Category Archives: Seacoast (mostly) History

Posts related to the history Seacoast area of Maine and NH.

The storm of the century, 35 years ago today

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Thirty-five years ago today, February 6, 1978 began like any other Monday at my childhood home in Weymouth, Massachusetts. The fact that nothing stands out about that morning suggests that it was ordinary – I probably got up about 6:45, had breakfast, and walked down the street to catch the bus to Weymouth North High School.

The street was lined with snow banks left from a record-breaking storm on January 20 which had dropped 21 inches of snow. My father had already left for work in nearby Rockland.  My brother must have taken the school bus, because he was just a few weeks shy of a driver’s license. My younger sister walked the 1.5 miles to Bicknell Junior High.  My mother drove off to the Quincy subway station to take the T into her job at Mass Eye and Ear.

We knew about a pending storm.  The National Weather Service had issued storm warnings on Sunday for heavy snowfall on Monday.  But we had just weathered the January blizzard, so more snow was no big deal.

I’m pretty sure we were dismissed from school that morning around 11. Eventually we all arrived home  — my father, my sister, my brother and finally my mother, whose usual 15-minute ride from Quincy took an hour.  The snow kept falling, sometimes in bursts of three inches per hour, and falling, and falling.

Almost everyone who lived in the Boston area at that time remembers what was to follow. Hundreds of cars stopped on Routes 128 and 95. Their drivers either sat shivering, waiting for rescue, or if they could, they walked to the nearest house or other shelter, like the movie theater in Dedham.  Thousands of people lost power, although not us.  A state of emergency closed all roads for days.

After the storm, kids experienced the joy of leaping into huge drifts of snow and the thrill of a week-long unplanned vacation from school.   After being snowbound for a couple of days, we relished the novelty of walking along foot-stomped paths in the middle of the road to get to Angelo’s grocery store, about a mile-and-a-half away in Hingham.

But even though we didn’t lose electricity and could watch the news and Governor Dukakis in his black turtleneck reassuring the residents of Massachusetts, we experienced only a small slice of the Blizzard of 1978.  We didn’t know that just to the south, in the coastal town of Scituate, a five-year-old girl,  Amy Lanzikos, had been swept out of her mother’s arms after a wave knocked four people out of the boat that had just rescued them their ocean-battered homes.  Or that in the central Massachusetts town of Uxbridge, while we

Peter Gosselin, age 10, disappearing during the storm. His body was found three weeks later, three feet from his back door (uncredited photo from blizzardof78.org)

Peter Gosselin, age 10, disappeared during the storm. His body was found three weeks later, three feet from his back door (uncredited photo from blizzardof78.org)

jumped off snow banks, searchers were desperately looking for ten-year-old Peter Gosselin, who had gone out to play on February 7 as the storm was dying, and never came home.  Or that to the north, in Salem, the pilot boat had been lost with five experienced men after the boat had set out from Gloucester to aid a floundering Coast Guard boat that had been on its own mission to aid an oil tanker threatening to break apart.

We didn’t know how that on Cape Cod, the sea and the wind had surged onto the dunes at Coast Guard Beach and had crumpled a vast parking lot like a sheet of shredded paper.  Or that entire neighborhoods of homes just down the road in Hull, and in other coastal towns, had been wiped clean by the storm, with homes swept from their foundations and tossed about like a set of children’s blocks.  We didn’t know the feeling of being stuck in dark cold houses without heat or electricity.

We didn’t know then, and we don’t know now.  Today the world is supposed to our oyster in terms of information. We are surrounded by news and bombarded with information, but we haven’t changed all that much in our ability to grasp the sum of disparate events.  We still need a narrative to understand the world, a person to tell the story.

Last fall, Hurricane Sandy was the “storm of the century” in the some parts of the Northeast.   Here in Kittery, we celebrated an early dismissal and spent a night in the dark, lighting candles and hunkering down with the cats.  The temperature was too warm to light the wood stove.  The storm was noisy and exciting, an awesome event but not a hardship.

To the south, in Rhode Island, New Jersey and New York, a terrifying ordeal was unfolding for millions of people.  The next day, on the morning news, we could see the picture of the New Jersey roller coaster in the Atlantic Ocean, but we couldn’t really see.  I could only began to understand the immensity of Sandy after the storm was shaped into a narrative, in this case, the excellent Nova documentary, Inside the Megastorm.

I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this thread, but maybe I’m trying to say something about how narrative and story will never go out of fashion.  That narrative – the shaping of experience into meaning– will always be more important in understanding the world than mere information.  You can have all the data in the world, but if you don’t tell a story with the data, it’s just numbers.

Snow’s in the forecast for Friday – 18 to 24 inches, with cold temperatures and howling winds.   A good day to hunker down with the cats, fire up the wood stove, and read a story  — or write one of my own.

