Author Archives: Hampton Gazette

Honoring the Legendary, Peggy Fox

Margaret “Peggy” Fox has been featured more than any other person in town on the pages of the Hampton Gazette, in part because she lived here all her life and had so much information to offer – including all functions of local government in her role as Town Clerk, and nearly a century’s worth of history as someone who lived here, in various and meaningful ways, for over 90 years. At her Memorial Service, many people shared stories of Peggy, but what the articles attest to is the stories Peggy shared with us.

Most of us came to know Peggy through her role at Town Hall, where she was the “face of the town”, and what a friendly face she was. As Town Clerk, she interacted with everyone, processing over 10,000 licenses and recording countless deeds in her 35 years of service. She and her husband, Charlie, who was our Post Master, were often the first people newcomers met, and were largely responsible for the positive impression people received of the town.

When Peggy retired in 2001, she shared several stories of her tenure on the front page of the Gazette’s August issue. Of the time that a customer’s speech suddenly became unintelligible because he’d removed his false teeth to point out their flaws in detail. Turning to the section on dentists, Peggy gave him the yellow pages. And the time when she was swimming with her friend Jennie at Tumel’s pond until a young woman started running around the shore waving her arms because she’d accepted a proposal and needed a marriage license immediately. Peggy returned to Town Hall soaking wet and typed up the dripping document. And the time that “Chief Red Fox” called wanting to make sure he was talking to the right person, to which Peggy responded, “Well, I’m Chief Town Clerk, so you can talk to me”. And then there was everyone’s favorite, when she answered the telephone at a particularly hectic time with, “Peggy Clerk, Town Fox”.

Upon her retirement, the Secretary of State honored Peggy with a service award for her dedication to the community, though she responded, “The real reward is the priceless friendships built over seventy years in Hampton”.

In 2015, Peggy participated in the series “Random Recollections”, in which residents shared with us stories of long ago life in Hampton.  Peggy told of oil lamps and the outhouse, “catalogues and all”. She described walking to the Bell School where grades one through eight were taught together and the chores – bringing in firewood and water – that “didn’t do us harm. It was good for us”, of playing “Fox and Geese” and “Kick the Can” and “Hide and Seek” in an era when parents let children entertain themselves, of swimming in Bigelow Lake, of the students’ first time on a train and the stern warning, “Don’t get near there or you’ll all go to hell!” She spoke of learning to drive around the farm in the Model A Ford which was cut into a truck when she was thirteen, and of manning an observation post near the village during World War II. She shared stories of the town’s characters, Gene Darrow, who dispensed advice on revenge – “you don’t want to do something right aways. Even if it takes ten years, get even”, of Charlie Baker who startled bird watchers when he was bathing in the river because “soap and water were ‘pieson’,”of the local dentist who would simply start “pulling teeth ‘til he found the right one”. With vivid details and her wonderful humor, Peggy’s stories of growing up in Hampton brought the past to life.

Most importantly, on the October 2006 front page, Peggy shared with us what it was like “Growing Up At Trailwood”. She’s the only person in the world who could tell us.  The old farmhouse and its environs would later become the nationally, and internationally, acclaimed Connecticut Audubon Sanctuary when Edwin Way Teale, the Pulitzer Prize winning author and naturalist, and his wife Nellie bequeathed the property to the Society. It was Peggy’s mother, Margaret Marcus, who sold the farm to the Teales in 1959, moving into the old farmhouse on Reilly Road with Peggy and Charlie and helping raise their two daughters, Dorothy and Carolyn. Mrs. Marcus, Teale wrote, “was someone we liked from our first moment of meeting”, and her farm encompassed everything they sought – fields, swamps, brooks, a waterfall – “miraculously they all seemed here”. And in A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm, Teale described the gentle, quiet nature of Hampton with this example from the newspaper: “Town Clerk Mrs. Margaret Fox reminds bee owners their hives must be registered in her office by October 1.”

Peggy shared stories of raising cows and chickens at Trailwood where there were two large chicken coops and two small ones; the buildings now used as a museum and visitor center were built by her father, Axel Marcus, for the cows and their stanchions.  She told us that there were more open fields and pastures then, of the fruit trees and berry bushes, and of the wildflowers found  which are still protected, “bluets, lady slippers, trilliums, violets – blue, violet and yellow – black eyed Susans, daisies, and a host of others”.  She told us tales of exploring the Old Colonial and Old Woods roads and those cow paths which would become the well-known and traveled trails.

