Old Sam Sutton

The Paper Route

Originally Published December 23, 2015 by Steve LeClaire

Back in the days of the early 1960’s kids had paper routes. The Worcester Telegram, and the Evening Gazette were the daily papers. One in the morning, and the other in the afternoon. Kids delivered on their bicycles, or on foot with a canvas bag full of papers slung over their shoulders. You could get one of these coveted routes only if the current delivery boy gave it up. Kids were able to start routes when they were as young as ten or eleven years old.

My brother John and I took over the route sometime about 1967. Either Charlie Havener or Danny Kaminski had it before us - those years I don’t recall. Andy Smith had it before that, giving up the route when he was a junior in high school in 1962. My mom told me that when I was a toddler in the outdoor playpen we had, I’d scream and cry whenever Andy Smith came into the yard to deliver a paper. I’ve no idea why, Andy was a nice kid. Andy had taken over the route in the late 1950’s from Andy and Gary Rivers. All of kids with bikes, dreaming of what we’d spend our tip money on.

When Andy had the route, it stretched the length of Boston Road from the easterly point of Hovey Hill on Boston Rd to the westerly point of Freeland Triangle. By the time we got it, the route had been pared down to about half its original size. I think when we started our deliveries, the paper cost 50 cents per week. We didn’t deliver the heavy Sunday paper. We had to keep a ledger book, and a careful accounting of who paid and who owed. Every Friday, we had to knock on our customer’s doors and announce, “I’m collecting”. Some customers left an envelope out between their screen door and main door. We had to reconcile with Pete Gonya’s distribution center in Millbury. We learned good math skills.

I can remember each and every stop on the route, clear as day. I remember who tipped and who didn’t.

Heading towards Sutton center on Boston Road from our house, we started with John & Grace Brigham’s house. John was retired from the Postal Service as a letter carrier. He’d been a farmer before that, before the 1953 Tornado flattened his house and barn on Leland Hill. Grace was always home, and made wonderful apple pies. She was a good friend and neighbor of my grandmother. Old John had a walk-behind Gavely snow plow that I found fascinating. He cleared his driveway with this rig, wearing his long wool mailman’s coat and fur ear muffs. He looked like the mailman in Norman Rockwell’s painting. He often used his plow machine to clear snow from the ice on the little mud hole across from our house so we kids could skate.

Pendleton & Laura Havener lived next door to Brigham’s. The Haveners had kids our age, and some older. ‘Penny’ coached little league, most often the Pleasant Valley franchise. Penny was fairly handy and helped his oldest boy Charlie build a go-cart out of an old lawn mower and some plywood. That go-cart was so cool. The Haveners moved to South Carolina shortly after we got the route, and I lost my best friend Henry, the middle son.

Next on that side of the street were the Kallio’s. They got a paper. They were a retired couple whos son Eric had grown up and moved out but left behind his beagle “Wimpy”. We inherited Wimpy. Wimpy used to jump in Lynnwood Eaton’s milk truck every morning and ride around town with him, before being dropped off back at our house an hour or so later.

On the other side of the street were St. Mark’s Rectory, and Lewis Sherman/Dudley Perry’s farm house. I don’t recall leaving a paper at either place.

Up the street from Kallio’s were Henry & Helen Kaminski, and their son Danny, who was a few years older than John and I were. They got a paper. I remember Henry Kaminski drove a giant green Chrysler, and worked at a factory down on Howe Ave in Millbury. Helen Kaminski was usually at home. She’d been a Klewiec, and grew up in town on their family farm. Danny had altered his banana bike into a sort of circus bike about eight feet tall. He changed the handle bars to accommodate a real steering wheel from a car. We thought that was the coolest thing we’d ever seen.

Next up the street was a hay pasture owned by Eddy Lacross. We hayed that field with Morrice Perry. Years later the field became where Harry & Angela Baily built their home.

Next to “Eddy’s field” was Kelton & Beverly Johnson. I don’t remember them getting a paper. The Johnson’s may have actually moved in their after we had the paper route, but I don’t remember who lived there before them.

Next up from Kelton Johnson’s was Ellery “Bucky” Smith and his wife Faith. She had been a Freeland. Both of them born and raised in Sutton. Bucky was our fire chief after his brother Tighe retired. They got a paper. That’s where paper boy Andy Smith had grown up. Bucky’s son Raymond was head of the highway department. His daughter Hope taught gym at the school and had been a star athlete.

Across the street from Bucky was the two family home owned by Morrice Perry and rented out. It’s gone now, but sat directly in front of Donald Perry’s current barn. “Mr & Mrs West” lived on the 2nd floor – we had to go up the stairs on the east end of the house, and leave the paper at the top of the stairs, and collect the money for the paper there too. The West’s daughter Mary married “Bunk” King, who drove the school busses for the town. Morrice Perry’s mother-in-law, Edna Hughes lived on the first floor. She got a paper, and was usually at the door to collect it as well as pay on Fridays, collection day.

Next door to the two-family was John & “Beth” Gifford’s place. I remember Mr. Gifford as being a custodian at the schools. Mrs. Gifford was usually home to get the paper in person. Nice elderly lady. She drove a little tiny Ford Falcon.

Next to Giffords was Bill Orne ( Ohrn?) I think he got a paper but was never home, and always left the payment out in a little envelope. John Perry had lived there. That’s Keith Downer’s house now.

Next to Orne’s was George & Dorothy Graham. I think George worked in Worcester. The Telephone Company? Not sure. Dot Graham was usually home. They got a paper.

Next to Grahams was Harlan “ Lanny” Goodwin, his wife Barbara and all their kids. I don’t remember them getting a paper, but was in school with the oldest daughter Becki. They were pretty girls. Barbara had been queen of the 1954 250th anniversary parade, and rode in a brand new Corvette convertible.

Across from Goodwin’s was Wilmont Hastings. I don’t think he got a paper. I don’t recall if he lived there during our paper route years either. It seems he would have been earlier. That was the old farm house owned by Thomas & John Hancock and stood next to the stone walls of the little “Town Pound”, and the ‘Hearse House” for the cemetery in Sutton Center.

Across from Hastings was Jim & Belle Smith’s small cottage, one of my favorites on the route. Jim was Bucky’s younger brother. Both he and Belle were retired, although Jim worked part time for the cemetery commission mowing lawns. Bell was usually home, keeping the white picket fence and yard tidy. Their daughter Joyce’s old basset hound Sophie could always be found basking in the sun on the sidewalk. Joyce would be our biology teacher at Sutton High School later on.

Next up from Smiths on the North side of Boston Rd was the little red cape house owned by Ben MacLaren. Ben was born in town and was one of the last to graduate from the old Sutton High School next to the gas station. His family got a paper. Ben worked at a variety of odd jobs and wasn’t home too often when the paper got delivered.