Further reading and viewing:

There are many websites with materials relating to the Blizzard of 78, as well as books and print articles, so I’m not going to attempt to list them here.  However, for an interesting 35-year retrospective view of the blizzard, and links to further sources, see the February 5, 2012 episode of WCVB’s Chronicle.

Also, I currently reading Ten Hours Until Dawn: The True Story of Heroism and Tragedy Aboard the Can Do, by Michael J. Tougias (St. Martin’s Press, 2005). So far, I’m impressed with how Tougias recreates, in incredible detail, the events of the night of February 6 off the coast of Salem, Massachusetts.

Why I go to church on Christmas Eve

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Growing up in an Irish-Catholic suburb south of Boston, I went to church 60 days out of the year:  52 Saturday or Sunday masses, seven holy days of obligation, and Thanksgiving, which was recommend by the church but not required, hence, we attended.

Although I enjoyed some aspects of the church community, such as our youth group “Gong Show” and ski trips to Vermont, I never liked going to church.   The service was boring and sometimes frightening.  I especially remember one sweltering 100-degree day in July, when our ancient pastor, Monsignor Sullivan, stood up to deliver his usual lengthy sermon.   “If you think it’s hot in here, “ he snarled at the congregation, “then wait until you experience HELL!”  Then he sat down, as we trembled, aware of our sin and our guilt in hoping for an early exit from the service.

By the time I was a teenager, the Monsignor had retired and was replaced by a series of kinder, gentler priests, but I never felt uplifted in going to church. Instead, my spirit felt oppressed.  Over the years, I have tried different parishes and churches, but I haven’t been a regular church-goer for many years. Sometimes feel that I SHOULD go to the church, for the sake of my son, but I really don’t want to.  I’ve told my son that belonging to a church is a good thing to do, but I just can’t quite bring myself to do it as I am ‘churched out’ from my childhood.

Still, I always go to church on Christmas Eve. Even if I’m not quite sure where I stand on the miraculous events of Christmas, I want my son to understand that Christmas exists for a reason apart from great deals at Best Buy.

The First Congregational Church, depicted in this early 20th century postcard, was built in 1730 and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

For several years now, my family and I have been attending Christmas Eve service at the First Congregational Church in Kittery Point.  Catholicism is so deeply engrained in my mental fiber that I’m not entirely at home in this austere Puritan building, built in 1730 by descendants of early Puritan migrants.  Where is the body of Christ, hanging on the cross? The statues of Mary and Joseph?  The 13 Stations of the Cross depicting Christ’s suffering as he walked towards his death?

But the Lord’s Prayer is the same prayer I recited at my childhood Catholic church. We sing “Joy to the World” and other familiar hymns.  The Christmas Eve service is family-oriented and we see many friends and acquaintances.  The sermon is both short and uplifting.

I especially like going to the First Congregational Church because the church is almost 300 years old.  As an entity, the church was organized in 1714, and the 1730 building is the oldest surviving continuously used church building in Maine.  (Knowing this, I get a little nervous on Christmas Eve when children and adults alike walk to the altar to light candles).

The Parsonage, now known as the Parish House, was built at the same time as the church. The building has been altered, enlarged, and has modern plumbing (unlike the church, which has no running water), but the Parish House still definitely evokes the feel of an 18th century building. This postcard claims that George Washington slept here, but that is probably more legend than truth. Washington’s 1789 “inaugural tour” visit to Portsmouth, NH is well-documented. The new President briefly touched ashore at Kittery Point during that visit but did not spend the night.

In this church, 18th century minister Reverend John Newmarch  offered comfort at funerals for too many children when diphtheria struck in 1735 and he provided theological reassurance to those anxious souls who didn’t feel the spirit move them during the Great Awakening.  It’s likely that the great itinerant preacher George Whitefield spoke from the pulpit.   During the Revolution, Loyalists and Patriots walked the aisles and prayed together on many Sabbaths.  Later, the morality of slavery was debated and prayers were offered for President Lincoln.  The church bells tolled to mark the end of two world wars.  In the mid-19th century, once the Puritans/Congregationalists got over their aversion to Christmas, congregants gathered to celebrate Christmas, just as they will on this year.

Maybe someday, when I go to church on Christmas Eve, I’ll feel more connected to a sense of faith.  But for now, walking in the footsteps of the churchgoers who came before me feels like a sort of faith, maybe a faith in humanity and its ability to endure, and to keep an institution like this antique church up and running for almost three centuries.  The world is often an ugly place, then and now. But on Christmas Eve, the bells still toll. The churchgoers sing the songs. The children light the candles.

In the Wild River Valley, a November blizzard, deep snow, and a man who perseveres to save his cat

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Glowing beech trees along the Basin Trail

Glowing beech trees along the Basin Trail.

