Marshfield MA history – W. Ray Freden

February 5, 2022February 1, 2023

The Blizzard of ‘78, 45 years ago

Feb. 2023.

As I write this note, here in Down East Maine, I am looking out the window watching the snow drift across my deck, the wind is a-blowing-like-hell ! But, why shouldn’t it be? It’s Maine, and it’s Feb.
Enjoy my previous posted blog of my venture from Dedham to Marshfield on the 7th, 8 th. & 9th. of Feb, 1978!

45 years ago, that was almost half my life ago! I’m having my morning coffee and a freshly made blueberry muffin and watching snow being blown across my deck, reminded me of my three day journey home after that blizzard. I have done a bit of revision to a few photos and some text.

I am jumping ahead of “the kid from Seaview” in the 40s & 50s, to a 44 year old man from Seaview. I was teaching in Fitchburg, Ma., on February 6th, 1978, I was up at 5:00 to leave Seaview about 6:00 for the 90-mile journey.

Monday morning off I went, with a slight falling of snow, arriving at school at 7:55, just in time for class. I kept an eye on the much faster and heavier snow falling. School was called off at noon. I called my wife to get the latest news; she said, “It’s getting bad.” I had a room in Ashburnham, but decided to head back home,

East on Route 2 was plowed, however, slow. It took two hours to get to Route 128 – usually about 30 minutes. Approaching 128, I had to make a decision to continue on Route 2 or 128. Route 128 looked clear, so down I went. As I approached the Mass Pike, I entertained the idea of heading toward Boston.

Unbeknownst to me, at 6pm, Route 128 was at a complete jam in Canton. I did not have a radio in my truck to monitor the storm or traffic. It was stop and go for about a mile, then stop and no more go! I could see the railroad bridge in Westwood.

14 died from carbon dioxide poisoning.

After about an hour, people were walking past me. I stopped one and asked where everyone was going. That person was going to seek refuge in the St. Bartholomew Church, not far away. He told me that Route 128 was jammed solid. Not being a church going person, I opted to stay in my truck.

It was quite cold and the wind wouldn’t stop howling! A few more cold souls passed by about 10PM. I was quite aware that exhaust fumes entering the cab could do me in! I cleared the snow away from the exhaust a few times. I had my suitcase with me for my week of extra clothes, and the two sheets I would have used on my bed in Ashburnham. I usually had some leftovers and sandwich making stuff, however I left that back in the shop refrigerator. I cracked open the wing windows and the back slider for a fresh flow of air. I turned the heat to full hot and high fan, wrapped up in the sheets, and dozed off. When the heat got so hot I woke, turned the truck off, and dozed until I was cold. That went on for nearly six hours.

The sound of sirens awoke me at about 6:30 am. Two State Police cruisers were broadcasting that a bus was coming to transport any of us left. This was happening on the cleared northbound lane, now being used for both north and southbound traffic.

I was stuck within sight of this bridge in Westwood!

About 20 of us abandoned our vehicles, climbed over the guardrails, and boarded the bus. More were picked up as we traveled along. We ended up at the National Guard Armory in Dedham. They let us use their phone to call our loved ones. My wife and two kids were fine as well as Reggie, our dog. They had plenty of wood for heat and cooking.

After I contacted my wife, the guardsmen fed us onion soup for breakfast! There were four of us at the table trying to decide what to do. One local suggested a small restaurant close by that we ended up having a lunch in, they had gas fired grills and a limited menu, cash only!

Two of the group were from Quincy, one from Norwood, and me, from Marshfield. The two from Quincy left us. My new-found friend said he would walk home to Norwood and asked if I wanted to come along. I did.

Oh my god, what was I in for? Down Route 1, un-plowed! We were walking on a snowmobile trail with just the roofs of cars showing! As we passed Lechmere’s, the snow had drifted so high it covered the entire entrance!

We continued until we came to a Chinese restaurant, and turned right up a hill that was barely plowed. It was dusk. When we arrived at my friend’s house, the entrance was completely covered in snow!

Our shovel was a board. It took about 30 minutes to get through the door with quite frozen hands. My friend’s wife made us dinner, we did some chatting, then off to the sofa for a some well-needed sleep. The next morning: a nice breakfast, a thank you, and a farewell.

I hiked south on Route 1. Some plowing had been done to Route 27 — that was my way home. I got a ride on the running board of a wrecker into Stoughton, another ride in the back of a pickup through Brockton, and finally another ride on the step of a grader into Rockland. I headed east on Route 123 and got a ride to 3A & 123.

As I got to Neal Gate Street in Greenbush, a friend picked me up and dropped me off at my front door! Wednesday, Feb. 8th about 2pm — two and half days. Not too bad!