Peggy’s early years at Trailwood most assuredly influenced her entire life.  It was there that she first cultivated a love of nature, spending most of her time when she was away from the office out of doors. Toward the end of her life, one would frequently find her sitting outside alone – alone and immersed in nature – that was all right with her.  She lived all her life in remote areas of town, surrounded by native flora and fauna.

And it was at Trailwood that she cultivated a love of animals – the squirrels and chipmunks, turkeys and other birds, the foxes, raccoons, deer, rabbits, bears, porcupines, possums, even coyotes, bob cats, and a cougar. Most of them she welcomed, like the raccoon, who stood at the end of the queue mornings with the cats, sitting quietly and assuming the felines’ pose, waiting for breakfast to be dispensed in the long line of bowls. Or more recently, the black bear who she encountered, face-to-face, while she was raking, and greeted with the words — “Hello there. Aren’t you a handsome fellow?” — because he was, and feeling no fear, returned to her task.

Most especially, Peggy loved her cats, Strays were always left there, or found their way, as if people, or the cats themselves, knew how to communicate that at Peggy’s place, there was a haven for them. They kept her company throughout her life, and especially at its end.

Her wonderful stories, which she shared so generously with us, instructed us on the past, informed us in the present, and provided a map for us to follow as neighbors in this small town in New England, for Peggy personified the best of Hampton. And so we honor her here one last time. Thank you, Peggy, for your service to the town, for sharing your memories of growing up here, for your stewardship of the land and of the Little River, for your sense of humor, your graciousness, your patience, for your wonderful welcoming way, for making us all feel at home.

Gazette Announcement

Dear Readers,

The Gazette is very pleased to announce the return of Pat Boss to our editorial board. Pat previously served as our Treasurer and returns to us now to assist with our website, and to contribute her considerable artistic skills to our articles and photographs.

Welcome back, Pat!

The Editorial Board

 

Fall Festival, 2022!

After a two year pandemic hiatus, Hampton will again have its fall celebration. Fletcher Memorial Library, assisted by the Town of Hampton, will host the Hampton Harvest Festival on September 10, from 10AM to 3PM, on the lawn between the Community Center and the Town Hall. The festival will feature exclusively hand grown and handmade products from the people of Hampton. The offerings will include fresh produce, maple syrup products, breads and eggs from local farms, nature photography, hand-knit toys, dried flower bouquets, T-shirts and more from local artisans.

Our local organizations will also be at the festival. The library will hold its bake sale as well as a silent auction. Audubon’s Trail Wood and Friends of Goodwin Forest will discuss their programs, the Historical Society will have a display of unusual antiques for us to attempt to identify, and the Gazette will have the annual calendar featuring local artists available for sale as well as the annual polls and the community poem. The Scouts will be available with information on our local troops – and s’mores! – and other food will include hot dogs and hamburgers from the Fire Department, homemade donuts compliments of Elaine and Vernon King, and the Lapp Family Ice Cream.

Our farmers will be well represented with Organic Roots Farm and Full Moon Farm with fresh produce and fresh bread, Bright Acres Farm and Pebble Brook Farm with maple products, Lone Elm Farm with its famous corn and other vegetables, and First Light Farm with baby goats. Arts and crafts such as photography, cards, wreaths, drawings, knits, quilling, bouquets, and local authors’ books will be available from our artists and artisans including Ruth Halbach, North Meadow Farm, Vine D’zines, John O’Brien, Tadria Pawlikowski Milhomme, and Three Sisters Flowers.

There will be farm animals on display for the children, as well as face painting, sack races, corn-hole, and hay rides. Associated events for all include a tour of the town’s new Hammond Hill/Little River property presented by the Conservation Commission, and a Chicken Barbecue at the Congregational Church.

So, please join your neighbors on September 10, support our farmers and artists, and celebrate our town!