We are hiking along Blue Brook and up the Basin Trail through a golden forest of beech trees, the color made more vibrant by the gray background of an overcast sky.  Halfway up Blue Brook, a granite cliff towers over the brook as its waters tumble over granite ledges.  Although today is Sunday of Columbus Day weekend, we have the trail to ourselves for most of the afternoon here in the Wild River Valley, an officially designated federal wilderness area in the White Mountain National Forest.

Every fall I try to make a trip to Evans Notch and the Wild River Valley, on the Maine-New Hampshire border.  The area is only a couple of hours away from my Seacoast

A glowing tunnel of green and gold surrounded us as we hiked along the Basin Trail in early October.

home but feels remote and isolated, and sees few visitors compared to Pinkham, Crawford or Franconia Notches.  Today the region is more thinly populated than it was 100 years ago when 300 people lived in the logging village of Hastings, the remnants of which were carted away and/or faded into the earth by the late 1930s (after serving as the site of a Civilian Conservation Corps camp).  The site of the abandoned village now hosts a rudimentary Forest Service campground, but even campers with sharp eyes are unlikely to spot any clues of the mill, school, homes, and other buildings that once stood here.

Today, as we hike along the Basin Trail, the forest seems primeval, golden and deep.  But I know it is not untouched.  This trail, with its relatively gentle grade (climbing 800 feet in 2 miles), probably follows an old logging road and the surrounding forest was cut to the bone, like most of the forest in the Wild River Valley.  Below the trail, on the main road into the Wild River Campground, a train line once chugged in and out of the woods, hauling felled trees to Hastings for processing.

Granite cliffs tower above Blue Brook. In warmer weather, the Brook offers many ledges and pools for cooling off.

The era of clear-cut logging in the Wild River Valley came to an abrupt end in the early 1900s, after floods and fires (caused, in part, by logging practices that left piles of slash along with barren slopes susceptible to slides) wiped out what remained of the forest along with much of the logging infrastructure.  In 1912, the Hastings Lumber Company threw in the towel on its huge lumber operation, sold most of its land to the White Mountain National Forest, and abandoned this valley to the trees.

The trees came back, but the people didn’t.  Logging continued on Forest Service land (as it does today, although not in the Wild River Valley Wilderness), but on a much smaller scale.

As we hike up the ridge, heading for the rim overlooking the Basin, the bowl-shaped ravine carved by a glacier, I wonder if Wilfred Caron cut the trees along this trail when he took to the woods in the fall of 1943 with his pet cat Tip.  Caron, of Norway, Maine, spent that fall in a cabin somewhere in these woods as he cut birch for his boss, C.B. Cummings.

One source offers that the cabin was located in the woods seven miles up the Wild River from Gilead, NH.  The cabin was probably small and dark, but cozy enough with its wood stove and cat.  In the early hours of the morning, as the fire in the wood stove dwindled to embers, Tip probably snuggled close to Wilfred, keeping both of them warm.

On November 28 of that fall, an early blizzard howled up the Wild River Valley.  Blizzards and temperatures that fall many degrees below zero were (and are) common in these woods, so Caron probably wasn’t worried by the storm. He and Tip hunkered down in the cabin to wait out it out. Caron turned into his bunk around 9 p.m.

At around 11, a loud snap must have startled Tip, for the cat leapt out of the bunk seconds before a yellow birch tree crashed through the roof and onto the top bunk, pinning the Caron in the bunk below. The force of the crash pushed open the cabin door and snow began to pile inside. By dawn, Caron was covered in two feet of snow and so cold that he didn’t realize he had badly injured his leg.  Outdoors, more than 50 inches of snow blanketed the ground.

Hours passed. Eventually, Caron was able to reach a bucksaw, cut the tree and free himself from the bunk.  He couldn’t stand on his leg, but managed to drag himself to the stove and get the fire going.  He had a broken leg, but knew he had to get himself and Tip out of the cabin and to a ranger cabin several miles away.  He made a pair of crutches from spruce boards.

Caron was determined. But what he didn’t know was that every conceivable obstacle would complicate his efforts to get him and his cat out of the woods.  While trying to shovel a path through more than four feet of snow to the shack where his horse Jerry was stabled, Caron fell repeatedly. Three hours passed before he reached his horse. He then spent the day building a sled with boards taken from the shack.  Finally, when his sled was ready, with his meat box serving as a seat, Caron placed Tip inside an egg box for the trip out. After spending an hour-and-half hobbling around trying to harness his horse, the man, his cat and his horse set out for a ranger camp three miles distant.

A mile-and-a-half from camp, the sled struck a fallen tree and tipped into a snow bank.  For more than an hour, Caron struggled to get himself out of the snow and to push the sled upright.   Finally, he reached the ranger camp, which was 500 feet from the road.  He must have been discouraged, because no footprints marked the deep snow around the cabin.

Fortunately for Caron and for Tip, Ranger Steve MacLain was in the cabin and heard Caron shouting for help.  After bundling up the injured man, MacLain led the horse and sled four miles over the unbroken road of snow and into the small village Gilead of N.H.  Along the way, the ranger used his axe to cut away 40 downed trees.  Finally, Caron and Tip arrived at the Gilead post office.