Next up the hill from MacLaren’s, was “The Beehive”, the apartment building on the corner of Boston Rd & Singletary Ave owned by Al Beaton. We delivered newspapers throughout those apartments. Amongst the customers were Howard Bottomly on the first floor, and Benny Oles on the very top floor. To reach Mr Oles was a climb up a couple flights of stairs. He rarely came to the door. We left the paper in front of his door, and collected the pay envelope from the same place. Benny was one of the original ‘collectors’ when St Marks Church was built. The Michelsons lived on the middle floor, along with others. Over time, so many couples starting out rented appartments at the Beehive. Andy Smith lived their when he first got married. Nicky & Penny Nunnemacher. Penny’s brother Ken & his new bride. Mark & Audrey Brigham.

Our route didn’t go down Singletary Avenue. I don’t recall going up Uxbridge Road at all either, or around Church circuit.

On the other side of the Common, and heading east on Boston Rd, across from the Church was the Brick Block/Polly’s Antiques. We didn’t deliver papers to any of the tenants there. We didn’t deliver to the Congo Church parsonage next door either. Nobody at either place subscribed.

Continuing up Boston Rd on the north side, next was Alvin & Emily Swindell’s house. Al Swindell was retired, but worked as the head of the cemetery commission. He used his own red Ford pickup and Snapper riding lawn mower to mow the common and the cemeteries. Emily was old Lewis Sherman’s daughter. Their daughter Janice was a schoolteacher. Emily was generally home to get the paper and pay on Fridays.

Next door to Swindell’s lived Morrice & Florence Perry, and their boys Donald & Jeff. Morrice grew up in town on The Maples dairy farm, and was a truck driver for the town of Sutton highway department. Every summer, he came to cut the hay in our fields for his herd of Hereford cattle. Florence ran the local chapter of the 4H. Morrice always left his pay envelope on the front porch, with exact change counted to the penny. Never a tip. But, he was still our hero and a man held in awe because of all his tractors, farm machinery and old trucks. Morrice chewed tobacco and spit. He smoked a pipe too.

Next from Perry’s was Frank & Beatrice Paine’s house. Mrs. Paine was our piano teacher. Frank Paine had run the grocery store in the Brick Block. Both were retired.

Across from the Paine’s house was Arthur & Helen Ordung. Mrs Ordung was always home. She was a retired seamstress in the men’s department at Ware Pratt in Worcester. She was often home sewing or braiding rugs from scraps of wool. She had a loud personality, and we were a little afraid of her. Later, we learned what a sweetheart she really was. Born in Sutton, she was a Silun. She got a paper, and was a decent tipper. She always had good treats at Halloween.

Wally & Shirley Johnson’s big farm was next to Ordung’s. Wally was a carpenter/farmer, World War Two veteran. He was sometimes home during the day, most often in his fields or on a roof in town someplace working with Bill Crosby’s framing crew . Shirley and her sister Doris Humes were most always home. Shirley often gave me milk and cookies or something good when I came by with the paper. The Johnsons & Doris Humes were good tippers too.

Across from Wally’s was Nick & Peg (McGovern) Johnson’s Farm, the former “Charlie Putnam” farm. The McGoverns had package stores in Worcester, and every Christmas Nick Johnson brought a gallon of hard brown liquor to our house as a gift. My parents didn’t drink hard brown liquor, but accepted the gift none the less. In the summer he brought us huge plump tomatoes from his garden. Nick grew the best tomatoes.

Starting down “Hovey Hill” after Nick Johnsons, was Victor & Lois Karacius house. Vic was another World War Two vet. Lois was the head librarian when the library was in the General Rufus Putnam Building. Vic & Lois were instrumental in the Sutton Players group, putting on plays in the old town hall. Their son Dave was one of the best drummers to come out of SHS in the class of 1968. Dave played in the rock band “The Untouched”, and my brother John idolized him. John used his paper route money to buy his first set of drums in 1968. Vic had been a saxophone player.

After Karacius’ house was Charles & Martha Graveline’s house. Charlie Graveline worked as a caretaker down at Purgatory Chasm State Park. He had a nifty 1925 Ford AA truck all restored in running condition. The truck had reportedly hauled lumber out of Purgatory after the Hurricane of 1938. His son in law Jim Brigham still has it. Martha Graveline worked as a cafeteria cook at the school. They were decent tippers. Their daughter Nancy married Jim Brigham who grew up across the street from our house. Jim & Nancy still live there. Charlie & Martha were regular tippers. That’s as far as our route went down Boston Road.

Once that end of Boston Road was complete we headed back down toward our house and the schools, to do the little bit of Putnam Hill Rd. Starting at the intersection of Boston & Putnam Hill Rd, on the left was Professor Rudolph Nunnemacher and his wife Sylvia’s house, “the Blue Blinds”. They didn’t get a paper on our route. Their son Robert, called “Nicky” would often come skate with us on the little mud hole across the street from our house. It’s my understanding that Dr. Nunnemacher had created that small pond for biology experiments. He was a professor of biology at Clark University.

The next four houses were all on the same side, and all got papers. Stanley & Millie Bostwick lived in the one story ranch rouse across from the little league field. They got a paper. Next was Albert & Nancy Johnson. They had several daughters that were in school with us. Albert worked around town as a carpenter. He was another World War Two veteran.

After Johnsons was Stanley & Marjorie Knapp’s home. Stanley had been in the Air Force in World War II, with the 532mf bomber squadron. He worked in Worcester before retiring and working on the Cemetery Commission with Al Swindell and crew. Stanley was a quiet man, always smoking a cigarette with a 2 inch-ash on it. How he kept that long ash intact I’ll never know. Stanley and Marj tipped modestly.

The Kortekamps lived next to The Knapps, and were the end of that spur of our route.

Back on Boston Road at the high school, heading west, we delivered papers to Harry & Agnes Davagian. They had built a newer home across the street from their farm on the corner of Merriam Lane. Harry’s dairy farm stood across the street. We helped Harry cut corn in his fields, which are now the Simonian Learning Center and elementary school. His large barn and silo stood right about where the tennis courts are now. Agnes was the Sutton High School home economics teacher for years. Harry’s cows looked back over the stone wall of right field of the high school baseball field. Sometimes they got loose onto the school grounds, to much excitement.

Next to Davagian’s was John & Evelyn Newton’s home. Mrs. Newton was an art teacher in the high school. She directed wonderful plays, and was universally loved by all the students.

We pedaled our bikes down Merriam Lane for the last spur of the route. First, on the left was old Marie Sieberth. She lived alone, but got a paper. I never knew too much about her, her family or where she came from, but she was nice. She tipped.

Next to Sieberth was George & Marie Chabot’s luxurious home. George owned Chabot Motors in Millbury. Marie stayed at home with her little white poodle dog that yapped incessantly when we peddled into the yard. Mrs Chabot was one of the best tippers. When the paper was 50 cents, she’d be good for a whole quarter. Sometimes a dollar on holidays. In times when most of the tips ranged from 10 to 15 cents, that was pretty generous.