Letter to Gazette: Fire Company Thanks

From the Fire Department

On July 28th the Hampton Fire Company received three HURST battery operated rescue tools, more commonly known as the Jaws of Life.  These tools were part of a $100,000 donation generously given by David and Marilyn Foster of the Foster Foundation on June 11th. The remaining funds of this donation will be used to pave the Hampton Fire Company driveway.  This project is expected to be complete by the end of summer. The Hampton Fire Company would like to express our sincere gratitude to David and Marilyn Foster of the Foster Foundation for this incredible donation and Jeff Leblanc from NAPA Willimantic, who helped make our needs a reality.

Dale & Dave Demontigny

SMOKE, MIRRORS and SPOTLIGHTS. “Wosh-pop”

A full set of Turnout Gear (the protective clothing a firefighter wears on the scene) weighs 27-30 pounds, depending on the size of the person wearing it. SCBA, aka “Scott pack” (Air bottle, pack and mask) holds 45 cubic liters of compressed air, is good for about 30 minutes of normal  breathing, adds another 30 pounds  to the firefighters starting load. Taken together, the gear is cumbersome, hot, and, for the inexperienced, can be claustrophobic.  It takes some getting used to. Normal breathing does not come naturally. There is a constant “wosh-pop” sound as air enters and leaves the mask and valves open and close in rhythm with the firefighters breathing. Without experience and conscious effort to maintain controlled inhale and exhale, that “wosh-pop” sound increases rapidly and hyperventilation can empty a 30-minute bottle in about 10 minutes. The sensation of not getting enough air can be significant

The Hampton Fire Company participants in an acclamation and skills challenge included both men and women, ages ranged from 19 to 68, weights ranged from 115 – 240, experience was from first exposure to many years.  The challenge: In full Turnout gear and Scott Pack, blindfolded, on hands, knees, belly when necessary, navigate through a 6-station skills course — executing a different skill at each station.

Let the “wosh-pop” begin:

  1. Crawl and feel your way along a 50 foot twisted length of hose, locate and attach the nozzle. Wosh-pop, wosh-pop, wosh-pop, reach, feel, wosh-pop reach feel, locate nozzle, align, fumble, wosh-pop, wosh-pop, align, twist, lock. Now onto the next station. Wosh-pop, wosh-pop, wosh-pop.
  2. Following voice direction, locate, start then turn off the leaf blower.  Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Crawl, reach, feel, sweep. Got it. Pull cord. Vroom. Feel, feel, feel, feel. Where in the @#$% is the off switch. Got it. On to the next station. Wosh-pop, wosh-pop, wosh-pop.
  3. Following voice direction, locate and crawl under low obstacle. And the wosh-pop pace picks up.  Reach, sweep, feel, wosh-pop. Bingo. Now crawl under. At 115 pounds, she slithers under, no problem. At 240, that damned Scott Pack gets hung up. Okay lift the ladder a little higher so he can get through. Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Reach. Feel. Sweep.
  4. Find the road cone and light. Turn on light. Balance light on top of cone. Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Reach, feel, sweep. Got it. Turn light on. Place light on cone…so, so, carefully. Plop. Light falls off cone. Wosh-pop. Reach, feel, sweep.  Find light. Place light on cone…so, so, so, carefully. Ever so carefully.  Plop. Light falls off cone. Wosh-pop. Reach, feel, sweep….Skip it. The clock is ticking. On to the next station
  5. Make your way to the Hurst tool (jaws of life). Open and close tool. Don’t cut your foot off. (Yes, there’s a safety person at each station.)  Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Reach, feel, sweep. Move to your right. To your right.  YOUR OTHER RIGHT!  Got it. The jaws open. The jaws close. The foot remains attached to the leg. On to the next station. Wosh-pop. Wosh-pop. Reach, feel, sweep.
  6. In a tangle of rope find the end/s and tie a proper knot of your own choice. Simple overhand knot excluded.  Feel, feel, feel. Got it. Nope – not a proper knot. Fingers don’t fail me now. Tada – bowline.

Off to the finish line. The crowd cheers wildly. Help me out of this gear. And the participant emerges drenched in sweat and once again savoring the fresh, free, Wednesday night air. The training went well. Times for completion ranged from just under three minutes to slightly more than six.

During the month of July HFC members responded to 20 emergency dispatches, attended two training meetings and two admin meetings. Over 200 man-hours were logged. Meetings are held Wednesday evenings at 7 – come on down.

And the pager sounds.