The cat had been saved, and Caron was a local hero, cited for bravery by the governors of both Maine and New Hampshire and lauded by humane societies around New England for his heroic effort to save Tip.

Considering the year—1943— I am guessing that Caron was an older man, at least middle-aged and possibly older. World War II was in full force and any young man strong enough to work as a logger had likely enlisted or been drafted into the military. Each day brought fresh news of the war.  Kiev was liberated by the Russian Army, and the Italians were turning on the Germans, but in the Battle of Tarawa in the South Pacific, hundreds of Americans were killed.  Each piece of good news was offset by some new horrible event. Every day, families received telegrams telling them of a son, brother or husband who had been killed.

But in the Wild River Valley, a man had pushed his way through deep snow on a pair of wooden boards, to save himself and to save his cat.  Who wouldn’t want to cheer?

View of the Basin, in Evans Notch, from the Basin Rim Trail. You can view the Basin from another angle from the parking lot near the Basin Campground.

P.S. The Basin Trail is a great family hike.  The trail arrives at a dramatic overlook above the Basin.  You can do an out-and-back hike, or, if you spot cars, can continue hiking down on the Basin Trail down to the Basin itself, although the climb down will be much steeper than the climb up from the Wild River Valley.  Spotting cars is a necessity, as many miles separate the two ends of the Basin Trail.

 

 

 

Sources:

Quimby, Beth. “Out like a lamb: A record high temperature Thursday closes out what should go down as Maine’s warmest November. But a reality check is on the way. Portland Press Herald. December 1, 2006: A1.

Wight, D.B.  The Wild River Wilderness: A Saga of Northern New England.  Courier Printing: Littleton, NH, 1971.

I found the story of Wilfred Caron in D.B. Wight’s history.  Wight cites the date of the blizzard as November 28, but a more recent Portland Press Herald article talks about a monster blizzard that occurred in northern New Hampshire on November 23, 1943.  In nearby Berlin, N.H., 55 inches of snow were recorded. Either source could be wrong on the specific date, but I’m guessing that the Wight source might be mixing up the date of Caron’s deliverance with the date of the storm.

I suspect photos and clippings of Caron’s story sit in manila folders of historical societies in Gilead, NH and/or Bethel, Maine.  I hope one day to visit those societies to learn more about Caron and his story and welcome any comments from readers that know more about this event.

 

Nathaniel Sparhawk and the art of swagger

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“A wealthy merchant of Kittery, Maine”.

Nathaniel Sparhawk, one of Kittery’s most prominent 18th century residents.

So reads the caption, at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, beneath this John Singleton Copley portrait of Nathaniel Sparhawk, one of Kittery’s most prominent citizens of the 18th century, mostly because he had the good fortune of marrying Elizabeth Pepperrell, the only surviving daughter of Sir William Pepperrell.  But the few words of the caption – which likely would have pleased Nathaniel Sparhawk — do more to obscure than to illuminate his story.  Neither the caption  nor the portrait hint at the darkness in his life: bankruptcy and financial ruin, children forced into exile, the humiliation of having his wife sign off on all checks.

I encountered this portrait of Nathaniel – I’m going to call him Nathaniel, because he feels like a long-lost neighbor  — last winter, when I visited the new Art of the Americas wing at the Museum of Fine Arts.  Unexpectedly coming face to face with Nathaniel gave me the same thrill that someone else might experience upon meeting her favorite celebrity. Here he was, maybe not in the flesh, but in a life-sized portrait that helped me to connect the dots of the Sparhawk story.  An added bonus was standing before the elaborately carved door of the Sparhawk Mansion, also on display in the new wing.

This 1764 painting was Copley’s first attempt at a life-sized portrait similar to those of royal monarchs on display at the Town House in Boston. Many of these full-length portraits came to be known as “swagger portraits,” because they were intended to create an aura of grandiosity around the subject.  Sparhawk poses before imaginary Grecian columns in a classical setting, and wears a richly textured red velvet coat, with extra buttons added to give him more girth and thus more status, since a large belly was associated with wealth.

Nathaniel is smiling and relaxed in this portrait and appears to be a perfectly contented wealthy merchant.  In 1764, he probably could smile, but only because his inheritance from Sir William Pepperrell, his father-in-law, had allowed him to settle his debts and re-establish himself financially.  In 1758, Nathaniel was forced to declare bankruptcy and much of his property was sold at public auction.

One source attributes Nathaniel’s bankruptcy to increased taxation on real estate imposed by the British to pay for the Seven Year’s War (the French and Indian War on this side of the pond), but I suspect that taxation was a convenient scapegoat for that age-old problem of buying and spending more than the purse allows.  (All of the major taxation efforts to pay off the war, such as the Revenue Act and the Stamp Act, happened in the 1760s, after the war’s end).  In the 1750s, colonial businessmen flush with raw materials and agricultural products developed a taste for imported British goods. When the supply of such goods waiting to be sold outstripped the demand, many New England merchants found themselves in debt to British vendors.

