W. Ray Freden

SALT MARSH GRASSES — AKA SALT MARSH HAY

Salt marsh grasses, also known as salt marsh hay, were an important commodity in the Old World. The earliest documented record of thatched roofing in the UK dates back to 700 AD, although some suggest it may have been used much earlier.

EARLY HAYING ON THE SALT MARSH

This was a family affair.

There were many other uses for marsh grass, and the New World settlers were quick to make use of the abundance that surrounded them. Another of Mother Nature’s essential resources, free for the taking.

Thatching being installed on an early cabin roof.

One of the settlers’ greatest needs was material for thatched roofs on their new cabins. These roofs required special layering of bundled, long grass, tied and stacked in rows to provide protection from the sun, rain, and weather.

Native Americans living near salt water and tidal rivers made use of many plants, including a wide variety of bulrushes and sweetgrass. Early settlers commonly used timothy grass and clover as hay, as these were among the most prevalent plants available for fodder.

To obtain this valuable commodity, settlers needed access to many acres of marshland—a difficult task. There must have been a great deal of trial and error in developing walkways, followed by crude roadways. This type of construction might be fine for a man, but for a beast it was questionable. Oxen and wagons were another matter entirely. A wide, stable surface was needed to support both the animals and the wagon.

Corduroy roads are among the earliest types of manufactured roads. They were made by laying logs across swampy, unstable areas, perpendicular to the direction of travel.

This sketch depicts a corduroy road through a swampy forest.

The landing visible on the North River in Norwell was the termination point, at the river’s edge, for such a road. It is not the road itself.

At this point, a barge could be secured to the landing, creating a stable loading area. This lower level also made loading easier. There would be much less lifting required to top off a full load of hay.

There was a vast amount of salt hay in this area, making travel across the marsh necessary. One major advantage was an island located between the mainland and the river. This meant that less corduroy road was needed to reach the river.

A team drawing a cutter bar, mowing the long grass.

A wagon being unloaded into a small barge.

The island may also have been an intersection for a larger network of roads. I often wonder whether this was one man’s undertaking, or whether neighboring landowners were involved as part of a business venture serving the farmers along Norwell’s River Street.

The balloon marker, center right, shows the location of the wood-pole landing on the North River in Norwell, Massachusetts.

Some grasses provided food and bedding for cattle. Other reeds could be twisted and woven to cover chair seats. Mats were woven for sleeping, providing insulation for both people and animals. Clay potters and other home industries also used salt hay for packing fragile items.

Demand for marsh hay became so great that it was cut and shipped by wagon and river barges. River barges came in many sizes, ranging from one-man boats to vessels operated by two to four rowers or polers.

Poling, rowing, and sometimes sails provided propulsion. The method used depended largely on the type of waterway.

From a one-man dory fully loaded to a barge carrying a small load.

Here we are looking at transportation on the tidal North River.

River transportation was considerably less expensive than traveling overland. The river itself was free, while overland travelers might encounter tolls, as was the case here.

There has been considerable controversy over how the logs used in the riverbank structure were placed. Some believe they were driven into the ground. My sources and I believe instead that a ditch was dug, the logs were laid into it, and then covered back over. This would have been a much faster method than driving them in, which would have been extremely difficult in the early 1800s.

A great deal of calculation would have been required when determining the structure’s height in relation to the river, particularly for loading convenience.

Loading a barge also had to follow a strict timetable. An empty barge needed to be brought into place as the incoming tide permitted and secured promptly because of the rising water.

Loading could then take place from waiting wagons or from haycocks positioned nearby ahead of time. The work had to be completed quickly so the loaded barge could meet planned deliveries to customers both upriver and downriver.

A haycock awaiting loading. The piling foundation keeps the hay dry.

Martin Johnson Heade’s painting of haycocks on the South River.

Shipping across the river, either upstream or downstream, saved a long overland trip by oxen and wagon.

An upriver trip was generally easier. Once the barge was loaded and floating, the crew could cast off and pole with the current as far as the high tide would carry them, or until reaching their destination.

A downriver trip was a different story. The barge had to be unsecured and poled away while it was afloat, leaving only a narrow window of opportunity during the fast outgoing tide. The crew then had to reach the delivery landing while there was still sufficient water. Missing that opportunity meant waiting for deep water before trying again.

As mentioned earlier, the barges came in many shapes and sizes. Some were as long as 40 feet and carried two tons or more. They included flat-bottomed craft, shallow-hulled, double-ended dories, and small rowboats, depending on the size of the waterman’s business.