FireHouse Dog

New HES School Superintendent

Dear Hampton Community,

I am honored to be appointed as your new Superintendent of Schools. It is my pleasure to officially introduce myself and serve the community of Hampton.

I started my career in New Haven Public Schools where I taught in a kindergarten through eighth grade building and moved into an instructional coach position. I transitioned into Bristol Public Schools as a Supervisor in the Office of Teaching and Learning and then appointed the Principal of Bristol Arts and Innovation Magnet School.

I believe in building relationships through trust, transparency, authenticity, and collaboration. This ultimately results in the best outcome for our students and their ability to grow, learn, and achieve in our global society. I am extremely enthusiastic to help our district move forward and build upon success. I absolutely believe that the Hampton School District is one where parents are proud to send their children.

An important tenet of my philosophy of leadership is the ability to create safe space and collaboration. I believe it is our responsibility to provide a safe, physically comfortable learning environment promoting academic achievement, protection of adverse consequences to failure, and authentic learning. This responsibility is not just at the staffing level, but at a community level, where parents, professionals, students, teachers, and leaders are involved and have a sense of ownership within the district towards student achievement.

With the 2022-2023 school year beginning, we are most excited about our Multi Age Grouping curriculum implementation and alignment that will be enhanced through a new assessment process that will meet the needs of each individual learner. I look forward to embarking on this journey as your new Superintendent.

Dr. Samantha Sarli

Our Rural Heritage: One Room Schoolhouses – The Teacher’s Ledger

If anyone was trying to find information on a typical day in a one room school house, the teacher’s ledger would probably not be the best place to look.

I remember when my grandmother, Anna McDermott, who taught in a one room school house in Hampton, shared some of her ledgers with me. She preserved them, keepsakes of a former life and time, in a desk in her living room along with other treasurers – albums of long ago relatives who only she could name, a copy of “Pansy Billings and Popsy”, a small novel she won in a spelling contest. This I have, on a shelf on a desk in my living room. These are the sorts of things I treasure – holding this old, little book – I can still remember the look of pride on her face when she showed it to me. But I don’t know what happened to the ledgers. I know the albums were removed, for us to guess at who the people might be – looking for resemblances, trying to remember stories told. I suppose the ledgers might have just been sold with the desk itself. They would have been of little worth to anyone. I like to think an historian has them, but I don’t know.

What I do know is that the ledgers had a very specific purpose: they recorded, daily, the names of the students, their attendance, grades, and, curiously, the weather. That was it. What would impress the most was the handwriting. Perfect cursive. My grandmother was proud of her handwriting, which never faltered throughout her life – perfectly formed, perfectly spelled, perfectly slanted letters. Astonishing to think that the fingers never tired, in spite of all of this recording, every day, and every year. Astonishing, considering my own scribbles, and I’m sure the scribbles of most everyone else in our modern world where handwriting, as a skill, as a value, has fallen away, has become a matter of debate as to whether or not it should even be taught.

Education hasn’t entirely changed from when I was a teacher, or even when I was a student. It really hasn’t changed all that much in terms of methodology and curriculum. “Reading and writing and ‘rithmatic,” thankfully no longer to the tune of a hickory stick. The switches and dunce caps once used have been replaced with the threat of “time out”, or the loss of recess, which children enjoyed then as now, though there was no playground or equipment except a sled and a can to kick. Our principal did have a paddle on his wall, though I don’t think it was ever used, it served as a warning, and based on our collective behavior, it generally worked. We also still teach spelling, science, history, geography, though everything evolves as our history expands and our understanding of the world develops.. Less memorization, less recitation, but the basics remain.

As does the method of instruction. We still start a lesson, from kindergarten through 12th grade, with the students’ knowledge of what they already know, using it as a spring board to further explore a topic and to spark their interest. All successful learning is cushioned in our experiences. When I taught it was called an anticipatory set, though I’m sure the word has changed – that’s what always changes – the labels, the acronyms. When I first started teaching, professional development sessions would introduce something new – and the older teachers would share what the same method was once called. We still finish a lesson with closure – a review of what was learned, and usually a follow-up most typically called “homework” that involves the use of what was learned, the practice, the practical application. In between the beginning and the end of the lesson, teachers and students alike ask and answer lots and lots of questions. Students develop further understandings as teachers appeal to all modalities — visual, auditory, kinesthetic, and tactile — using a variety of materials to reach every student in the best way they learn with the best materials schools have to offer.