Although bankrupt, Nathaniel continued to live at Sparhawk House, a luxurious 13-room mansion that Sir William had built in 1742 as

The Sparhawk House of Kittery Point, built in 1742 and demolished in 1967.

a wedding gift for his daughter Elizabeth (and once located at the end of today’s Sparhawk Lane, next to the Congregational Church in Kittery Point).  In this house, which featured many examples of fine wood-working, the Sparhawks raised five children, four sons and one daughter (two additional children had died in infancy).

Sir William died in 1759.  Although he had a close relationship with Nathaniel, who often helped him to manage his business affairs, Pepperrell’s will suggests that he didn’t quite trust his son-in-law to provide for his family.

The will left many parcels of land formerly owned by Nathaniel to Nathaniel’s various children, but not to Nathaniel himself.  It seems that when Nathaniel went bankrupt, William Pepperrell bought up many of his properties, with the intent of keeping them in the family.  Also telling is the fact that in an age when women lacked a legal identity apart from their husband, Sir William was quite clear that while income from certain properties would go to Nathaniel for “the support of his wife and children,” the property was not his to sell or mortgage, with the will stating that Elizabeth was “required to sign all receipts and to have sole power to bequeath her legacy.”

But just because Nathaniel’s portrait suggests that he wanted to look more prosperous and more important than he truly was doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good man.  He represented  Kittery in the General Court of Massachusetts and served as a justice on the Court of Common Pleas, assuming the role of Chief Justice after the death of William Pepperrell. He attained the rank of Colonel in the local militia.

I wonder if working in the shadow of his famous father-in-law chaffed at him.  Perhaps he felt that the elite of Portsmouth and Boston gossiped about him and his financial troubles.  In 1766, he was “negative-d” from the Council of Massachusetts, probably because he no longer owned enough real estate.  In the end, being kicked off the Council might have been a fortuitous turn of events because it pulled Nathaniel out of the political fray that ultimately led to the forced exile of his sons.

By the time of the Revolution, three of Nathaniel’s Loyalist sons, including Sir William Sparhawk Pepperrell, were living in England, exiled from the only country they’d ever known.  Pepperrell lands up and down the coast of Maine were confiscated by the State of Massachusetts. The war caused division within Nathaniel’s own family, with daughter Mary married to Dr. Charles Jarvis of Boston, an ardent patriot.

By 1775, in his early 60s, Nathaniel was suffering from poor health, which perhaps explains why he was not pressed harder to declare where his loyalties lay.  After he died on December 21,1776, the Boston Gazette and County Post wrote, “In all which Offices he distinguished himself as the Friend of his Country and frequently lamented his weak state of health which would not permit him to take a more active Part in the present Troubles.”

Although his son Samuel eventually returned to Kittery (but not Sir William or Andrew), the family never recovered from the Revolution.  According to one account, the Sparhawk mansion was sold in 1815 for a thousand dollars.  Another reports that one of the Sparhawk sons was living in a poorhouse by the early 1800s, although that seems unlikely, given the abundance of family members in the area.

In the latter part of the 19th century, Sparhawk Hall was carefully restored by an owner with an interest in preservation.  Eventually, Kittery businessman Horace Mitchell, a Sparhawk descendant, purchased the house in the early 20th century and hosted a visit from President Taft. In 1949, the mansion  had  a role in Louis de Rochemont 1949 movie, “Lost Boundaries,” serving as the fictional home of Dr. Scott Carter, a black doctor passing as  white in a small New Hampshire town (check out the movie to see the interior of the house; the exterior shots appear as if they were shot in front of  the Lady Pepperrell House rather than the Sparhawk mansion).

But by the early 1950s, the younger Horace Mitchell and his family were living in only four rooms of the house, having closed off the others. The house was a beast to heat and maintain and the Mitchells began to sell off individual pieces of it. The sculpted main staircase and much of the woodwork ended up in a mansion in Winthrop, Maine; the elaborately carved door went to Strawberry Banke.  In 1967, what remained of the house was demolished before preservation efforts could save it.

Nathaniel had every advantage in life, but also plenty of troubles. Although his portrait conceals his difficulties, the man himself seems to embody the essence of  “swagger”: someone who wanted to be successful and important, but maybe deep down always wondered  if he would have been able to make it without his father-in-law behind  him.  I can almost see Nathaniel swaggering down Pepperrell Road, calling out greetings to his neighbors.  He had many losses in his life, but puffed himself up and carried on.

