Category Archives: Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcard: Maple Sugaring

I recall the late Win Donovan saying when we moved to Worthington that the hilltowns have two seasons — winter and the Fourth of July. Then I learned about another: maple sugaring season, which typically straddles winter and spring. And when I was a reporter, it was part of my beat covering small towns in the western part of the state for the local paper.

Maple sugaring season happens when the weather is warm enough during the day to get the maple trees’ sap flowing and cold enough at night that it stops. A lot of work goes into getting those trees ready and then boiling their sap into maple syrup that is sold in jugs to customers.

Each year, I tried to find a different angle and hilltown maple sugarers were very accommodating. Of course, Mother Nature had a hand in that. My story could be about the season starting early or late. The season was long or short. 

By the way, the official end to the season is when the spring peepers — small tree frogs — begin making a high-pitched “peep-peep.” Yes, I learned that from a sugarer.

Maybe I wrote about the business of maple sugaring, including those folks who have a seasonal restaurant serving breakfast with the syrup they made. 

Then there were those optimistic folks who have been sugaring for decades. Paul Sena in Worthington was one of my go-to sugarers. Hank and I still drive there to buy syrup, my favorite sweetener, from him.

I recall going out with a sugarer as he started tapping maple trees, that is, attaching the tubing that will run sap downhill to a large vat. I hung out when the first batch of sap was hauled back to a sugarhouse and boiled into syrup in a wood-fired flat-panned evaporator that billowed slightly sweet steam.

One story was about a new system that used reverse osmosis to pre-concentrate sap, which shortens the process of boiling and saves on firewood. That was a far cry from the very old days when people used oxen to haul the sap that was collected in buckets.

Maple sugaring was also the inspiration for one of my novels, Northern Comfort. Using what I learned from the maple sugarers I interviewed, I tried to capture the process of stringing lines, tapping trees, and boiling. Miles Potter, one of the main characters, helps his buddy, Dave, a relative newcomer who is enamored by the old-time ways including sugaring. He taps the trees owned by a doctor in town. For Miles, the work is cathartic since he was involved in a tragedy. Here’s an excerpt:

Yesterday, when the temperature rose into the forties and everyone’s houses dripped melted snow, some sap collected in the vats at the bottom of each sugar bush. Today, the run was full-blown with two thousand gallons ready to be boiled into syrup.

Dave was full of local lore as he moved around the sugarhouse after Ruth and the girls went home. He talked about how farmers in New England used to make maple sugar, forming it into hard cakes. Maple syrup became popular in the late 1800s when someone invented the evaporator, which resembles a flat-bottom boat when it’s empty.

Miles glanced up from the firebox’s door. He raised a gloved hand.

“Dave, you’ve told me this story six years straight. Why don’t you tell me this on the third week when we’re so sick of this stuff and pulling all-nighters we vow never to do it again? Or better yet, save it for the doctor. I bet he’d love telling his buddies back in New York all about it.”

Dave studied Miles.

“Shit, you can be such a spoilsport sometimes.” He reached for his leather gloves. “Anyway, around the Civil War people up North began using maple sugar instead of cane sugar and molasses from the South. They used to call it northern comfort.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember that from last year.”

The sugarhouse, only yards from Dave’s house, was unheated, except for the evaporator’s fire box. Step a few feet outside at night, and the cold had a punch, but next to the evaporator, all was humid and hot like a woman’s mouth. The swirling sap in the pan gave off a bank of steam, which rose to the sugarhouse’s vented roof.

They fired up the evaporator about an hour ago. It’d be another two before Dave could pour the season’s first syrup. As Dave reminded Miles, the first boil sweetens the pan, so it takes longer than the next firings. They’d be here until ten or so and resume boiling the next day.

Miles helped Dave build his sugarhouse seven years ago. They took measurements from an abandoned shack in South Hayward that had collapsed from heavy snow the year before Dave’s was built. Rough-hewn boards nailed vertically covered the rectangular building. On the wall near the shelf for the radio, Dave penciled the starting and ending dates for each season, and how many gallons of syrup they had made. Today’s date was Thursday, March 5.

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Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcard: WW II Refugee House in Cummington

Let me tell you about one of the favorites stories I wrote as a reporter — a minister’s successful efforts to bring World War II refugees to the hilltown of Cummington. That began 85 years ago.

The Rev. Carl Sangree was an avowed pacifist, but when he realized he could not stop that war, he chose to help those who fled its violence. With the backing of other churches, Sangree turned a modest home he and his wife owned on Cummington’s Main Street into a haven known as The Little Red House — the color it was painted then — or the Refugee House.

