The NORTH RIVER, over 100 years ago

PART 1.

This blog contains excerpts from the Story Teller of Damonds Point, Walter Crossley, “as he remembers”.  This one was published in the Mariner Newspaper on June 1, 1972.

*Walter takes you from  points inland of the North River  and travels downstream to the New Inlet.                              There are location notes by me  ( * —–.)

“A brief description of the river is perhaps a necessity to bring things to a starting point.”
“North River is a small semi-tidal river in the area known as the South Shore of Massachusetts. The river touches or takes drainage from Marshfield, , Norwell, Hanover, Pembroke, Hanson, Rockland, and, I believe, parts of Whitman, Abington, and Hingham.”
“Before the November storm of 1898, the river was three miles longer, entering the bay at the present day parking lot in Rexhame.

(*Marshfield.)
The mouth, at that time, was partially choked with sand bars and prevented a large portion of the present rise and fall of the tide.  This condition resulted in a fresher (*fresh-water), quieter stream.”

RIVER SKATING
“I have heard my father,  and several others in his generation, tell of skating from Brick-Kiln Landing (* Pembroke), to the Life Saving Station on the end of Fourth Cliff (* Humarock/Scituate). They all agreed that the bridges had to be circumvented and that caution was required at several places, such as at the narrows ( ? ),  and at stream entrances.”

“Spearing eels and netting white perch through the ice were winter occupations.”
“A successful catch was shipped to Boston and it brought in some welcome money.  In the spring, there were runs of smelt, shad, and alewives, all commercially valuable in those days.  I can remember only the alewives or herring as they were often called.
After the storm of 1898, saltwater came much farther up-stream than it had before. When I first began to go up and down the stream, there were many acres of white cedar and blueberry swamps that had been killed by  the increase of saltwater.”

North River Ghost Trees.
Photography by Mike Sleeper.

“I was pleased to see on my most recent trip up river, that new cedars and other vegetation are growing again in the marshes. And on my uncle’s farm  (still in the family), there are now many trees.  In 1908, there were many dead trees in the low-lying area of the farm, and I was told the saltwater killed them. The fact that fresh water species, meadow corn, cattails, wild rose, and cedar, are pushing out farther into the marsh and much farther down river would seem to indicate that the old conditions are being restored”.
“Sixty years ago (* 1913 ), it is a fact that the rivers are much easier to navigate down stream than up, so, with that in mind, let us begin our trip at the first convenient place at the Pembroke Herring Run on Barker St. in Pembroke. Actually those are  shown on some maps as Barker’s River. ”
“The North River does not appear until it reaches the junction of the Barker and Indian Head Rivers, a short distance from the site of the old rubber mill (*The Clapp  Rubber Mill Co.), off Elm St. , Hanover.”
“Years ago a run of perch was the first good fishing of the spring, and it coincided pretty well with the schools’ vacation.  Almost all the boys in the neighborhood would be at the brook from early  morn’ ’til dark.  Armed with nets, hooks, sticks, spears and anything else that was available, we took some perch, a few herring, and an occasional eel. ”
It wasn’t often I got to fish alone
at my favorite spot.

But, mine is a better spot.


“Soon the real herring run started and the boys were chased off the brook. The herring in those days were serious business.”
” One of my earliest memories is of being taken to the brook to watch men with dip nets scoop out fish at the weir. Teams were hired by the town to transport live herring to sawing ponds. They lashed large hogs heads (* Wood Barrels) to wagons, filled them with water and placed the herring inside. They were then unloaded in Furnace Pond, opposite where the Nine Owls now stands.”(* Pembroke).
This loading and unloading continued until the town officials felt that enough herring had been transported to insure continuation of the run. I think every taxpayer was entitled to 100 herring.”
Barrels of live herring waiting to be unloaded.

FISH ON STICKS.
“Sticks were a common sight in these days.   I believe a dozen fish per stick were hung on the sides of barns and sheds to dry. I cannot, however, agree with those that tell of the joys of eating roast herring and hot biscuits. I will only go so far as to say the biscuits were good.”
“The herring run was at the site of the first house and the first mill in what is now Pembroke, and, before the first European settlements, Indians camped there.  In fact, one can easily imagine a group of crude shelters with fires burning at intervals and Indians eating large quantities of fish after a long hard winter.”
“Leaving the herring run, we must  leave the river and go on foot for some distance.  A thick alder swamp, which offers only a few places to pass, reached out to the junction of the brook flowing by West’s Mill ( *Junction of Rte 3, now 53, & Rte 14).
“These swamps were believed to have been created by the saw mills on the brooks. The custom was to dispose of saw-dust by dumping it into the stream. This procedure worked fine if there was a good flow of water, but as the current became sluggish, saw-dust settled and accumulated on the banks, which in turn, diverted the streams in several directions instead of one main channel.  I understand there is now a beaver dam and a pond in this area. The only use we could find for the stretch was muskrat trapping and an occasional mink and duck shooting in the fall. There may have been fish there but impossible to catch them.”