Sources:

Burrage, Henry  S. “Colonel Nathaniel Sparhawk of Kittery.”  Collections and proceedings of the Maine Historical Society.  Maine Historical Society.  Read before the MHS February 24, 1898. P. 225

“The Making of ‘Lost Boundaries”

“Nathaniel Sparhawk.”  Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Senge, Stephen V. “’The Sparhawk Effect’ in Financial Statement Analysis“.  An internet search on Nathaniel Sparhawk often links to this material from a Simmons College professor about practices companies have used or do use to make their financial statements appear better than they really are.  However, I find no evidence that anyone other than Professor Senge utilizes this term, which Senge may have coined in using the “swagger portrait” as a classroom lesson  illustrating how companies puff up their financial statements.

“Sparhawk Mansion on Death Row.”  Link to additional photos of the Sparhawk Mansion before it was demolished in 1967.

Ward, Ellen MacDonald.  “Only a Memory.”  Downeast Magazine. February 1993, pp. 53-54.

I welcome comments, additional information about the Sparhawks, and corrections.

A ghostly perspective on Fort Constitution and Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse

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Motivated by my son’s interest in the paranormal, we joined a “haunted lighthouse tour” at Fort Constitution in Newcastle, N.H. on a recent summer evening. The tour of the Fort and Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse was led by ghost hunting expert Ron Kolek, of New England Ghost Hunters, and lighthouse historian/author Jeremy D’Entremont.

The sun setting over the Piscataqua from the top of Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse.

Although we didn’t see any ghostly figures or detect any spirits with the electro-magnetic field (EMF) devices and dowsing rods provided by Ron (although we  possibly had contact with one spirit in the powder magazine), I enjoyed visiting the fort from the ghostly perspective. The sunset view over the Piscataqua River from the top of the lighthouse was an added bonus.

Fort Constitution is a New Hampshire state park located within the grounds of an active Coast Guard station.  The Friends of Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouses now own and maintain the lighthouse, which was operated by civilian and then Coast Guard personnel until it was automated in 1960.  The Lighthouse was turned over to the Friends in 2000.

I’ve been to Fort Constitution before, both to visit the lighthouse and to explore its ruins. The fort has always struck me as a neglected treasure, with few interpretative signs or exhibits explaining its history.  For the past several years, the Friends have been working on developing exhibits focused on the lighthouse, and these wall-mounted posters now offer a detailed history of both the lighthouse and the personalities who operated it.

The point of land on which the Fort is located has been the site of a fort since the 1600s and was rebuilt, upgraded and renovated at various times throughout the 18th and 19th century.  The oldest structures on its grounds are the 1808 power magazine and a stone wall from the same time period. Like many old forts in New England, Fort Constitution offered a fairly mundane experience to most of its soldiers, with nothing much ever happening, in terms of battling the French, British or other possible enemies. (By contrast, the modern Coast Guard station is a busy operation, as it carries out numerous search and rescue operations and other missions).

While life at the fort may have been dull for the typical 19th century soldier, Fort Constitution is well-known to Revolutionary War history buffs as the reason for Paul Revere’s not-so-famous first ride, in December of 1774, when he rode 60 miles to Portsmouth to warn local Patriots that a British fleet might be en route to grab the powder and cannon stored at the fort – then known as Castle William and Mary — and take it away to Boston.

Revere’s alert mobilized the Patriots of Portsmouth. In a few days time, 400 men, led by future Governor John Langdon and others, had mobilized from Portsmouth and neighboring towns to seize the powder at the Fort.  The fort was guarded by only six British soldiers who were quickly overcome, tied up, and then let go once the Patriots made off with the gunpowder was taken.  One source reports that guns were fired – possibly after the fort was already taken  — so that the British soldiers could say they had tried to defend the fort.  The powder was later sent up the river and eventually hidden in Exeter, NH.

When Loyalist Governor John Wentworth learned of the Revere’s arrival in Portsmouth on December 13, he had tried to diffuse the situation, warning the leaders that they could be charged with rebellion, but the raid on the fort went on as planned. After the raid, according to an account by Wentworth, a committee came to him to solicit pardons and freedom from prosecution. The Governor said that he “could not promise them any such thing,” but told them if they returned the gunpowder, he would work on their behalf to alleviate any punishment.  Instead, led by soon-to-be general John Sullivan, the men returned to the fort and confiscated 16 cannon and other weapons.

Within a year’s time, Wentworth had to take refuge in the Fort and eventually landed in Nova Scotia.  Although I don’t want to stray too far from the ghost tour, I will add that like many “Loyalists” of the Seacoast, Wentworth was not a stick figure King’s lackey, but a man trying to do his best to prevent an outbreak of hostilities. His account of the incident suggests that he went all out to use his negotiating and diplomacy skills to find a solution to the crisis. (I’ll write more about him another time).

Fort Constitution saw no further action during the Revolution, but 33 years after 1776, on July 4, 1809, the fort’s lawns and walls were stained with blood and scattered with human flesh.  On this celebratory day, just after renovations and upgrades to the fort had been completed, a small crowd had gathered on its grounds to celebrate Independence Day with a dinner party at the home of Revolutionary War veteran and fort commander Colonel Walbach.