It is these materials that have changed drastically through the years. When I taught, I used to say – all I really need is a black board and books.  Only twenty years later, black boards are banned, and tablets and smart boards have largely replaced books. Research is done mostly on a screen, and any place in the world can be located on a computer instead of using maps and globes. Do we even use dictionaries anymore in classrooms? There are still those old relics – books. There is nothing like the thrill of a library with well-stocked shelves as wide and tall as the eye can see, and no substitute for instilling a love of literature like a lap and a picture book — it’s still the way we first learn to love to read.

Thinking back to my grandmother’s time, her tools were vastly different and far more practical. Yes, there was a blackboard, there were books for students to share, ink wells were on the desks, or on long tables attached to benches. My grandmother would tell me that she spent Sunday afternoons in the one room schoolhouse where she taught, lighting a fire to warm the room for the students’ arrival the next morning, preparing the classroom and her lesson plans. She required a broom, a feather duster, a bucket, a coal bin, kindling, matches, and fire wood. And, of course, her ledger.

Recently, the Historical Society received an old Hampton School ledger from “a gentleman from Rhode Island”, a record of seven years of school, from November 28, 1859 to March 2 1866. Students in our agrarian town started school after the harvest and completed the “year” as soon as it was time to prepare the soil for planting. The ledger is from the Bigelow School, which was on the corner of Bigelow Road and Route 6. It was one of the original seven schoolhouses, in use when all grades were taught in one classroom. It is the only one of our schoolhouses which is no longer here.

According to a Hartford Courant article circa 1965, the school was built in 1829 with bricks believed to be locally sourced in brickyards operated by Andrew Litchfield. The same bricks were used to construct the North Bigelow schoolhouse. Carl Jewett, who farmed on the corner opposite the school, was among the last to graduate along with his sister Vera, Maude Hyde, Helen Spaulding, and Leila Fitts. A decline in population closed four of the schools, consolidating the seven neighborhood schools into three: one for primary grades, one for grades four through six, and one for seventh and eighth grades.  The article, written by Pearl Scarpino, was written at the time of the school’s eventual demolition. Time and the elements took their toll, bricks were salvaged, and the firemen executed a controlled burn for the remains. The memories of over a century, Pearl wrote, would become “literally nothing but ashes”.

And so the newspaper article, a few photographs, and this ledger are all that seem to remain of this one room schoolhouse.

What information can we glean from such a ledger? Every page in the ledger represents 45 days of instruction. Week days, rather than dates, are used to denote time. Students were called “pupils” then, and every page lists their names. As in so many facets of the one room schoolhouse, where outhouses, and sometimes even entrances, were segregated, the names of males and females were listed separately. The lists change from year to year as new students enter and older students presumably graduate, though there’s no such distinction noted. The smallest number of pupils was 17, the largest, 42, with an average of 27 pupils in the classroom every year. Their ages ranged from 5 to 16. Their attendance was recorded, as “1 or ½”, and there were very few marked “sick”. Every page lists visitors; everyone who entered the school was named, and every page lists several of these. In a lovely scroll, “Statistics of the Weather” labels one column, and the conditions of the day are recorded: “warm, damp, muddy…good sleighing…weather moderates…more snow…warm and pleasant for winter weather.”

The penmanship is perfect. The letters are perfectly formed, the slant is even. There are no discernible spelling or grammatical errors. Recorded in ink there is no opportunity to erase a mistake and nothing – nothing — is crossed through. The words are entirely legible, though age has caused the ink to fade considerably, and in some spaces the writing is so small, minute, really, as to require a magnifying glass, or in some instances, perhaps a microscope! Calligraphy is applied to the words “Saturday and Sunday” when there was no school, and two holidays – “Thanksgiving” and “New Years” — are magnificently emblazoned on the pages in large, decorative letters. Christmas is not noted in this ledger, would not have been celebrated at this time, in this town. Fancy curlicues and feathers also embellish the pages, and at the end of one year, “Finis” is written in large, elaborate letters. An “Abstract” included at the end of every term lists statistics on commencement, closing, number of pupils, visitors, and the year’s average attendance, as well as the teacher’s name, among these: George Hammond, J. A. Barrow, Elvina Owen, Louisa Hughes, Delia Clapp.