Down the road a piece and on the other side lived Rod & Florence Lavallee. Florence was one of my favorites on the route. She was a good friend of my grandmother. She was the best tipper of all. When the paper was 60 cents, she tipped an extra 40 cents, paying a full dollar a week. That was big money! Florence was art teacher Evelyn Newton’s sister. Her three sons Rod, David & Kenny were grown and gone when we were paperboys, but Florence talked about them all the time. David was in the marines. Kenny was an artist. She was very proud of her boys.

The last house at the end of Merriam Lane was owned by Orrin “Randy” Robbins. His son Randy was a bit older than us. I remember when he was badly burned from a flashback with a can of lighter fluid while lighting a charcoal grill.

My brother John and I eventually outgrew our paper route and moved on to other jobs. John worked on the grounds crew at Pleasant Valley, and I went to work for Joe Pelis at Colonial Orchards. The paper route had taught us responsibility and reliability. We also got to know our neighbors. I doubt 10 year olds could get a route now, with child labor laws as they are. But it was a great experience I wouldn’t trade for anything!

Singletary Lake

Originally Published December 2, 2015 by Steve LeClaire

“Taking the Boston Rd west at Sutton center and continuing to our new and present schoolhouse, directly across you will find a cart road somewhat improved, which leads for about three quarters of a mile through what has been known throughout my lifetime as the Thompson Farm to Lake Singletary. As you finally arrive at the lake, you will be pleasantly surprised to find about an acre of hemlocks and white birches and some cleared land which it has been said was used as an old Indian burial ground. I have found nothing to substantiate this fact but it is a beautiful spot with a lovely view of the lake. The shore line is packed wide and deep with rocks brought there by oxcart to clear the farm land.

On the right of this acre of land, bordering Stephen Benjamin’s wall, is a rustic cabin built in 1939 by F. Hazen Bordeaux and still owned by him. This cabin is lined with knotty pine and has large beams supporting the ceiling and has a stone fireplace. Sidney Hutchinson was responsible for its construction. The lumber came from S. Martin Shaw. I can picture in my mind’s eye, as in boyhood days, Alton & Lewis Thompson walking alongside their oxcart . . . “

This description by F.H. Bordeaux in The Sutton Town History volume II was written in the 1950’s, and could easily be talking about any of the various cart paths surrounding Lake Singletary at the turn of the century or before that led to its shores. Many roads to the lake are still just like that.

Singletary Pond. Lake Singletary. Crooked Pond. It has been called by many names.

The native Nipmucs were probably the first to enjoy the shores of the lake. According to tradition, the hillside land currently owned by Rudy Pearson on Dewitt Road was once an observation post for the Indians and early settlers because of the elevation and proximity to good water.

In the 1800’s, mills and industry were built on the flowing streams leading to and from the lake, but surrounding the lake itself were virgin stands of timber and farms. Farmers harnessed the natural resources of owning stretches of land along the water’s edge. On the West Sutton Road side, the farms of Jonathan and Eddy Stockwell ( later Joseph Piatczyc and the Novak’s ) stretched to the water’s edge, making watering livestock an easier task.

At the West end of the lake, the large farm of Edwin Hutchinson spilled from what is now Hutchinson Rd to the shores of the lake. Ed’s oldest son William was born on the farm in 1846. He left from there to fight for the Union in the Civil War, only to be killed at age 18 at Cold Harbor in June of 1864. Ed’s diary entry read something like “mowed an acre of rye this morning, Went to pick up Willie’s body at the train.” I like to think of young Willie as a boy splashing in the cool clear water of the lake after completing his farm chores.

There have been many drownings in the lake.

Sutton’s re-known furniture maker Nathan Lombard’s oldest daughter drowned in the lake on May 29,1822, along with three other girls and is one of the earliest drownings recorded. Adeline Miranda Lombard was almost eighteen. Four boys and four girls were in a rowboat that capsized. There is no record of who the boys were but they all made it to shore. Adeline died with Nancy Tenney and Hanna and Mary Marble and they are all buried together in one grave behind the Town Hall. Their stone is the largest there.

Luther Little was Captain of a whaling vessel that went around the world every three years - for many years - before he retired and came to live on land in Sutton. He lived in the home on Singletary Avenue in Sutton Center next to where the first Sutton High School would be built. Captain Little was an expert rigger and his talents were put to use in raising the 1500 lb bell to the belfry of the First Congregational Church using schoolchildren and teams of oxen. Ironically, Captain Little was drowned in the lake while fishing in September of 1893. It was thought he had a heart attack and fell from his boat.

Joseph Moore drowned while fishing in Singletary in 1887. He lived in the house at Freeland triangle, almost across from where the Rufus Putnam Monument would be erected 17 years later.

There have been further tragedies and accidents on the lake right up to modern times. Too many. But there has also been much joy.

Modern recreation, leisure time and ‘camping’ as we know it today really wasn’t commonplace until just after the turn of the century. The cottage on the lake from the Putnam-Currier Farm at 416 Boston Road was built by Arthur B. Putnam in 1908 and was used by him while on vacation from the Rural Free Delivery Service ( post office ) It was rented annually to Carl E. Peterson of Worcester and he is believed to be the veteran camper on the southwest side of the lake.

This area of the lake, commonly referred to as the “West Cove” saw the beginning of the Swedish immigration to the lake. Swedes had come to Worcester, and particularly Quinsigamond Village to work in the steel mills. They brought their cultural traditions of ‘camping’ with them to the new country. In Sutton, Merriam Lane “on the Freeman Farm” eventually lead to 12 summer camps. The 1st settlement on the shore of this farm was made in 1924 by Miss Edith Lanpher, who bought three acres. The remaining shore was surveyed into lots fifty feet by 100 feet. As early as 1925, summer camps of John Bjorkman, John Skogsberg, Carl Lindgren, George & Axel Jacobson, Carl & Bertha Anderson, Arthur Johnson, Edward Ludvingson, and William Sundstrom dotted the shoreline. However, the Great Depression set in and no further construction ensued until after the hurricane of 1938. Electric lights were extended to this shore in 1931. The Swedish campers formed the first “association” on the lake, calling themselves “The Singletary Lake South Shore Association.”

After the Hurricane of 1938, the Swedish Migration seemingly continued over to the West Sutton Rd/ Millbury town line area. The first permanent home on the West Sutton Road side- from the Augustus Orn farm - was built by John Sandburg, who sold it to Fred Jarvis in 1937. Clifford Bjork came in 1940. His son Paul still resides there. In 1941, Mr & Mrs Yngve Norlin arrived. There are still Norlins on the lake. After World War Two, Arvo Latti made his home there in 1946, and rented boats. In 1950 alone, small cottages turned into the year round homes of Stanley Anderson, Ralph Jernberg, Alton Werme and John Peterson.

Our family owns a tract of land on the southern shores of the lake which my grandparents bought in 1929. Our property extended some fifty acres from our house on Boston Road all the way to the lake, in one huge rectangle bordered by stone walls. There were fields on the hill overlooking the lake, but there was nothing but thick trees covering the rocky shoreline until the Hurricane of 1938.