Suddenly, the fort was shaken by a violent explosion, as 350 pounds of gunpowder accidently exploded, with the blast ripping through soldiers and visitors.  Fourteen people were killed that day or died later,  with some bodies flung across the fort and limbs strewn throughout the grounds.  According to a report of the July 5, 1809 New Hampshire Sentinel,

“To give some idea of the force which attended the explosion, we have only to inform our readers that a leg and foot actually penetrated through a double door in the captain’s house, and made its way to the inner parts of the room, almost every window in the fort was stove in and in the house occupied by the commandant the doors were taken from their hinges, the windows broken, the shelves in the closets torn down, the ceiling much injured; in short, the building is almost in ruins.”

Because of the chaos caused by the explosion, what definitively happened was and is hard to determine, but most accounts suggest that two soldiers had taken the gunpowder out of the new magazine because it was damp and needed to dry in the sun. Somehow, the powder was accidentally ignited.

At one point, in the powder magazine, Ron demonstrated this crystal which helps to communicate with spirits. The crystal indicated (via “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” answers) that we were in the presence of a female spirit who was guarding over one of the tour’s participants.

Today, Fort Constitution has a firm reputation within the Coast Guard for paranormal activity, with reports of wandering dark figures, oily footprints and voices. Some say the tragic explosion accounts for the alleged supernatural activity, although many “hauntings” are not specific to people who were living at or visiting the fort that summer day.The New England Ghost Hunters group has conducted several investigations at the

Fort,but rely on the Coast Guard personnel, who man the fort 24/7, for most reports of paranormal sitings or activity.  In 2008, Fort Constitution was the focus of an episode on the Ghost Hunters television series (see link below), although the most dramatic moment of the episode was provided by the sudden discovery of two big spiders.

During the 1.5 hour haunted tour, we poked around the fort, climbed up to the top of lighthouse, listened to stories of various supernatural encounters, looked at ghostly photos and listened to recordings of “EVPs,”(electronic voice phenomenon) possibly generated by spirits within the lighthouse.

I’m not a ghost hunter myself and am inclined to be skeptical but curious.  I was intrigued by the accounts of supernatural activity at the fort and interested in the human history.  Ghosts seem to prefer darkness to dusk – we took the 7 p.m. tour – so in a future summer, maybe we’ll try the 10:30 p.m. tour.

The ghost hunter wondering if he is hearing voices inside the lighthouse tower.

My greatest fear that evening was that the tour would result in a middle-of-the-night visitor to my bedroom – not a spiritual one, but a tween-aged human — and that similar sleep interruptions would continue for weeks to come. But the family ghost hunter slept soundly.  Faint thumps and one or two yowls disturbed me throughout the night — a common phenomenon at the house —  so I put in ear plugs to diminish the noise.  The following day, in their chosen corners, the cats slept like dead men.

P.S. While I do my best to fact check and verify all information in my posts using a variety of sources, I also welcome additional information and corrections via the moderated comment box.  Your email does not display publicly when the comment is posted.

 

Related links:

Friends of Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouses.  The Fort Constitution tours will be offered again in 2012 on August 25 and September 29.  Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse is also open to the public on Sunday afternoons through October 7. All of these events are fundraisers for the organization.

 Ghost Hunters Season 4, Episode 28: Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse.  Aired December 10, 2008.  The official site provides a recap of the episode.

New England Curiosities Walking Tours.  Author/historian Roxie Zwicker also offers some intriguing tours and tales of Portsmouth, including her “haunted theater” tour.

New England Ghost Project

Portsmouth Harbor Lighthouse Ghost Hunters episode (unofficial, in two parts).

Additional sources:

Fort Constitution. Access Genealogy.  Includes excerpts from Governor Wentworth’s correspondence that provides an account of the Patriot raid on Castle William and Mary.

Fort Constitution.  North American Forts. New Hampshire/Maine.

Fort William and Mary, Fort Constitution, Fort Point. New Hampshire Genealogy Trails. Includes excerpted account of explosion from July 5, 1809 New Hampshire Centinel (sic)

On Bridges and the Jet Set

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At our Rice Public Library, I recently attended a fascinating slide show featuring photographs of “old Kittery” that was put together by Frank Totman of Kittery Point.

Of special interest to me were the photos of the Portsmouth, Kittery and York Street Railway (PK & Y), the trolley line that ran from Badger’s Island, Kittery, through Kittery Point, across Spruce Creek, Chauncey Creek,  and Brave Boat Harbor to York and York Beach.  Passengers travelled by train to Portsmouth, then hopped on a ferry to cross the Piscataqua River to Badger’s Island, where they picked up the trolley for the last leg of their journey. Vestiges of these trolley lines linger in the pilings visible at lower tides in Chauncey Creek and Brave Boat Harbor, and in secret trails concealed in the woods of Kittery Point.