A woodblock print of the Refugee House created by Gustav Wolf, an artist who stayed there.

Over 40 refugees were brought to the hostel — doctors, lawyers, writers, professors, journalists, business owners, musicians, and artists. They were Jews or people who had bravely spoken out against the Nazis, so their lives were in danger. Two young boys were later placed with a family in Heath. One refugee had a letter of reference from Thomas Mann. Julius Boehm was on the Austrian Olympic Ski Team.

Sangree relied on churches in Boston and New York to refer the refugees. He drove to those cities and brought the people back to Cummington for what was supposed to be a temporary stay. The refugees were there to acquire a means of making a living, mainly in the arts and crafts field. Studio space and materials was provided in the house’s barn. A market for what they made was supported by other churches.

Out of respect, the refugees attended Sangree’s services at the nearby Village Congregational Church even though many were Jews. (He also preached at the West Cummington Congregational Church.)

For several years, I was the hilltown reporter for the Daily Hampshire Gazette, covering three neighboring towns — Cummington, Chesterfield, and Worthington plus any regional news in the newspaper’s large coverage area. These towns may be small, think population 1,200 and under, but they are rich in stories and interesting people.

One day, I was checking the traps, that is, making my weekly rounds to reliable sources, when I learned a man doing research on “The Cummington Story” had stopped by the Old Creamery in Cummington because Aaron Copeland had composed the film’s score. The film was about the town’s experience with the World War II refugees. Ron Berenson, the store’s then co-owner, asked if I knew anything about it. No, I didn’t, but I certainly would dig into it.

And like other stories, one tip led to another. While I was covering Cummington’s Annual Town Meeting that May, I happened to sit next to Gloria Gowdy, who told me as a teenager she lived across the street from the Refugee House. She invited me to her house when one of the refugees, the sculptor Nelli Barr, then 90, would be visiting from her home in Chicago. On that day, Barr brought along a scrapbook and a typewritten memoir. We spoke at length about her experiences.

Barr recalled it took seven months to reach the U.S. She and her husband, Paul Weighardt, established artists, left their home in Paris for Norway. When the Nazis invaded Norway, they hiked to Sweden, where friends gave them enough money to book third-class passages from Moscow to Siberia, then Japan, Panama, and finally, Haiti, where they obtained permanent visas. They arrived in New York with a few bags and their sketchbooks.

For the story, which appeared in the Gazette’s Hampshire Life magazine on July 22, 1994, I reviewed historical records, gladly accepted an invitation to visit the house by its then owner, and interviewed Cummington residents who had first-hand experiences with the refugees.

Gowdy said she could relate with the refugees because her father was Jewish. She recalled the war had a heavy hand on many of the refugees, who didn’t talk about their experiences.

Virginia Caldwell, who lived next door, said many townspeople had a wait-and-see attitude when the refugees arrived.

I met with Connie Talbot, Sangree’s granddaughter. Connie, who lives in her grandfather’s home in nearby Windsor, allowed me to go through the paperwork he kept in the attic.

Now about that film, “The Cummington Story,” which was produced for the Office of War Information, Overseas Branch.

Sangree is the narrator of a fictionalized version of the refugees’ experience and how they won over the very reluctant denizens of Cummington. Werner Königsberger, one of the refugees, plays the role of the main character although with the first name Joseph. Another woman from the hostel acts as his wife Anna. However, there is no mention of where these homeless people came from, except for one allusion to the book burnings that took place in Germany although the country is not named..

The movie supposedly films Joseph speaking at his first and only Town Meeting, as he is about to return “home.” The narrator says this about Joseph, “He would be leaving soon to return home to help rebuild his own country, but would take with him many things he had learned in Cummington.”

Since the 20-minute film was intended to be shown overseas, it appears the U.S. government wanted to make it clear refugees were welcome as long as they went back home when it was safe again.

In reality, none of the refugees who came to Cummington returned to Europe. Königsberger and his wife Grete, who came to the U.S. with $6, were the only refugees to stay in Cummington, opening an arts and crafts business. The rest found other places to live in the U.S. thanks to the efforts of the Rev. Sangree.

Watch The Cummington Story from the National Archives.

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Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcard: Following the Plow

When I worked as an editor for a daily newspaper in Western Mass., I drove a good country road, Route 143, from the small hilltown where we lived through two others to a valley city. Most of the year, it was a pleasant 45-minute commute with long views, deep forests, occasional wildlife, and very few vehicles. A traffic jam typically involved three cars stuck behind a logging truck on one of the route’s steep hills.

But then, there was winter.