The look of the land and woods changed drastically after the Hurricane. My grandmother once told me years later, how right after the hurricane how her husband Stephen Benjamin, Lewis Sherman, Norman Perry and some of the other local farmers walked down to the shore to survey the damage. Nan said how these big burley men sat and openly wept, not saying a word to each other, over the loss of so many beautiful trees. Almost every tree was uprooted and lay shattered into a pile of wooden matchsticks. I’ve seen pictures of the shore after the hurricane. I’m sure they don’t do the real scene justice. Our ‘camp’ was built from hurricane lumber, hauled off to local sawmills in a deal struck between my grandfather and Arthur King. Three camps were built on our shores that provided rental income to my grandparents. I’m told that many Sutton newlyweds spent inexpensive honeymoons in these rudimentary cabins during the depression and during the war. One cabin was sold to Arthur Gillman to finance a hip replacement for my grandfather – no health insurance in those days – and the other was sold to Gus Carlson, but one still remains in our family.

Our small camp itself changed very little over the years, and was typical of what dotted the lake in the late 1950’s and 1960’s. When I was little, there was still barely a road down from the house. Just a rocky cart path, really. The camp building originally was a one room shell with no plumbing. In the 1930’s when Nan and Ben bought the property, there were no buildings at all down there. They said it used to be like walking into nighttime on the back side of the hill, the pines were so thick. The temperature dropped a few degrees as they walked into the cool dampness of the woods, under the cathedral canopy of the pines. . Huge pine trees grew right at the waters edge, and their lower branches hung out over the water. I treasured the familiar permanence of it all like that of an old friendship renewed every year. I liked to lie in the hammock by the shore as the sun and breeze washed over me. I would lightly tug on a lilac branch on a nearby bush, letting the swaying motion of the hammock and the gentle lapping of the waves.

The original building we had was a primitive one room cabin with a bedroom area and kitchen partitioned off. I always thought it was kind of neat that I could jump up and hang on to the top of the wall and peek into the next room, because the walls didn’t go all the way up to the top of the peaked roof. The walls inside were left as unfinished knotty pine.

A single door under the gable end let us into the camp from back and led into the small kitchen area. There was no plumbing then, just an old galvanized dry sink. In the front of the building towards the lake was a big screened in porch. A screen door in the middle of the front of the building led down the steps to a path to the water. The narrow path was surrounded by lilac bushes and tall pines. I remember the ‘whack’ of that screen door as it used to slam too quickly against its frame as we ran out and down the steps. The whole camp was painted a dull shade of flat battleship gray. The rich smell of moss and ferns and pine wafted through the air. It was peaceful.

Because there was no plumbing, we had an outhouse in the woods out behind the camp. Most camps on the lake had them. It was kind of a fun novelty, but perhaps a little rustic. A narrow, winding footpath led through the woods, over exposed roots and through ferns and lady slippers to the old two holer The outhouse was painted gray like the camp. One summer I lost my little read sneakers down the hole of the outhouse. I was perhaps three or four years old. I think I threw them in on purpose. I probably wanted to test where the bottom was, as it was quite dark down there. My little shoes stayed down there for years until they probably dissolved on their own. For quite a while afterwards though, everyone would traipse off to the outhouse saying, “I’m going to visit Stephen’s little red sneakers!”

The shoreline at the lake hadn’t been developed yet when I was real little. It was only a pile of rocks where the water stopped and the land started. I liked to splash around in the water, and had a special flat rock that I particularly liked to sit on. Those were the days when camp was really rustic. It seemed like we just drove down for a short swim and drove back home, not staying for the entire day like we do now. There wasn’t room to really spread out, although we did stay overnight a few times.. My two brothers and I, Mom and dad and a couple of cousins piled in set up folding cots on the porch and slept in sleeping bags. We didn’t actually sleep too much. We spent most of the night giggling and fooling around. Mom and Dad had to keep yelling at us to “Pipe down!” In my early years, ‘staying over’ at camp was a rare treat.

Within a few years Dad decided to build a stone wall and pier down at the shore. He hired an old Italian stone mason from Worcester named Mr. Pellegrini to come do the work. We helped Mr. Pellegrini by finding little small “chink” stones for whim to fill in the cracks in the wall I recall when Dad decided to redo the camp. He hired local carpenter Ray Hutchinson to add a deck ad a spare bedroom. My brothers and I were still real young, and I remember my Dad handing me out through the open window frames onto the deck to “Mr. Hutchida” to watch and get in the way. That’s what we called him, because we couldn’t pronounce Hutchinson. Mr. Huchida made window where the old rear entrance door used to be and made the old kitchen into the spare bedroom with twin beds. He added a good sized master bedroom and deck on the west side. Mr. Pellegrini came back and built a beautiful stone fireplace. The camp got all new wiring. The old outhouse was knocked down and plowed under into the hole, as new plumbing was installed in the camp. A septic tank was put in under the new gravel parking area. Water was still pumped up through a hose from the lake, so we really were not supposed to drink it. The Carlson’s camp next door had an artesian well with an outdoor faucet, and we used to go over there and fill up pitchers of water to make iced tea for Nan, Mom and Dad. Good neighbors!

Dad eventually paved the worst part of the camp road. The backside of the hill washed out every year, and almost every year Morris Perry came with his bulldozer and pushed the gravel back up the hill. There used to be a spot in the road right about at the crest of the hill that cars had to slow to a mere crawl to get over a big exposed rock. The bottom of cars used to lightly scrape over it. Dad had that one big rock dug out and moved when they paved the road. I remember Nan was upset that the pretty little lane wouldn’t be quite so pretty anymore, but common sense won out. The camp inherited our house’s old stove and refrigerator, and the whole place moved into the present century. Mom said how her father, Ben, probably would not have liked the changes, as he never even wanted electricity at the camp. The best part of the renovation was that the camp was painted a deep brown that blended more with the woods, and we finally got rid of that ugly battleship gray color. The lady slippers remained in the woods, and the woods grew thicker, thanks to Dad’s careful maintenance. He gave the trees room to grow. The camp gave our family room to grow.

The lake has evolved into a collection of stately year round homes and manicured properties and year round recreation. Large power boats and pontoon boats dot the waters in summer, while snowmobiles and ATV’s race across the ice in the winter. I doubt the ‘campers’ or farmers from the early days would recognize it, but that’s OK.

We’ve spent many summers at camp. We watched the annual fourth of July bonfires on the tiny island next to “gull rock” go from leaping flame to glowing embers as we fell asleep to the sound of fireworks shooting over the lake. Mom told me that island was once bigger and had a tree. She and high school friends used to row out and have picnics. The island is eroded into a pile of rocks now. We’ve cheered and booed the Redsox in the spring, and the Patriots in the fall. We learned to swim, sail and water ski. Dad has raked countless tons of leaves and cut endless cords of firewood. He’s also gotten deeply tanned while recharging his batteries snoozing in the sun.

Camp has been the site of numerous family gatherings, holidays, birthdays, celebrations, milestones, rites of passage and rituals. None of us ever really own the land we’re on. We are merely the caretakers and witnesses. I hope whoever is the caretaker of the lake long after we are gone treasures it as much as we did.