My wife had the deck and back steps cleared. Up I went, opened the back door and hollered, “I’m home!” My wife said that she had a feeling I’d be home that afternoon. Hugs and kisses for the wife, the kids, and the dog, in that order.

Now my wife says, “Let’s take a walk down to Fourth Cliff to see the damage!” Oh well, why not? My legs were still in motion from hiking from Norwood.

looking for the pavement on Central Ave.

Heavy Equipment Operator Ned Dubois operating a big Cat.

A week later I obtained a permit to recover my truck. I found it in the northbound lane. The National Guard had cut openings in the guardrails and dragged all of the vehicles into the northbound lane.

The next week was spent freeing the vehicles.

All was well, except all my clothing in the suitcase was gone! I suppose a Guardsman was grateful for the dry clothes!

“Snowflakes are one of nature’s most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together.” – Vesta M. Kelly

by Ray Freden Seaview/Marshfield

Note;

I later learned a friend from Needham,that had tickets to Boston’s traditional “Bean Pot ” hockey game’s at the Boston Gardens.
There was no way he could take the Tee or drive into Boston.
His neighbor had a snowmobile, Believe it or not they snowmobiled through the storm Feb. 6th, and into Boston to the Gardens for the semi finals game between Harvard , (4) & Northeastern,(3) . Jack relayed to me, “the only things moving were snow machines!”

March 26, 2021January 23, 2022

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

June 29, 2020June 29, 2020

Pine Island

With all this turmoil within our country as well as around the world my mind races back to the ”Good Old Days”. Over 75 years ago ( Age 10) I seemed to be having the time of my life in spite of WWll raging in Europe & the South Pacific, our lives seemed to go on peacefully. Pine Island was a peaceful acre of isolation a few stone’s throw away.
Yes, many of you have read this before, but many new followers haven’t scrolled far enough back to enjoy my adventures of Island life.
In doing summertime things, time has not allowed me to write an adventure not yet published, so, I’m passing on to you again ” As I remember Pine Island”. Continue reading to clear your head for a few minutes. Ray.

As I remember Pine Island, looking west from Broad Creek, c. 1946. Sketch by Ray Freden.

Pine Island is a small island just off the shore of Seaview, between Warren Ave. and Seaview Ave.
It is about an acre with a horse shoe shape, the opening is on the south side and the high tide will flow into it making the center path impassable.

As I remember it, the south path was a dead end. The north path circled around the north end, turning east then south in front of four camps, all of which faced east toward Humarock. The largest camp was on the north end, its entrance facing south, with a screened-in porch on the east side. There were two more camps on the west leg; one was never finished. Getting to these camps was a chore for owners, campers and hunters.

The walkway to Pine Island as I remember.
c. 1946. Sketch by Ray Freden. 2013.

A deeply-rutted dirt cart path (now Warren Ave.) ran from Summer Street along the south side of two cornfields, and through a stone wall, turning north. At that turn was a cold clear spring with a wood cover and a chipped porcelain scoop for taking a drink or filling jugs for the campers. The path turned east to the edge of the marsh. There was a turnout for two cars. A long narrow wood walkway ran from the cart path to the west leg. The walkway was only wide enough for one person, and it was underwater at the high tides. The campers would have to carry everything across that walk, which was usually in need of repair. When the summer folks came for vacation, it took hours to unload gear and get it to the camp.

”Sunny Side” The only two story camp on Pine Island.
Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

My first recollection of Pine Island was just before Thanksgiving; I was almost 5. Dad would go to the island to collect bay berries. He would cut them and my job was to carefully put them in a big basket. The island was covered with berries. He would carry the basket back across that rickety walkway; I carried the cutters. The car was parked in the turnout of the cart path.

Then he was off behind the turnout, through the brush, to the red berry bushes, I behind him carrying another basket — more clipping and very carefully stacking. Off we went with two big baskets on the back seat. A stop at the spring for a drink. Oh, was that water cold.

Dad would make bunches of berries and greens for Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations. A few years later, when I was allowed to go to the island alone, I collected berries and greens, and took over his job. I sold the bunches around the neighborhood and up to the end of Summer Street on my bike.

We once encountered hunters in the end camp. There was a sign over the door — it read something about being a hunting camp. My dad had a chat with them.

Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

In the summer, two families from Lowell, MA came to vacation for most of the summer, they stayed in the north camp as well as the camp next to the pump.There were 5 kids, two were my age.

Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

I would ride my bike down the cart path, over the walkway, around the north path; I would pass the outhouse, stop and lean my bike against the water pump. We were almost always in bathing suits and tee shirts, so off to the swimming hole we would go.

On the east side of Pine Island was a wooden walkway out to a leg of Broad Creek. At the edge of the creek were a dock, a ladder to a lower landing, and a diving board. The walkways and dock were built mostly from driftwood lumber scavenged from the marsh. The camps also were built from mostly salvaged lumber.