I dreaded November. Rain that month meant black ice. And that was just the start of a long season of digging ourselves out of deep snow. I constantly kept tabs on the weather.

Prior to working as an editor for the Daily Hampshire Gazette, I was its correspondent for the town of Worthington where we lived, being paid by the inch, and after several years, I was on staff covering two more hilltowns — Chesterfield and Cummington — plus regional news. Today, so many people work remotely, but Jim Foudy, who was the editor-in-chief then, said it didn’t make sense for me to cover those towns in the newsroom. I called a corner of our bedroom, where I kept my desk, the Hilltown Bureau.

I was frequently put in charge of any bad weather coverage. Typically, I would call a few of the highway superintendents for an update on road conditions and how their crews were handling them. Here’s a memorable example: during one ice storm, the highway trucks had to be driven backwards to spread sand on the road to give their wheels traction, and sometimes, the conditions were so dangerous, they were called back to the garage.

The highway supers didn’t mind taking a break to chat with a reporter. Sometimes I felt they were expecting me to call. I also called people who might have driven in the storm or worked outside or had an interesting perspective. Of course, Donald Ives, who kept daily weather records in Worthington for decades, was on my list.

But that changed when I became an editor, and I assigned those stories to reporters. Also, I had to commute to Northampton.

I left for the newsroom at 6:10 in the morning. I knew by then the plow trucks were out on the roads. I had faith when I reached the town line, the Chesterfield crew had taken care of a steep hill my car would climb. I kept going until I reached the Williamsburg aka Burgy line. Here was another hill, this time down to Route 9, a state highway that took me to Northampton. As I approached each town line, I asked myself “Did they make it? Did they make it?” It was extremely rare they didn’t.

When freezing rain or snow fell, the highway crews hit the steep hills first so they wouldn’t lose them. That included the one in front our house in Worthington. When I saw a truck’s strobing yellow lights move down that slope I knew for sure a storm had arrived.

One time, the police were on top of Burgy Hill telling people to take it slow since the road was icy. But as I did just that, the town’s highway truck was spreading salted sand on its way up.

Lucky for me and other drivers, those little towns spend a good chunk of their money roads. And the men who maintained the roads — yes, there were no women — took their jobs seriously. In Worthington, three men took care of 57 miles of roads in the winter.

The worst snow storms of the season were the first and last. During the first, it seemed people forgot how to drive on snowy roads. On the last, everybody, including the highway crews, was sick of snow.

Often I met the plow and gratefully followed it uphill all the way to the next town. Or its driver deservedly got a wave and toot of my Subaru’s horn when we passed in the opposite direction. At the end of winter, I sent a thank you card to the highway department in the three towns.

Sometimes we got hit with a storm when I was at work and my boss let me leave early. I recall one April 1 watching serious snow falling outside the newsroom’s windows. It was obvious this wasn’t going to be the flurries that had been forecast. In fact, it was such a fast-falling wet snow that when I turned left on Route 143, a tractor trailer was jackknifed on the road. But my all-wheel-drive Subaru managed to get around it.

After depending on these crews for so many years, I also got to know their work habits. For instance, I learned I shouldn’t drive home at noon. No matter the weather the guys took their lunch break then. If I waited until 1, they were back on the roads.

The crews also inspired characters in my Isabel Long Mystery Series, including one guy, Cary Moore, who worked on a town’s highway department and wrote poetry good enough for a famous poet to steal. That was in Checking the Traps.And in case you’re wondering, that character is not based on anyone real.

Here’s a poem Cary — well, I, actually — wrote about his highway super called The Peerless Plowman:

Night and day the Peerless Plowman sees the road ahead.

He drives alone

Pushing snow aside with his truck’s long blade.

No harm will come to those who follow.

The Peerless Plowman watches the weather.

Hey, guys, a storm front’s moving in, he tells us,

Get the trucks ready before it does.

We can’t let the people down.

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Hilltown Postcards, Uncategorized

Hilltown Postcard: We Build a Home

In my last Hilltown Postcard, I wrote about an unfortunate accident that delayed our plans to build our own home. Hank was so badly injured by another person’s carelessness, he was unable to work for ten months while he recovered. Until that happened, I managed to keep things going as a substitute teacher, plus the pitiful amount I made as a freelance correspondent for the local newspaper. 

Come the following spring, we secured a construction loan through the Bank of Western Massachusetts, a local bank that no longer exists. The bank agreed to lend us $60,000, which included the $18,000 we owed for the two acres of land we bought. 