Next, PART 2 ….. to be continued as my time permits.

Keep in mind these excerpts were written in the ’70’s by Walter Crossley, ((1899-1991),  for the Mariner newspaper. I am fortunate to have a capitulation of his works that I find most interesting.

 

W, Ray Freden.
ray@wrayfreden.com

The First Blizzard I Remember (1940)

On St. Valentine’s Day in 1940, as I was approaching five and a half years, a horrific northeast blizzard swept over the northeastern United States. Seaview was left buried in snow.

It was on a Wednesday, and my Dad made it to Greenbush to take the train to work in Boston. The storm was getting worse. At noon his boss – knowing my Dad had a long trip home — let him off early. The next train to Greenbush wasn’t until 4:30. Dad had to wait four hours in the South Station . . . and my Dad didn’t like waiting.

Steaming out of Boston.

That early train just made it to Greenbush. Dad had installed tire chains on his car that morning, just in case the storm got worse. Route 3A was plowed, but at Stoddard’s Corner, Summer Street had a huge drift across it. Dad had to continue down 3A until he found a plowed road to Seaview.

Highland Street was plowed, as were Pleasant and Summer Streets. Station Street was not plowed, and the snow bank was too high to crash through. The Seaview Garage was closed for the night and had a space plowed open. Dad left his car and walked home from there, just two doors away.

Our streets were barely plowed.

I remember the snow was so high that getting in or out of the back door was difficult. Dad was over an hour late, but Mom had supper warm on the kerosene stove. Mom made a favorite dinner for Dad. Valentine’s Day was always special for my folks and so the dinner was eaten in the dining room by candlelight (this night we HAD to use candles — the electricity was out.

After supper, a white frosted cake with red heart shapes all over it, was dessert. Just after we finished, Dad placed a red heart-shaped box of Fanny Farmer chocolates at Mom’s place. Mom had first pick, I had the next — always a square one. Dad had last pick — he didn’t care which one. Then we had another round.

After supper, Dad lit his lantern, and went to shovel an opening out to Summer Street so he could get his car into the side yard. The wind was howling and stayed that way all night. The drifts were becoming quite high against our house — up to the windows!

We had a coal furnace for heat and the telephone was working. Our home was lighted by kerosene lamps and candles. Dad had a flashlight that he carried everywhere until the batteries went dead. When the flashlight was useless, he lit up a kerosene lantern.

The next morning, Dad got a telephone call from Bill Pratt, the Police Chief. He was asked if he would help dig out Summer Street between the O’Donnells’ and the Littles’. This is now the entrance to Cedar Acres Road. Dad agreed, got his shovel and walked down Summer Street to the site. There were many men and the older boys from the neighborhood there.

Men and boys shoveling through a drift.

When he arrived home in the late afternoon, he told Mom and me that they only made about ten feet of headway and Dad was beat! There were no plowing machines that could handle these fifteen foot drifts, and many were higher.

The ladies of the neighborhood kept a steady flow of coffee, sandwiches and goodies for the crew.

 

Also, there was a huge drift at the south end of Station Street and the plow truck couldn’t budge it. The north end of Station Street got plowed because Charlie Langille, our neighbor, was a town selectman. All hell would break loose if it didn’t get plowed!

On the third day, Saturday, Mom and I took a hike down to the big drift to watch the gang shoveling.

When we arrived, Dad was atop the drift, cutting blocks of snow that would be passed to the next shoveler, and finally into a waiting dump truck to be hauled away. In those days there were no front end loaders. I think there were only two graders in town, one was the town’s and the other was Gino Rugani’s. Gino’s was assigned to Stoddard’s Corner (Main and Summer). The crew got information about the goings-on around town from the truck drivers. It took three days to get through that drift.

I think Dad got to work in Boston on that following Tuesday. He said that along the way to Boston, from Greenbush, that the drifts were as high as the train.

I was to live in that house for another seven years, and every Valentine’s Day dinner, my folks would go over every detail of that 1940 “Valentine’s Day Blizzard,” and a box of Fanny Farmer’s candy would always there.

by Ray Freden, 70 years in Marshfield,/ Seaview.