“Mother kept us in line. You girls get out here and help. You don’t want to end up like them folks at the County Farm, do you? Sarah and I were scared. In rain, snow and the heat of the summer, we collected the eggs, milked the cows, fed the pigs and chickens and stacked wood.

We knew that the County Farm was a place to fear but we didn’t know for certain why. Silas wouldn’t speak of the goin’s on and Rosie Wiggins told us that they beat the women and children and chained the men up like animals. The folks who went there never returned. We would not end up there, not if we could help it” – Abigail Hodgdon.

Homeward Bound

2010-05-16T13:51:00.002-04:00

I am traveling – going home to New Hampshire. I will return to my blog around May 21st. Until then, please catch up on my offerings and feel free to become a follower if you aren’t already, and by all means leave feedback.

In Peace,

Maryjane (Mj

We Found Our Voice

2010-05-12T13:40:00.000-04:00

History of Poor Farm Continues...

The more I discovered about the history of the welfare system in America, the more I needed to know and the more I cringed. The system lacked resources and the ability to staff the overseers of the poor. Because standards varied from place to place, budget to budget and a general lack of interest, there was nothing in place to protect the poor. With high taxes and meager wages, this was not on the list of priorities.

After the American Revolution, suspicion began to emerge towards the poor. Much like today, this attitude illuminates the concept that no one should be poor and that each person has the opportunity to be self sufficient and prosperous. With the overbearing, taxing hand of England eliminated, the perception was that every man would be able to succeed, and there was a basic mistrust if one failed to do so. After all, America was (is) the land of abundance. (The deck was and is stacked).

At this time, the thought process evolved to the belief that the poor person or pauper need not be poor. No one should be poor and those who choose to be poor lacked strength and character. This individual weakness as seen by many, led to having able-bodied men of a poor social, moral and economic level to be workers on the poor farm. Other names for this institution are the almshouse, pauper farm or workhouses. This became the solution to the problem of the poor, and as a result, a new division of labor arose.

Farmed out, auctioned off and put to work – the poor became a productive part of society. The problem that existed was cruelty and inhumane treatment. There was a comprehensive survey of poor relief in the United States during the nineteenth century referred to as the Yates Report.

This report outlined what Yates believed to be cruelty, waste and inefficiency in the four main methods of public assistance used throughout the state-institutional relief, home relief, the contract system and the auction system. He attributed these despicable conditions to a rising chaotic situation.

Others conducted similar surveys and wrote articles about the conditions of the poor farms, how they proved to be unfit for both adults and children relating to moral and health issues. The controversy and lack of standards is what led ‘local’ poor farms to become ‘county’ farms. This method (falsely) assured a higher probability of humane treatment in the facilities. This was not the case. More and more county and state poor farms were in operation, and the conditions remained unfit and in many instances worsened.

The old and young, sick and healthy, sane and insane, weak and strong, alcoholic and crazed, juvenile and adult delinquents, male and female, were all herded together in haphazard fashion. Nakedness and filth, hunger and abuse such as beatings and being chained like animals by cruel farm bosses, were not uncommon in many of these wretched places. Unwed mothers – branded as harlots by having to wear yellow dresses – were disowned, never to return to their families after the birth of their bastard children.

To comprehend the circumstances surrounding the graveyard on Route 171 in Ossipee, where 298 souls remain anonymously buried with their secrets, I found my research and writing of this novel vital in capturing the sum and substance of their lives. We found our voice.

Are We Better Off Now?

2010-05-10T11:05:00.001-04:00

During the American Revolution, a combination of heavy taxation and England’s strong hold over the colonies caused a dramatic rise in poverty. A great economic depression and disrupted trade caused financial burdens for many. In New England, the increase in the number of widows and orphans – due to men lost at sea – caused a steady climb in the number of illegitimate children, most of whom had to be cared for at public expense, contributing to swollen poor lists. We were well on our way to the birth and development of the welfare system that is in place today.

At this time, there was a rapid increase in the involvement of several religious and fraternal organizations to help. The Quakers spent a great deal of time, money and effort in helping the needy. Following in their footsteps were groups like the Scots Charitable Foundation, organized by Scotsmen living in Boston. This organization became the model for many similar groups that were born in America during the eighteenth century and later.

After the American Revolution, there was a complete change in the structure of the government. Social reform was no exception to the changes set forth, and one change in particular had an effect on the social welfare system, this was the separation of church and state. This dramatic transformation forced the social welfare system to adopt changes that metamorphosed from church and local matters to the town, county and state.