The Manchaug Chicken Mill

Originally Published November 18, 2015 by Steve LeClaire

This year marked the 40th anniversary of one of Manchaug’s milestone events. I missed writing about it by a couple of months, but residents of Manchaug my age and older will certainly remember September of 1975. But let me give you a little background first.

Most people know that Manchaug is a mill village in Sutton’s southwest corner. Manchaug Pond & Stevens pond flow into the Mumford River and provide an endless supply of water power for the mills that sprang up along the streams. Robert Knight had been producing textiles in Providence, Rhode Island since before the Civil War in 1851, and the following year formed B.B. & R. Knight with his brother Benjamin Brayon Knight. Together they looked north, up river and across the border into Massachusetts. They decided to invest in the area we know today as the mill village of Manchaug. Together they began building the huge granite mills. Beginning in 1871, B.B. & R Knight produced cloth with its trademark Fruit of the Loom labels in Manchaug. The Knights grew to own and control over 20 mills in Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Over 400,000 spindles on over 10,000 looms. The Manchaug company boasted 52,000 spindles at one time. Only the operations in Natick, Rhode Island had more – 86,000. The Knights employed over 7000 workers. By Robert Knight’s death in 1912, the New York Times listed him as the largest cotton manufacturer in the world. Not amongst the largest, the largest. A huge company, even by today’s standards.

French Canadian immigrant workers came between 1870 and 1900 and provided much of the labor for the mills. They settled in the many mill houses built by the Knights, in what would become informally known even into modern times as ‘Frog Village’. Many of the descendants of these early workers still live in town and are amongst its most prominent citizens.

You can read about the history of the Knight family in the History of Providence County, and in various textile histories. B. B. Knight died in 1898, and Robert in 1912 but in a nutshell the mill changed hands several times between 1927 and 1948 during which time it produced woolen material, including blankets for the US army. The textile industry died off in New England during the Great Depression, and not long thereafter as mills headed south and then overseas in search of cheaper labor.

Only the “number one” mill still stands, along with the mill store and some other smaller buildings.

The “number two” mill, a long low wooden edifice at the intersection of Putnam Hill Road and Manchuag Road was destroyed by the flood of 1936, and finished off completely by the hurricane of 1938.

It’s the “number three” mill that had the most interesting life. In 1948, the 360 foot long, four story granite hulk became “Buster’s Egg Farm”. Lionel ‘Buster’ Griese of Brookfield bought the building from the Hayward Schuster Woolen Mills of Douglas. With the mill machinery removed and the windows covered with chicken wire, he moved in some 80,000 chickens and waited for the eggs to come to make him rich. I don’t know how wealthy he became, but Buster’s peddled eggs from Manchaug for the next 25 years.

When I was little I remember riding through Manchaug with my mother and we always asked her to drive up Manchaug Road so we could look at the chickens. In the summer, the mill windows would be open and you could see, hear and smell the chickens. It was really a sight to behold. Even driving by it was overpowering. The stink of ammonia filled one’s nostrils, and the steady peep-peep-peep of 80,000 birds filled the air. I’m sure the folks who lived across the street on First, Second and Third Street suffered because of it. Elementary school kids had this distraction literally across the street from the Manchaug Schoolhouse. Humid summer days in Manchaug must have been brutal.

I was only in Buster’s Egg Farm once that I remember, probably in about 1971. While a junior high student, I became friendly with classmate Mark Zuidema who lived in Manchaug, right across the street from the number three mill. I remember taking the bus to his house one day after school, to play for the afternoon. I never rode the bus since I always walked to school in Sutton Center. The bus dropped us off almost in the parking lot of the chicken mill. Mark told me his mother ( I think it was his mother ) worked in the sizing room and that he had to go up and see her before we could adjourn to his house. I was excited but apprehensive that I was going to get to go into the chicken mill. Mark walked right in with me in tow like he owned the place. We went in through a door in the bottom of the huge clock tower. Nobody asked who we were or what we were doing. I guess that ‘Buster’ was used to the children of his employees checking in after school. I remember reading someplace that he employed about twenty five to thirty people.

Rows and rows of white chickens sat in cages, stacked from floor to ceiling. Feathers everywhere. And stink. It was overpowering. Sugar cane was used for bedding, and sawdust too. There were wide wooden stairs, and we went up a flight or two. More chickens. I’d never seen so many. As big as the mill was, it seemed claustrophobic inside. We went up to the top floor of the clock tower, and looked out the open doors to the vista of Manchaug village. We seemed so high up. There was no safety rail, no security, certainly no OSHA. Just me and the ground below. Mark pointed out his house across the street. Being in a mill, in a mill village was quite a different experience for me, having grown up in Sutton Center where there were only houses.

Mark took me in to meet his mother who worked sorting eggs. Row upon row of eggs were passed through some sort of conveyor where a light was shown through the eggs - testing for fertility perhaps? - and through some sort of sizing mechanism for regular, large and extra- large eggs. I wish I could remember more. I’d love to hear a first- hand account from someone who worked there of how the whole chicken operations really worked. Where did all the manure end up? Were the eggs refrigerated?

Buster sold his business to Colchester Egg Farm of Connecticut in 1973. Colchester owned it less than two years before the Great Fire.

The Great Manchaug Chicken Mill Fire happened on the night of September 3rd, 1975. The building had quietly witnessed its 100th anniversary the year before, without any fanfare or acknowledgement. That particular Wednesday evening in September was reasonably warm and clear as I recall. I’d recently joined the fire department as I’d just turned sixteen. I had a learner’s permit, but didn’t yet have my driver’s license. My mother ( my mother!) had to drive me to the fire when we heard the alarm sound. The first alarm came in about 6:45pm. We drove down Putnam Hill Road, and as we crested the hill where the Blackstone National Golf Course is now, we saw the entire skyline to the south engulfed in a strange orange glow. As we got further down the road and past Vern’s restaurant and Tucker Pond, we could see real walls of flame leaping high in the air. Huge sparks and cinders rose in the heat above the smoke. By 7:00pm in early fall, it was dark enough to make the glow stand out in an eerie preview of hell. My mother looked at me, quite worried for my safety. She reluctantly left me off with an admonishment to be careful.

I sprinted up Manchaug road, looking for familiar faces from the fire department. Many of the Manchaug company were already working, unrolling hoses. Steve Frieswick, Albert Bruno, and Deputy Chief Henry Plante. I asked the first fireman I saw what to do. “Find your company” was all he said as he ran past. My training to that point had consisted of unrolling hose, rolling up hose, and hanging on to the back of the fire truck without falling off.

Cinders large and small landed everywhere in Satan’s hailstorm. Neighborhood residents appeared on the hill across the street, their hands to their mouths and eyes wide in shock. Window screens had fallen loose and chickens – on fire - flew from the open windows. All too often, burning chickens rose in flight, died in mid- air, and came crashing to the ground with a thud. It was horrific. Most of the chickens must have died quickly in their cages, but many somehow got loose and ran through the neighborhood. Their singed bodies and bare featherless wings flapped grotesquely. My stomach turned, and knotted with fear.