The North River was very busy. Shipbuilding continued there into the early 1870s, alongside fishing boats and transport vessels. For the early settlers, this was a heavily traveled working river.

THEN CAME DISASTER!

The Great Storm of 1898, also known as the Portland Gale, struck the New England coast on November 26 and 27. The storm caused more than 400 fatalities and sank more than 150 boats and ships. It brought hurricane-force winds and a storm surge of roughly ten feet above normal, severely affecting many coastal communities.

This great storm created a breakthrough of a new inlet between Third Cliff and Fourth Cliff, allowing salt water to extend farther into the upper marshes. This killed salt-sensitive vegetation, from grasses to stately white cedars, white pines, sugar maples, and many other species.

The storm devastated the salt hay business and the industries associated with it.

Corduroy roads became submerged, covered over, and eventually lost. With the decline of the salt hay business, they were no longer needed.

Many, many years after the Portland Gale, the remains of the white cedars still stand, never to recover. The tender cordgrass, along with many other plants, has been replaced by invasive cattails.

Compliments of Mike Sleeper.

The only corduroy road I remember was the road to Tilden’s Island, also known as Hen Island, in the South River marsh.

It ran from the east side of Flower Hill, off Summer Street, by way of Hen Island Cart Path. As a youngster, I walked the dilapidated remains across the marsh—a reminder of the earlier days.

Tilden’s, AKA Hen Island, today, looking easterly from Flower Hill.

W Ray Freden, Seaview, Marshfield, 70 years.

Down East Maine.  “The Way Life Should Be”

Further Reading

As I Remember Decker Hatch, Part 3: Decker Was a Hard Worker

FORAGING

About a year ago, I wrote about my foraging: https://wrayfreden.com/2024/05/05/foraging/. What I neglected to mention was that almost all of my foraging stories have been from my married life.

Then it dawned on me: I had been foraging with my mother when I was only five years old.

I had never really thought of picking wild Concord grapes as foraging. Across from our street was the old railroad bed, and it had tons of grapes hanging there, just waiting for the birds—and for Mom, Dad, and me—to gather them.

We picked baskets full of grapes, ripe and sweet. Mom made grape juice and jelly from them, and she had been doing it long before I was old enough to help. The Depression years were tough, and free wild grapes were a welcome source of something sweet.

Then there were beach plums.

They were not in our backyard, so picking them meant a trip to the seashore and the sand dunes. A short trip to the south end of Humarock brought us to a large section of the Rexhame Beach dunes, filled with beach grass, bayberry bushes, rugosa roses, and beach plum bushes. There were plenty of plums to be had.

THE OLD CHEVY, JUST WAITING TO GO ANYWHERE. ®

For those who know the area today, you may be thinking of driving over the Julian Street Bridge, turning right onto a paved road, and continuing to a small gravel parking lot.

Well, not in 1939.

There was no Julian Street Bridge, no paved road, and no gravel parking lot.

We crossed the Sea Street Bridge to Central Avenue, which was paved as far as Berry Avenue near the fire station. From there, the roads became gravel for a few more streets.

River Street was mostly sand, with windblown drifts. There were no camps south of Julian Street. We would make our way to the end of River Street and get close enough to walk the rest of the way to the Rexhame dunes.

One day, the wind was blowing like hell. When Mom opened the car door, a strong gust ripped it right out of her hand.

Out I jumped, jacket hood up, holding tightly to the handle of my basket.

Picking was fairly easy if you kept your back to the wind. Some of the bushes were thick and bushy and loaded with plums.

SPRINGTIME—A SEA OF WHITE. REXHAME DUNES, LOOKING BACK TOWARD HUMAROCK BEACH—WITHOUT A COTTAGE IN SIGHT.

After the spring bloom came a summer of growing fruit.

It did not take long to fill my basket.

BEACH PLUMS READY FOR PICKING.

Mom said we needed ten quarts. I had no idea what ten quarts looked like.

I made about three trips back to the car and dumped my share into the big basket on the back seat. Mom’s picking filled the basket the rest of the way, and then we headed home.

But not before stopping at Stead’s—Stedman’s General Store—for a candy bar and a Coke. That cost Mom ten cents. Mom got herself a treat, too.

Then it was home to unload.

THIS BUSH WAS CHOCK-A-BLOCK FULL!

At home, out came the garden hose for the first washing of the plums. Then they got another washing in the kitchen sink.

Next, they went into a large pot to be boiled down into a mush.

Near five o’clock, the pot was pushed aside so Mom could start supper.

When Dad arrived home, his first words were, “Oh, plums for supper!”

