Category Archives: Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcards: A Generous Gift

t’s been a while since I wrote a Hilltown Postcard, stories inspired by the many years we lived in Worthington Mass. Here is one about a surprise bequest.

A person I knew who worked in the Hampshire County Registry of Deeds called to say I should check out a will recently filed in Probate Court. According to the source, Marvis “Peg” Rolland, a Worthington resident, had left a great deal of money to the town and hilltown groups.

That was in 1989 when I was the hilltown reporter for the Daily Hampshire Gazette. I so enjoyed the beat, covering stories, big and small, for rural towns. Think populations around a thousand, give or take a couple of hundred. For that, I counted on my network of reliable sources like this person, who I will not name. Breaking news with a front page story was absolutely one of the best parts of that job.

Of course, I drove straight to Probate Court. This is what I found out.

Peg Rolland, who had died Aug. 13 at age 71, did indeed leave a huge amount of money — $1.7 million — to the town, hilltown organizations and people close to her.

She designated $627,500 and the brick ranch home aka Brickhaven at Four Corners would go to the town. Of that sum, $100,000 was for planting maple trees along town roads; $25,000 for North Cemetery; $100,000 for the Worthington Historical Society; $100,000 for the Fire Department; and $100,000 for the Council on Aging.

Residents had to formally accept the conditions of the will at a Special Town Meeting, which they did. The Art and Peg Rolland Highway Fund was eventually created to buy equipment and machinery. A scholarship in their name was established for Worthington students.

Another $575,000 would go to hilltown groups, including the Worthington Health Association, Worthington Congregational Church and Huntington Lions Club.

Peg also left $515,00 to relatives and friends.

She and her husband, Arthur, who died a few months before her, did not have children. That’s a photo to the right of Peg and Arthur from the Worthington Historical Society’s Archives.

I didn’t know Peg, but those who did told me she lived a fugal and quiet life. She never spoke about her business affairs or the intentions in the will she had drawn up five years earlier.

For many years, she worked for Snyder’s Express, the transportation company owned by her father Henry Snyder. Henry was a genuine hilltown character, serving as a Worthington selectman for over 35 years and a shrewd business man. I’ve heard the stories. He certainly would make a great Hilltown Postcard.

Peg was also the office manager for Albert Farms, owned by Ben Albert, another mover and shaker in Worthington. Check out this Substack about his farm: A Potato Farm Goes Barren

She also served the town as tax collector for 20 years and was a member of local groups.

Of course, after the news broke, people had a lot to say about Peg’s generosity. Julia Sharon, who was on the Board of Selectmen when the news broke, said she fielded many phone calls about it, including from people as far away as the Midwest. Locally, some townspeople wondered if it meant they wouldn’t have to pay property taxes or the money could be used to fix up Route 143 in town. Sorry, no.

NOTE: The Hilltowns not only inspired me as a reporter and columnist, but as a novelist. Most of my books are set in the fictional hilltowns of Western Massachusetts. Here’s a link.

Standard
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.

Standard
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.

Standard
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.

Standard
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.

Standard