Eventually, department Captain John Peterson came by and told me to hold onto a two inch hose behind another man, as we directed a curtain of water to create a barrier to a home next door. We had all we could do to hang on to the high pressured nozzle and keep control. The heat was intense.

The fire raged through the night. My wrist watch read midnight. Three am. The flames still roared into the air as portions of the huge granite walls tumbled to the ground. Trucks and equipment came from Northbridge, Uxbridge and Millbury and beyond. Sutton’s seventy year old Fire Chief Ellery “Bucky” Smith directed the offense. As the sun rose over the number one mill to the east the fire finally fell under control. I’d never been so tired. I grabbed a quick donut from a canteen truck that had been set up back at the intersection of Putnam Hill Rd and Manchaug Rd, and then quickly went back to my post. Thousands upon thousands of gallons of water were pumped from the Mumford River.

It was obvious that the fire would cause a total loss. The building was gutted. During the night we watched floor after floor collapse in on themselves, yet major portions of the granite walls still stood. 75 years of mill oil and lubricants, topped with 25 years of chicken manure, sawdust and feathers on top of huge hardwood beams and sturdy planks made for ready tinder to fuel such a raging fire. We waged a defensive war to contain sparks and protect the neighborhood, not an offensive to try to save the mill building. That was hopeless.

A huge crane from Leo Construction Company of Webster arrived Thursday afternoon and set up to begin demolishing the building. By mid-afternoon the sun was high in the clear September sky. I remember we made a single loop with the hose on top of itself; the weight of the water pressure at the spot where the hose crossed held in place with a few chunks of granite. By angling the nozzle so that it sprayed in through the open windows, we didn’t have to man-handle the hose. One of the older fire fighters explained “that’s how you gain an extra man”. The hose sat by itself, and poured water on the steaming pile of ash.

I remember another firefighter and I climbed up on top of one of the fire trucks, and sat in the coils of inch and an eighth forestry hose coiled on top. That comfortable perch provided a front row seat to watch the crane start to knock down the huge clock tower. The wrecking ball swung, and 100 years of granite history toppled to the ground. With the warm sun on my face, and long night of hard work behind me, I quickly fell asleep. The department was there for several days cleaning up, dousing hot spots and untangling the miles of fire hoses that had been laid out.

And then the rats came. If they’d been living in the basement of the mill, they somehow escaped the fire to come back. If they’d been living in the woods, they smelled the stench of 80,000 dead and Bar-B-Q’d chicken carcasses and thought they’d arrived at rat heaven. The debris inside the charred granite walls crawled with a life of its own as the vermin danced over the warm ashes, feasting on the dead. Students from Manchaug were given the day off from school, as there was still plenty to be done in the village. Manchaug Road was still closed. Power had been disconnected. There was ash to be cleaned off of cars as well as a few live chickens to be caught in neighborhoods. Ash and debris that had floated downstream had to be hauled from the Mumford River. Eventually the town purchased several tons of lime to spread over the site to stop the rotting. The site was eventually bulldozed over and capped, like a landfill. Many of the huge granite blocks were salvaged, but I don’t know where they went.

The site was vacant for several years, a chain link fence keeping out the tresspassers. In an ironic turn of events, the Town obtained the land where the once proud mill stood, and it currently hosts the Manchaug Fire Station. A new, spacious package steel building was built to house the department, standing in semi tribute and testament to one of Sutton’s worst fires.

Mr. Sherman

Originally Published July 24, 2015 by Steve LeClaire

When I was a little kid growing up in Sutton, one of our most colorful neighbors had to be Lewis Sherman. To the neighborhood kids, he was the subject of constant fascination and speculation; a creepy gruff old man. To us, he was the very devil himself, incarnate on earth. At my young age in the early 1960’s, Lewis Sherman became the personification of old age. He was the benchmark to whom all others were measured by, as he’d lived past age ninety. Ninety-three I think. Very few people lived to see ninety back then. Mr. Sherman lived alone at his farm, the next house up from us on Boston Road after St Mark’s Church. When I was a little shaver, we seldom saw him up close. The neighborhood kids kept a polite and somewhat apprehensive distance from the old man, and definitely steered clear of him when there were no other adults around. Legend with the older kids held that Mr. Sherman sat in an upstairs window sometimes and shot at trespassers with a shotgun full of rock salt. I could never quite reconcile that, because he always sat in the same front window of the house in his rocking chair. He was always right there, watching the world go by. He peered out through the curtain and waved with his hand with the missing fingers – the result of some grizzly farming accident perhaps – as we sped by on our bikes. The imaginary, creepy haunted house organ music would play in my head whenever I saw those stumpy fingers wave at me. My stomach knotted with terror and I felt the very gates of Hell had opened up and were ready to suck me down through the cellar of old Sherman’s house. As I got a little older, I sensed that somehow he really liked kids. But - I still wasn’t taking any chance with that rock salt. No sir! I suppose I didn’t even know what rock salt was, but it sounded painful. I never quite convinced myself if it were true, or if the older kids were just stuffing us. Years later, I came to understand that gruff old “Yankee Farmer” dry sense of humor, of a practical joke, or barnyard prank. Lewis Sherman could have invented the style. But when I was a kid, he was terrifying.

Did I ever meet him? Yes, eventually, but never EVER alone. I remember him walking over to my Dad’s insurance office that was in our house. I was playing in the yard and caught a glimpse of Mr. Sherman slowly hobbling up the sidewalk with his cane. I ran inside screeching, “Mr. Sherman’s coming! Mr. Sherman’s coming! And then sat inside and waited a full twenty minutes or more for him to wobble into the yard. He often wore the same well-worn gray wool sweater and a gray tweed cap and with a couple days beard stubble, he looked to be a very coarse, itchy person. I prayed he wouldn’t touch me.

I suppose he’d come to pay a bill or something. I managed to peek into the office somehow, by making an excuse to go in and get a pencil or some paper. It felt safe to gawk as long as Mom and Dad were close at hand. Mr. Sherman had out his billfold, homemade of old mattress ticking or some type of heavy striped cloth. He awkwardly peeled off bills with his two big thumbs, and the hand with the missing fingers. He handed over a wad of bills, telling Dad “You count out what you need,” in a kind of slurred and toothless speech he had. He then signed his name with an “X”. I was amazed that a man as old as he was had not learned to write, but heard from my grandmother that Mr. Sherman had done alright for a man who did not read or write. The Sherman’s owned property all over town, and Lewis had been an exceptional mechanic and blacksmith. He could calculate board feet of lumber, judge the hind quarter weight of a steer, and shoe and ox – all important skills to make a living in his world. He knew what a piece of property was worth, be it an apartment or a standing wood lot. He collected his rents accordingly. To be sure, he often needed a shave and to wipe the chewing tobacco stain from his lower lip, but nobody messed with Lewis.