Mom laughed.

After supper, Mom and Dad got to work on the cooked plums, separating the skins and seeds as best they could.

BEACH PLUMS BEING PREPARED FOR JELLY.

THIS PILE WENT INTO THE POT TO BOIL.

FIRST BOIL-OFF: A POT OF MUSH, SKINS, AND SEEDS.

The mash was poured into a bag, and the bag was squeezed to drain out the juice. A surprising amount came out.

Then the bag was hung on a bracket over the sink and left to drip overnight into a large pan. It was amazing to watch the clear juice flow out.

Dad would occasionally give the bag a hard squeeze and an upturn to get the flow going again.

By nine o’clock it was my bedtime, so upstairs I went—quite happily, because I did not have to listen to that drip, drip, drip all night.

MOM GOT THE DRIPPING STARTED WITH A SQUEEZE.

NANA, HELPING.

This photograph was from another jelly-making session some years later. Nana came to help out, which was always a treat because she usually arrived with a bag full of goodies.

Mom added sugar, pectin, and lemon juice, brought the mixture to a boil, and then let it cool before pouring it into jelly jars.

The jars were sealed with melted paraffin wax.

Fifteen pints finished. What a batch!

MOM MELTED PARAFFIN WAX AND POURED IT OVER THE JELLY TO SEAL IT TIGHT.

Next came the cleanup.

The discarded plum skins and seeds were put into two buckets on the porch for me to carry out to the chickens.

On went my jacket and my rubbers over my shoes, and off I went to the chicken yard.

When the chickens saw me coming, they knew food was on the way. They had never seen treats like these before.

I dumped the bucket into the trough, and the chickens went crazy—clucking, squawking, and flying around with plum skins hanging from their mouths.

Twelve happy girls.

TWELVE HAPPY GIRLS.

The roosters were in another enclosed pen. I would feed them next.

THE ROOSTERS WERE IN A SEPARATE PEN.

Just think about the cycle.

The kitchen scraps went to the chickens. The chickens processed the scraps. I cleaned out the droppings and spread them on the garden—and, oh, did the vegetables love chicken manure!

And in return, we had some of the best-tasting eggs you could ever eat.

I remember those beach-plum-picking trips from 1939 through 1946, all through the years of World War II.

Mom always managed to save enough sugar to make jelly each year.

If you are wondering what we used beach plum jelly on, have you ever heard of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?

Or waffles smeared with plum jelly?

Beach plum jelly was special.

TOAST, PLUM JELLY, AND A CUP OF WARM MILK. LIFE WAS GOOD.

I had almost completely forgotten about those wonderful years from 1939 to 1946.

In 1947, we moved into our new house. By then there were two extra mouths to feed, too many chores to do, and plenty of finishing work on the house.

I just happened to be the right age for the “TO DO” list.

From then on, jams and jellies usually came from the A&P, or occasionally homemade from the food tables at the Marshfield Fair.

A FEW OF MY THOUGHTS:

The beach plum I remember was a scraggly little bush fighting to survive in salty ocean-side sand.

In the spring, it burst into beautiful white blossoms. Those blossoms became small yellow-green fruits, then changed to purple-pink, and finally ripened to the familiar deep plum-blue color.

It always amazed me how hard those bushes had to fight to survive. The wind was constant. Salt spray came off the ocean. Their roots had to search through poor sandy soil for whatever nutrients they could find.

And yet they survived.

Before development changed so much of the coastline, beach plums grew in abundance along the eastern shore. Their fruit was there for the taking, ready to become jam, jelly, or plum butter.

Then came a summer camp.

Then ten summer camps.

Then a bulldozer or two, leveling the dunes and plowing through the beach grass, rugosa roses, and beach plum bushes.

Gone.

Some surviving plants were pushed into piles. Others disappeared later because property owners did not think the scraggly beach plum belonged in their landscaping.

Rugosa roses could be trimmed and controlled, but the

Sketch by Sears Gallagher c. 1900.  1250 Ferry St. Looking S.E. from Sea St. & Ferry St.

Looking north from the once Hall’s Shipyard with the Sea St. bridge and the Gambrel Cape on the left. c 1910.

Another of Gallagher’s sketches. A close look revels children playing under a typical windblown red Car tree. Across the river on the left shows the North River House. 

Another interesting sketch by Gallagher, Children playing under  wind blown Red Cedar tree. on the Humarock side ( left)
The right side and across the river, the North River house can be seen.

Sears Gallagher spent many hours with friends in the village of Sea View & Humarock in the early 1930’s.    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sears_Gallagher.