That wasn’t a lot of money left over to build a two-story Cape with a full basement. But then we were fortunate to know so many people in the building industry. Most had worked alongside Hank on other jobs and knew what a hard-working guy he is. How hard working? He worked full time during the week and on our house on the weekends and sometimes at night.

Construction began with the well and then excavation for the foundation. We had to have electricity brought in from the road, not an easy task since those who handled the lines for the power company had gone on strike.

People we hired gave us great discounts for the work they did like framing, electricity, plumbing, dry wall, siding, and whatever was needed to build a house. 

And so many others volunteered to come on the weekend to work alongside Hank because they were friends and wanted to help a family with six kids have their own home.

We remain grateful to them all because, yes, we were able to build a home for $52,000. That wouldn’t be impossible today.

I have fond memories of watching the men, yes, it was all men, working together. My contribution was minimal like help with the painting. I did get a job tending bar at a restaurant in town as a way to bring in more money. (It turned out to be great research for when I started writing my mystery series years later.)

For the weekend volunteers, I brought coffee from the Corners Grocery, the general store in town, and muffins or scones I baked in the morning. I returned at noon with sandwiches, sides, and drinks, and then when the afternoon work was near done, beer. The guys always showed their appreciation.

I took photos of the progress, and later put them in a book as a gift for Hank. The title page says: “This is the house Hank Livingston built for his family.” There he is in the photo on the right.

Construction continued through the summer, fall, and early winter. We didn’t care whether we would be in our new home for Christmas, but it happened soon after in mid-January.

Our house wasn’t finished when we moved in. That took years. Hank has built staircases, cabinets and fine woodwork for other people’s homes. But this time, he did all of that for his family in a home we owned. Hank actually didn’t finish the house until just before we sold it and moved to Taos, New Mexico, but that’s another story for a future Hilltown Postcard.

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Hilltown Postcards

Stacking Firewood

The wood stove we bought was our only source of heat in that funky house we rented in Ringville. It wasn’t our first go-round keeping warm this way. We did that when we lived for a year in a cabin in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire.

When we first moved to that part of Worthington, we bought long slabs of hardwood from a lumber yard. As you can see in the photos below, Hank used a chainsaw to cut the slabs into burnable pieces that were then stacked beneath the house’s front overhang. I don’t touch power tools, especially ones with a blade, so I helped with the stacking.

We brought in enough wood to last a few days or longer depending on how cold it was. The warmest part of the house was in the living room, which had the wood stove. The rest of the house, especially the bedrooms, was quite cold with ice on the single-paned windows. I seriously doubt the house’s walls had much if any insulation.

Fortunately, our thoughtful friend, Win Donovan came to our house to keep the fire going when we visited my parents at Christmas, the only time we were away during the winter. Otherwise the water pipes would have burst.

I recall someone saying you should only have burned half of your wood supply by Christmas. I always assessed the amount we had at that time. Fortunately, we never ran out.

As the years went on, we upped the quality of the hardwood we burned. It was necessary to burn seasoned hardwood, that is, logs that have dried at least a year after they were cut. (When we lived in Taos, New Mexico, we burned softwood in our passive-solar home because that was all that was available.)

Seasoned wood costs more than unseasoned. The smart thing would be to buy green wood, and then let it dry for a year. We weren’t able to afford that until we moved into the home we built — stay tuned for future Hilltown Postcards. We burned three cords to heat that house.

Each fall we bought firewood from Dean, who lived in town and cut wood year-round. One year we splurged and bought six cords of dry and green wood. We burned the dry wood and let the green logs be. Next year and from then on, we only needed green wood delivered because we were ahead of the game.

In the fall, the green wood was stacked in long rows for a year. We brought most of the dry wood into the house’s walk-in basement and stacked what couldn’t fit beneath the deck. We had to carry the logs to the wood stove upstairs although we also had one in the cellar for those really cold days. 

Yes, we moved those logs a lot.

The chore of stacking firewood fell to Hank and I although I recall our three sons were helpful. The girls would start and somehow wander off before the job was finished. We worked at it for weekends.

I’ve always liked the puzzle of making a free-standing stack. You need a solid base and crisscrossed squarish logs at the ends to keep the rows in place. I so enjoy that clocking sound of wood falling in place. 

It was satisfying to watch the neat stacks rise, and later in the winter, use the wood to keep us warm.

I was inspired to write this post the other day while stacking firewood that will heat Hank’s workshop in our home. He burns one cord max. A half cord arrived to replenish our supply, thanks to our town’s program that supplies up to a cord of firewood free to residents. (Thank you Buckland and the state Department of Conservation and Recreation.) The logs came from trees felled by the power company. Volunteers helped prep the wood.

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