When he was done his business with my father, Mr. Sherman often said, “Let’s have a look at them boys!” and to my horror, my brothers and I were gathered up and paraded out to greet him. He dug back into his billfold and found a shiny quarter for each of us. He grinned a little, looked right AT ME - and winked at us. In amazement, I thanked him politely as I’d been taught, and then hurried out of the room. As Mr. Sherman hobbled out of the office and back up the road to his home, I viewed the quarter in my palm, now worth significantly more than a mere twenty five cents. I proudly showed it to my friends as a trophy and living proof that I had indeed met Mr. Sherman. He hadn’t skinned me alive or even taken a pot shot at me!

As I grew a bit older, I got to go inside Mr. Sherman’s house. He was the step-great grandfather ( or something like that . . . ) of two of my best friends growing up. Twins Peter & Ray Wolochowicz were made to check up on the old man and do his chores. They had to empty his slop bucket for him. The bucket was an old coal hod, a spittoon really, and was always to the left of the rocking chair. The right side of the chair was against the window so that Mr. Sherman could look up the road towards Sutton Center. He spit tobacco juice into the bucket constantly, and it looked like any table scraps and garbage went into the bucket too. There was always a vile concoction of stuff breeding in there. I heard tell of a neighbor boy about my age who went visiting Mr. Sherman with his father one day. At the end of the visit, the father told the boy, “Now go give Mr. Sherman a hug.” The boy reluctantly got up on his lap, and Mr. Sherman drawled “Ahhh, ain’t that nice,” and while setting the boy back to the floor, set him knee deep in the slimy coal hod. I imagine you could have heard the screams across town.

My friend Peter often tried to engage the old man in conversation, but it was usually one sided. He had to really speak up, as the old man had become quite hard of hearing. We assisted Mr. Sherman out through the woodshed to the outhouse in the back corner of the ell. I don’t think he had indoor plumbing other than a pump in the sink. We helped settle him on the wooden seat. The door was hardly shut when Peter would ask, “Are you done yet, Gramp?” through the slam of the door came a growl and a curt “NO! Gooddammit boy!, and we left him alone a while longer. That was when it was time to go empty the slop bucket. Peter told me once how Mr. Sherman got into a coughing fit in the outhouse so bad once that he lost his teeth down the hole. Without much fanfare, he merely fished them out, rinsed them off at the old hand pump and put them back in his mouth. We eventually got to know Mr. Sherman a little, and became reasonably sure he wouldn’t lock us in the cellar. He proved to be a gracious host until he got really ancient. I recall someone bringing him a sponge cake for his birthday, and he told them he’d prefer to eat the sponge out of the sink. Senility had taken deep root.

Just before he really started to fail, he always made sure we got over to the fancy front parlor to see his grand piano. I don’t think young or old Lewis Sherman ever played it, but I’m told each of his two wives, and his children were somewhat musical. Peter and I had been taking lessons and played a couple things as Mr. Sherman hobbled over to hear. He showed us his wind up Victrola record player, and a few of his violins. He had a rough rectangular violin that he told us he made himself from apple wood he had harvested up on his hillside. It was an incredible piece of ‘folk art’ craftsmanship. I never heard him play anything, but I could tell he was silently proud of his little farm, his showplace, his home. I found it fascinating that such a coarse old farmer would also be a man of such culture.

My Mom told me that she had a special bond with Mr. Sherman in that they both shared the same birthday, albeit many years apart. Every year, she sent him a card. In fact Mr. Sherman had been a guest at Mom and Dad’s wedding, a fact I found infinitely fascinating. Mr. Sherman eventually died of old age, and naturally life went on the same for the rest of us. But for us kids, old Lewis became the standard by which all age was measured. Would anyone we knew ever “break the record” of old age achieved by Lewis Sherman? Even if someone came close, it would never be the same because they broke the mold when they made old Lewis. We lost a genuine link to the real past of Sutton when he finally passed away. I discovered years later that Lewis Sherman had been a first rate teamster and oxen driver. He drove the first horse drawn school bus in town, “The Lady Of The Lake”. He’d been a constable in town, and run a successful blacksmith and wheelwright business that could make just about anything. His shop eventually became the property of the Sutton Historical Society. Lewis Sherman’s farm was a showplace, and he’d been a successful horticulturalist breeding apple, pear and cherry trees. I just wish I had been a little older; old enough to ask questions and glean pearls of wisdom and to appreciate him more than just as a scary old man.

Requiem for a Barn

Originally Published July 23, 2015 by Steve LeClaire

We lost more than a barn in Sutton last week. We lost volumes of unwritten Sutton history. Two hundred and fifty year’s worth of history - gone in a crack of lightning and condensed into less than an hour’s worth of smoke and flame. Sayings like “if only these walls could talk” and “if only the horses were listening and we could understand them” come to mind. Can you imagine what gems we’d hear if those sayings were true? Well, the witness may be gone, but the memories remain.

From its humble beginnings, the house and barns overlooking Clark’s Pond from the hill of Sutton Center was a noted landmark.

The place was originally Hale’s Tavern. It had a lengthy history as LeBaron’s Tavern. It was the most popular place between Boston & Hartford along the Post Road from the time of the American Revolution to before the American Civil War. Amongst the guests the aristocratic Lazarus LeBaron entertained were such important historical figures as General LaFayette and Governor John Hancock. I imagine all those famous people using LeBaron’s chamber pots and outhouse, and being heated by the forty plus cords of wood the tavern is said to have burned annually. Their horses most likely spent the night in the safety and comfort of the barn.

LeBaron’s only daughter Hannah and her husband, Captain Isreal Putnam had a thriving farm there. Theodore Putnam is said to have kept the place “in a fine state of cultivation with a fine stock of cattle – preparing most of his own fertilizers”.

To be sure, the insurance settlement ( and further financial hit on current owner George’s Funari’s wallet ) will certainly show it was George Funari’s showplace home of the 21st century when the barn burned down last week. And George certainly restored the place to its former beauty and glory, putting his own unique personality and stamp on the farm as well as becoming part of the fabric of Sutton. But to me and my generation, it was and will forever be known as “Wally’s place”.

Wally Johnson was a Swede from ‘the village’ in Worcester, but his mother was an Eaton from Sutton where he was born. As a boy, he was sent to work at “The Putnam Place” in Sutton Center, where he met, courted and married Charlie Putnam’s daughter Shirley. By marrying Shirley Putnam, he came to the large farm on the hill and set up housekeeping. Farming blood was in Wally’s veins, and he continued to farm. The original part of the barn dated back to the 1700’s. It was an English style barn where the entrance doors were along the long side, instead of the gable end as we know most barns today. Wally did a lot of renovating, adding, cutting, and pasting as was needed at the time. Over the course of many years, the profile and roofline of the barn changed and adapted to the needs of its owners. The original part of the barn became the enclosed, dark and cavernous recesses where the ( seemingly ) thousands of hay bales were stored. It was hot in there.