The PK & Y line operated year round, but was especially busy in the summer months when thousands of tourists took the trolleys to stay at five seaside hotels in Kittery, and many more in York.  Summer visitors typically stayed at hotels such as the Champernowne or the Parkfield for a month or the entire summer.

Although I knew that the now-dismantled Memorial Bridge was opened in 1923, I hadn’t fully understood the impact of the Bridge upon the Seacoast.  It’s almost impossible to conceive that before 1923, travelers crossed between downtown Portsmouth and Kittery via ferries that ran through the day and into the night.  Upriver, a wooden toll bridge was built across the Piscataqua on pilings in 1822 and then expanded for railway use in 1844, just north of the current Sarah Long Bridge, but this old and creaky bridge (100 years old in 1922) was a one-lane affair originally designed for horses and wagons, and not to support thousands of cars.  Using the bridge required a toll, so the fact the new Memorial Bridge provided a free crossing was especially significant at the time, perhaps even more so than the fact that the bridge was designed for automobiles.

When the Memorial Bridge opened on August 17, 1923, a line of cars waiting to cross clogged the streets of downtown Portsmouth.  The traffic jams became worse each year, especially on summer weekends.  By 1927, the trolley line was out of business, and all of the hotels in Kittery Point had closed.   A synergistic combination of bridges, roads and cars had swiftly altered the way Americans lived and travelled.  People were on the move. Instead of vacationing for a month or the entire summer, seaside visitors became tourists who stayed for a week or two and who spread out among motels, cottages or other New England destinations now easily reached by automobile.

Although the Seacoast had always been ‘metropolitan’ with its ready connections to Boston and other cities by ocean and rail, the Memorial Bridge ushered in a new era and mindset for locals as well.  Prior to the 1920s, most residents lived locally.  Trips from Kittery to Portsmouth might be a weekly event for some major errand, but residents did most of their living close by their homes, especially in the winter, when living locally might mean weeks and weeks spent close by the home fires.  Yes, you could travel for miles and miles on sleighs or skis, but why would you want to spend a day half-frozen beneath a pile of blankets, unless you really had to?

These days, the Seacoast empties out during the February and April school break weeks, making for plenty of available parking at the local market and movie theater.  Families jet off to Florida for long weekends, while singles hop on planes for California weekends with old pals.  The term “jet set,” popularly used in the 1960s and 70s to describe the rich and famous, has disappeared from the tabloids because the middle class have all become members of that club.

Last summer, when the Memorial Bridge was open only for pedestrian and bike traffic, I began a habit of parking on Badger’s Island and walking to Portsmouth across the bridge. That small change shifted my perspective of knowing these two communities.  I noticed the boats docked in the marinas, the sounds emanating from Prescott Park, the ships that had pulled into port to unload cargo.  On a couple of occasions, I ate dinner at one of the terrific eating spots in Kittery Foreside and then enjoyed an after-dark walk into Portsmouth to see a movie. Now, with the bridge gone, I miss it often and mourn the changes that its closing has brought to my weekly routines.  Instead of walking downtown, more often I find myself in a car, shopping on Woodbury Avenue and at the malls in Newington.

Another era will begin in summer or fall of 2013, when the new bridge is scheduled to open. I will miss the sound and sensation of walking on wood-plank sidewalks, but can accept that non-slip treading will be a safety improvement, especially in wet weather.  Overall, the bridge will be more pedestrian and biker-friendly, as bikes will travel both ways in bike lanes instead of on the sidewalk.  The original Memorial Bridge helped the automobile hit the big time.  Perhaps its replacement will help us to better value what we lost in that transition.

Links:

Newsreel footage of the Memorial Bridge dedication ceremony on August 17, 1923. The little girl who cuts the ribbon is five-year-old Eileen Dondero, who, as Eileen Foley, went on to serve as Portsmouth’s Mayor for 16 years.

http://www.portsmouthbridges.com/Memorial_History.cfm

“Old Kittery photos.” Collection made available by David Kaselauskas. This collection includes photos of the Champernowne and Parkfield Hotels, various trolley photos and many other interesting photos, with comments, from early 20th century Kittery.

http://www.traip66.com/000/3/5/4/16453/userfiles/file/Kittery_Photos/KitteryPhotos2.pdf

Other sources and credits:

The Sarah Mildred Long Bridge:  A History of the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Kittery Maine, by Woodard D. Openo.  Portsmouth, NH:  Peter E. Randall Publisher, for the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge Authority, 1988.

“Slideshow of Old Kittery Photos,” by Frank Totman.  Presented the Friends of the Rice Public Library Annual Meeting, May 24, 2012.

York County Trolleys, by O.R. Cummings.  Charleston, S.C.: Aradia Publishing, 1999.