Author: Ray

As I was growing up in the village of Seaview between Summer Street and Station Streets, I became aware how important trees were to me.

The first swing I remember was hung from a huge maple tree in our yard. My Dad would push me up so high I could touch another limb with my feet. I could never achieve that height by pumping. I could twist the ropes so when un-twisting it spun so fast it made me crazy dizzy and I couldn’t stand. Still a little that way, And I don’t have a swing!

My dog, Skippy, would try to grab my feet as I spun around, and once did he hold on to spin with me. I laughed so hard tears were in my eyes. Now you have to remember this was when I was 5 or 6 and during the depression. This was my entertainment.

During WW2, I was 8 or 9 when my Dad set up a wall tent under the biggest maple tree in the yard. It was shaded and cool all day long. In the fall these maple trees provided me with huge leaf mountains that I could jump into for hours.

Skippy, my dog, would become so lost under them, it would take all I could do to find him. He loved it, this was his entertainment too.

Up on the hill behind the old Railroad Station, there was a grove of white birch trees, Oh how I loved to swing on them.

Robert Frost seemed to have it right; (from “Birches”

”I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
but dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches”.

     I had my favorite to shinny-up to swing on.

We had three apple trees also, but they just didn’t provide the same climbing and swinging as the maples and birches.

The maples were big but, the elms across the street were much taller than any other tree around. They rose into the sky like sky scrapers. They were nearly impossible to climb — the limbs were too far from the ground to reach — and if you could, there were no low branches to grab onto.

There were four stately elms and one runt on the Seaview Railroad Station property. The four on Station Street were very large and healthy; the one near the tracks was the runt, and dying.  c.1943.

Mr. and Mrs. Baltimore Oriole made their home in a grey, neatly-woven nest, hanging from a limb that reached out over Station Street. Mr. Oriole sang his beautiful song to us for many summers. I remember one summer,  the tree was sick, the branch that supported the orioles’ nest broke and crashed onto Station Street. Fortunately, the oriole family had raised their youngsters and had left.
Sadly the Great Elms died and the orioles never returned. (c.1955)

These Elms were at 272 Summer Street. (”The Little Green Light Tea Room” c. 1910)

Today, this lovely Cape Cod home appears to be doomed.

Elms along Elm Street on the left and birches on the right. Looking E. from Summer Street,  c.1910

Elms along Prospect and Summer Streets, looking E.  c. 1915

Elms along Prospect Street, looking E.

Elms lining the four corners of Marshfield Hills and every street in the hills.

More, stately elms on Patrick’s Lane, once Bridge Street/Main Street.

 

These are just a few of the Stately American Elms I remember in town.

How sad I was seeing our five elms fighting to live, but slowly succumbing to the Dutch Elm disease.

“Trees love to 
toss and sway.
They make 
 such happy
noises”
– Emily Carr

by Ray Freden
Seaview/Marshfield, 70 years
Down East Maine, 11 yrs.

 

Oh how I remember Dirty Joe cutting North Marshfield’s hay fields and loading and un-loading by hand pitchfork!

‘Dirty Joe” Joe Bradley, haying off Corn Hill Lane. c.1950

Caption: Decker Hatch, mowing hay off Union Street.

The harvesting of hay was a much needed winter food source for the farmers’ livestock.

Tools of the trade before machinery:

Wooden hay fork.

 

Scythe

Hay saw.

Caption: An early horse drawn hay baler.

 

 

Decker did not impress me as to his mechanical abilities. Although the saw mill kept running in spite of him. Maybe because the machinery was built to last a lifetime or a number of lifetimes. On occasion, there was metal breakage due to old age and usage fatigue. If Decker couldn’t fix it with some fencing wire, he would have to call in the local welder and his portable equipment. This distressed Decker because the welder didn’t work for a dollar an hour!

And, bye the bye, both Decker and his son had trouble pronouncing “dollar,” the L’s were replaced with W’s. They had no trouble with, a “buck,” a “fin,” or a “saw-buck,” but a dollar was more like a,  “dow-wa.”

Although I have no idea what broke,  I remember the welder being there more than once. Other repairs were usually tackled by his workmen, Elmer and Burt Fish. Decker would mostly oversee and provide tools.

His tools, OMG! They were as vintage as the Mill itself. The tools were carried around in an old canvas bag with leather handles. One handle was missing. I convinced Decker to make a wire handle replacement to take the strain off the existing one. Finally he did, and it was made from wire.

Some vintage Ford truck tools.

His favorite tools were two monkey wrenches. A large one, and a small one. Also, there were pliers, an adjustable wrench, and a few screwdrivers, the blade type. I don’t think Decker knew what a Phillips screwdriver was, nor, had any use for one.

More vintage Ford automotive tools that I have used for over 60 years.

His next favorite tool was fencing wire or hay baling wire. A good amount could be found in his tool bag as well as seen in numerous repairs in the Mill. I remember a coil of it hanging on a wood peg in the mill.

One fall morning Decker was leaving Franklin’s shop as I arrived. I said, “Good mornin Decker.”

He replied, “Nothin good so far,” and left, walking down Pine Street.

After I got to work, in the shop, Franklin brought me up to date. It seems Decker’s yard truck, a Ford model AA, wouldn’t start. That meant the workers couldn’t carry out Decker’s morning plans.

Frank asked me if I had my tools, and of course I did, in my car’s trunk. Off we went to the Saw Mill yard and up to the disabled truck.

I put my test light to work and found no power to the starter. Decker told me a new battery was put in by his men last week, and it’s been starting fine.

Next, a look at the new battery. Well, it had almost fallen to the ground and snapped the ground cable.
The battery box had long ago rotted away, and the fence wire holding it had also rotted and broke away.

Franklin had gone back to his shop,and I was left to solve the problem.

Now, back to the shop to make a plywood box for the battery, then to the Trading Post for a new ground strap. The most difficult task was removing the rusted bolt that held the ground strap. I used fence wire to hold up the plywood box supporting the battery. Oh yes, I too believed in fence wire.

I installed the new ground strap, I gave the starter button a push with the choke on, and away she went. Five seconds later, she stopped and wouldn’t restart.

Well, I checked for gas and it was dry!

Off to the trading post again with my two gallon can for gas.

After gassing her up, off she went. I drove her out to the driveway.

When I returned from a late lunch, the old truck had been moved and now loaded with slabs outside of the saw shed. I never got a thank you, nor paid for the two gallons of gas.

Just another day in “Hatchville!”

by Ray Freden, Marshfield, 70 years.
Worked in Hatchville, 6 years.
 
“We cannot do everything at once, but we can do something at once.”
– Calvin Coolidge