As a young newspaper delivery boy in the 1960’s, I loved to make my delivery to Wally & Shirley’s Farm. Shirley often set me up with milk and cookies, and I’d often poke my head into Wally’s barn to wave hello as Wally milked a couple cows or tended to his horses. Wally’s barn was where the action was; where huge Belgian horses were bred, where John Deere tractors were kept, where endless loads of hay were unloaded and where lively political discussions were held. Tobacco was chewed ( and spit ), beer was sometimes quaffed after haying, and curse words were sprinkled liberally in conversation. Metal was hammered and boards were sawed. It smelled of hay and grain, sweat and manure. It was a place of men, but we kids were always welcomed. Wally and Shirley never had any children of their own. However, he was ‘Uncle Wally’ to his nieces Joyce & Barbie, all their friends and half the extended town.

As many know, Wally was a 40 year selectman in Sutton. What many don’t know is that his unofficial ‘office’ was his barn. He often held ‘meetings before the meetings’ in his barn. In this way he was never blindsided at the official Town Meeting or Selectman’s meetings, and everyone’s position on a matter could be agreed on. In today’s climate of open meeting law this method of barnyard politics would probably never fly, but the best interests of the Town were always cultivated in the barnyard. If someone approached Wally with a problem or question, his response was often “drop by the barn and we’ll talk about it”. Wally loved Sutton. I can still hear him at town meeting, speaking from the Selectman’s table “Now, I could be wrong, but . . . “ He’d then state his position, or opposition and make his point. Either way, it was always colorful. Wally left Sutton for World War II and the European theater from Sutton. I can imagine him kissing Shirley before leaving, and kissing her a bit more affectionately on his return. He adored Shirley.

Wally soon filled his barn with Belgian horses. He purchased his first team from two Amish brothers of Farmerstown, Ohio - beginning friendships and strong connections with the Amish that last to this day. Had the barn burned while Wally owned it, within a week there probably would have been fifty Amish men on a bus headed to Sutton to reconstruct the barn by hand. Many an Amishman spent the entire summer at Wally’s, helping with chores and breeding and training the horses. Wally made many trips to Ohio to visit, buy and sell horses as well.

The barn always had a rooster. Henry the Rooster was pure evil. He delighted in surprising who ever got too close by raising in the air and slashing with his sharp spurs. Wally was gashed and bloodied more than once, and Henry felt the wrath of Wally’s boot more than once. Over the years, I think Henry got in more licks than Wally. There may have in fact been a succession of roosters named Henry. For years I thought the rooster’s name was ‘Son Of A Bitch’.

The wagon train to benefit Waters Farm gathered behind Wally’s barn and departed from there in 1988. There, underneath the barn sign of “Longueview Farm” Wally again kissed Shirley goodbye as he boarded his covered wagon and left on the ten day journey to Livermore, Maine. He coaxed his team of Belgians ahead by snarling “giddap!” With nothing but a wool army blanket and no mattress , he slept on the hard wood floor the of the wagon during the journey in the heat of July. He was seventy years old. The toughest son of a bitch I’d ever seen.

Wally let me host several years of Civil War encampments in and around his barnyard in the late 1990’s. The camps were set up in his adjoining fields, and open to the public. He supplied hay for the soldiers to sleep on from his barn. Wally was given the honor of raising the flag in the camps on several mornings. It was a ceremony he relished and performed with the solemn dignity and pride of his army service. One night around the ‘civil war’ campfire, we watched as a pair of headlights drove through the field - an anachronism and intrusion into our pretend 19th century world. The headlights drove right up to the campfire. It was Wally & Shirley, who sat in the car holding hands as they listened to the music and singing around the campfire. I heard one soldier ask with slightly indignation “Who does that guy think he is?” and another answered, “ He doesn’t think he’s anybody. That’s Wally Johnson. He owns this place you’re a guest on”.

As I got older ( and as Wally got older and needed more help ) I became part of his volunteer haying crew. Wally had started a tradition of hosting a very informal ‘Farmer’s Lunch’ on Saturdays. After a few pearls of wisdom and review of town events from Wally, we’d receive a few slices of cold cuts on a couple slices of bread washed down by a glass of room temperature soda. We’d adjourn to the barn to take down the week’s supply of feed hay. During the summer months we’d help Wally bale and put in his hay. The socializing in the barn tradition amongst men continued on.

It was after haying one late summer afternoon that a ferocious storm rolled in. We’d just sent the last bale up the elevator, beating the rain by mere seconds as the thunder rolled and growled closer. Most of the help scattered for the dry interior of their pickups and left. But Wally, Bob Largess, Dan Moroney and I took shelter and got caught in the open sided carriage shed to the west of the barn. We watched as the water poured in sheets off the barn roof. Fortunately Largess had taken the cooler of beer with him. We sat and watched the rain. Wally, never one to drink in excess, decided to have a beer. As the rain poured, one turned in to two, and the stories started to flow from Wally much like the streams of water now running through the barnyard.

He talked about getting drunk the night before his wedding with his friend Roy Potter. Roy somehow convinced Wally that he had time, and that it would be OK to go grab a drink at a local watering hole. Wally came home in time to milk the cows, and with his head pounding, fell asleep leaning against one of the cows. “This old coconut felt pretty good against that soft cow.” He said pointing to his head. He almost missed his own wedding. He jokingly added in his usual self- deprecating manner, “You know…you can always tell a Swede, but you can’t tell him much!”

He talked of shoeing the last team of oxen in the Sherman Blacksmith Shop with Lewis Sherman after the hurricane of 1938. Wally was all of 21 years old. Lewis Sherman and Wally were lifelong friends and farmer neighbors. They were hauling logs out of Purgatory Chasm, and only oxen could handle the heavy work. Wally was sent to get “the bulls” to receive new shoes. While being shod, one of the oxen unleashed a steaming load of manure down the neck of the kneeling Lewis Sherman, and Wally had to stifle his laughter. “Laugh, you little bastard, laugh!” was all Lewis could say.

Then, for whatever reason, Wally started to talk about his experiences in the war. He’d been a medic. I asked him what rank he’d attained, and he spit and answered, “just a buck private, that’s all”. But he started to talk about the Battle of the Bulge, and how he’d been in the thick of it. The thunder boomed overhead. He talked of the bitter cold of the foxholes. These were stories none of us had ever heard. He talked of using the coats of ‘dead Krauts’ for blankets, and using the dead Krauts themselves for cover. He talked of kicking the dead Krauts off the bridge crossing The Rhine River. There were anecdotes he related that no man should ever have to go through. He talked about the cries of the wounded and how he could help some, and others he couldn’t. “I didn’t know nothin’, just what they taught me” was all he could say.

The thunder clapped hard. Wally said, “You know, one of these days the god damned lightning will probably get that barn.“ I asked him what he’d do. “Shout Alleluia!” he said without missing a beat, but then added “I hope I ain’t around to see it though. You know? Some people might say this is all crap. All junk “, as he waved his arm in the general direction of the barn and some equipment rusting along the brush line. “But I can look out the window and say it’s MY junk. And that’s the way it ought to be. That barn meant work, but it was work I always loved and looked forward to. “

Who could ask for anything more?