Painting added 4/2019
The walkway and dock from Pine Island to Broad creek.
Sketch by Ray Freden. 2013.

At low tide, I would have mud fights with the kids staying on the island. The older kids would grind the mud into us! Every inch was covered in black, slimy mud. Sometimes we would wait until the tide came in enough to wash off. Other times we would lay near the water pump while another pumped. It took a lot of pumping to clean up, & the water became colder the longer it was pumped. The pumped water on the Island was salty and discolored, used only for washing.

The water pump was located near this camp.
Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

At mid to high tide, we would dive or jump from the board or off the railing. Full high tide would cover the dock and walkway, but only ankle deep. It was a challenge to ride my bike out to the dock, and a bigger challenge to ride back through the water.

The men of the families returning from a fishing trip.
A postcard sent to Bill and Jo Bonney from Ralph Stoddard.
Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

A dory was tied on the south side of the dock. The two men and two older boys would row out through Broad Creek to the clam flats at low tide, dig clams, then go fishing in the river. They would return as the tide came in, going with the tides. There were plenty of flounder, mackerel, cod and haddock in the mouth of the North and South Rivers.

Showing off a flounder.
Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

The men would clean the fish on the dock. I was invited twice for a cookout. This would be the fish fry. I would help with the cooking fire in a stone circle. Plenty of kindling could be found above the high tide line and someone delivered firewood for the campers, by wheelbarrow!

There was a steel cook plate across half of the fireplace. The men filleted the flounder, the women rolled them in cornmeal, and three of us kids kept the fire going. On went the flounder, mackerel and hot dogs. Mmmm —-was that flounder good! I would have no part of mackerel! The haddock and cod were saved for fish chowder.

A cookout on Pine Island was suppertime for the camp people. The fire pit was either going or smoldering most of the time. (When it rained they would cook on the wood stove in the kitchen; it was unbearably hot.) I was invited the day before, so I begged my Mom to make oatmeal cookies.

This ”Mom” was Mrs. Josephine Bonney and friend Julia Smith.
Compliments of the Larry Bonney family.

The next day, off I went down Station Street, turned down the Pine Island cart path, over the rickety wooden walkway, up the path to the camp, and gave the cookies to the Mrs. The kids were in the water on red inner tubes I had salvaged from the Seaview Garage. I ran down the walkway to the dock, off the diving board to cannonball the two in the tubes. The two older kids had left for the city, and good riddance! Now there were two of us the same age plus two younger, so we took over the tubes. We stayed in the water until we were blue.

Back to the camp, stashed the tubes under the porch and put wood on the fire pit to warm up. It was nearing their suppertime — they ate much earlier than I was used to, but this was a cookout to me.

All of the perishables were kept in a wood lined hole filled with water, with a cover with a large stone on top. Out came sodas and hot dogs. The dogs were all linked together and stayed that way on the cook plate over the fire pit. I remember how hot dogs always had to be cut on opposite sides to cook properly. These folks didn’t do this. They also put ketchup on their dogs — yuck, mustard only for me! We filled ourselves with dogs, orange soda and oatmeal cookies.

Just before dusk, out came the midges — they would cover you in a short time and we would have to pump water on our arm and legs to wash them off before we went inside. Inside, we, the kids, would play checkers on the porch, with a kerosene lamp on the table. The adults would play cards in the kitchen with one of those Coleman gas lanterns I so much wanted.

Summer came to an end. The folks from Lowell left. Fall came. The hunters arrived, hung their decoys on the side of their camp, and collected marsh grass to build a blind out near the dock. So many times I would hear their guns banging away early in the morning and again in the late afternoon. I thought to myself, ”Who would want to eat a wild duck?” It wasn’t until years later I found out how good a black duck is!

The next summer, only one family came to the island, with their younger kids, so my visits were short. I found hanging out in Humarock with my summer friends was a lot more fun, and jumping off the old bridge as well as the new one, the 1952 bridge was a lot higher.

Now I only went to Pine Island to collect berries in the fall. The camps were no longer used and began to fall apart rapidly. One late evening, I was driving home and there was quite a to do down Warren Ave. — police and fire engines with flashing lights down the end of the Pine Island cart path. I suspected the worst — the camps. I was told the next day that vandals had torched some of the camps! The others left standing were later torched.

I never went back to the island to witness the loss. I never saw my island friends again. My recent visits have been through the eyes of Google Earth. I have now witnessed Pine Island, after people!

Pine Island looking east, without people. Photo by Tony Lambert.

”There’s no place like camp, I wish I could stay forever.”
–Unknown.

by Ray Freden
Seaview, 70 years.