Originally, many churches provided poor farms and orphanages; however, the time arrived to delegate the responsibility of the poor to the government. An interesting point, money that had previously gone to supporting the poor was no longer going to orphanages and poor farms, so many of the churches began to attain wealth.

Poor laws began to emerge and spread across the land. The westward migration and large-scale immigration into the country changed the dynamics of the number of the poor and the resources available. Other forces of change – rapid industrialization, the onset of capitalism, the spread of wage labor, and widespread urbanization – tended to alter the somewhat stable and well-ordered society of the colonial years. The rising incidence of poverty caused public relief spending to rise to ever-higher levels; year after year, outlays for poor relief continued to top all other items of county, town and city budgets.

It is reasonable to conclude that there have been little or no changes in the system in the way of resolution. The present government has not figured out that throwing pennies at them does not make ‘them’ go away. In fact, the current system rewards poor folks to multiply; hence, we are dealing with an unimaginable boom in the population of welfare families. The benefits are so good for single, welfare mothers that it is more desirable and easier to go down that road than to pile up student loans, get a job and forge through life.

Having children is a free ticket. More kids, more money. Yes, there have been obvious changes in the method of shifting responsibilities, but the ultimate result is fewer resources to deal with a continuously rising poor population. Were the Poor Farms better or worse?

What Does it All Mean?

2010-05-06T11:02:00.002-04:00

In order to completely understand how my characters – Abigail, Nellie (Nanatasis) and Silas – came to be at the Carroll County Poor Farm in 1872, I needed to understand the very roots of poverty.

It was no coincidence when I plunged into the role of 21st century pauper; my own life became a classroom, presenting the opportunity to comprehend poverty firsthand. Facing possible homelessness, keeping my children warm and fed while offering hope provided me with the harsh reality of the meaning of worrying. Had I an ounce less courage or given up on trusting the universe, the grueling events that illuminated our resilience of character would have shattered us.

This experience was the perfect recipe for the birth of my characters and the ability to speak for 298 forgotten paupers. While trying to cope with my desperate situation, I found peace and answers whilst sitting in the silent presence of their numbered graves. I found clear answers after my tobacco offerings at Nellie’s grave not only learning about the “100 year old Indian Woman”, but also finding my way back to my own great grandmother and my Abenaki roots. I could only share their pain when I myself sensed a fraction of it, and it was not until then that I was ready to tell their stories and reclaim their souls.

What does it all mean? Being poor and dealing with the poor is not a new dilemma. The origin of the word “philanthropy” comes from the Greek words philo, or love, and anthropos, which means mankind. Poverty is present in both the Old and New Testaments of the Bible and recorded in the Talmud in regards to Jewish law. The Talmud addresses the question of how much a poor man should be given, “Sufficient for his needs in that which he wanteth.” Therefore, if someone is hungry, he should be fed; if he needs clothing, he should be clothed; everyone should be supplied with what he needs. Is it that simple?

Christianity views poverty in a similar way, with a focus on good deeds, loving thy enemy and gaining entry into heaven through charitable deeds. The practice of helping those in need is still very active in many churches, social and fraternal organizations. This action is separate from the state and local welfare system, separation of church and state.

Most colonial settlers in America were poor to begin with. Many of them – such as my seventh Great Grandfather Richard Pettingell who arrived in Salem Massachusetts in 1629 – came to the New World as indentured servants. Upon arriving in America, one faced incredible hardships and deprivation. Taking care of the poor was an immediate problem.

Even with favorable chances of acquiring land or earning a living in groundbreaking ways in the New World, it was almost impossible to escape poverty and the multitude of social skills that followed them from the Old World. Each colony soon had to deal with the task of caring for the poor, the elderly, the blind, the sick, the lame, the mentally disabled, the lazy and the multi-faceted destitute.

Survival depended on communities coming together and supporting one another. If someone needed help, the colonists came together and helped their neighbors. It was a matter of subsistence and it was the only way to do so. This support system was essential to the survival of the entire community through the assistance of individuals. Colonial assemblies soon transformed the need to help the poor, a responsibility of the taxpayers on a local level. In New England, the town was responsible for their poor.

Throughout the years, welfare has slowly become more and more of a burden that is gaining momentum and resources are harder to access. This becomes a tax and budget issue, which rears its ugly head during election campaigns and then funding is juggled around to fit the needs of the current administration.