Though there is room for current events, only the weather is noted during these years with the exception of two entries:  on December 2, 1859, the words “John Brown hanged” is recorded. A week later, the words: “Others hung”.

An abolitionist charged with treason, murder and slave insurrection on November 2, 1859 after the October 16 rebellion at the Harpers Ferry Armory, Brown was a native to Connecticut, born in Torrington in 1800, but the fact of his birthplace was probably less significant than the abolition movement in Hampton at that time. Initially one would think – how odd that this would be the only news recorded in this remote corner of New England. In the midst of the succession of states, the formation of the Confederacy, the Civil War, a political climate even more divisive than it is now. Yet the item speaks to the prominent abolitionists in Hampton. Perhaps it speaks to the sentiment of our town.

Dayna McDermott

In a future issue of the Gazette, Our Rural Heritage will explore our abolitionists.

Our Neighbor’s Garden…the Garden of Geri White and Beth Regan

In her contribution to our series, “Coming to Hampton”, Beth Regan wrote “as much as it may have felt like I was choosing this place to make my home, I truly believe that it has chosen me.” A direct descendant, Beth felt an ancestral link with this “Land of Uncas”, and in the end, the “old real estate adage…location, location, location” prevailed.  Geri White agrees. Bordered to the north, east and west by the Edward’s Preserve, and to the south by Goodwin Forest, it was the setting that sold the place to the two of them.

When Beth and Geri purchased their house in 1988, it was “a cottage in the forest”, surrounded by woods which now demark the property’s borders, marching right to the door. The property was a Christmas Tree Farm, and for a few years, Beth and Geri sold and hand-baled them, a nice experience, Geri says, a product people are cheerful purchasing. The remnants of the trees remain here and there, and new pines have taken their place in this splendid garden cultivated by the current owners.

The stone wall separating the street from the yard was initially smothered with grape vines and poison ivy. “We couldn’t even tell it was there,” Geri explains. Now the garden is hemmed in with this charming New England stone wall, solid and rambling, enhanced with trees and shrubs which contrast perfectly with the horizontal layers of rocks –a cerise flowering dogwood, a “Kousa” anchoring the east end, smothered in early summer with ivory bracts, purple azaleas and rhododendrons, some as large as trees – a sparkling white, pale to deepest pink, a rare lilac, magenta, and the prized, deep red ‘Prince Henry’, the flowers softening  the masonry. In late winter, the bright blue blossoms of squill are scattered in front, and the west end of the wall is punctuated with a burst of golden forsythia. Inside the garden wall we discover daffodils, their trumpets announcing spring with varying hues, the unique checkered lilies, and creeping phlox frosting the earth with pink and lavender petals. Coral colored tulips circle the mailbox to greet visitors. A basket of pansies hangs from a “Welcome” sign over a garden of sweetly scented hyacinths. Along the entrance to the house – a stunning collection of parrot tulips in shades of scarlet, orange and gold are interspersed with complementary narcissus.

Structural elements are everywhere — a cherry tree graces the front lawn, and needled and broadleaf evergreens display their value throughout the year, most spectacularly, a Colorado Blue Spruce, a magnificent specimen which some have suggested should grace Rockefeller Center, though the owners would never sacrifice this glorious tree for even the most famous of reasons. The variety of conifers strategically placed throughout the lawn draws the eye and expands the property, the gentle sweep of their branches contributing to the peaceful aura found here. A hedge of arborvitae serves as an attractive and definitive border between this and an adjoining property to the west, with woodlands to the north, east and south, thus the assorted music of birds serenade me on the visit.

A charming covered well house is a focal point in the front lawn, and there are ample opportunities to sit and contemplate nature on chairs and benches. Wind chimes sway and sing with the breeze, and a bird feeder constructed of pipes serves as a focal point in back, the invention of Beth’s brother-in-law who built this masterpiece for a collection of feeders to attract different birds. He died shortly after making it, and so it remains, a loving, lasting memory of a loved one with a strong connection to nature. In the few moments I spent there, woodpeckers, goldfinches, and an oriole were among the many birds I witnessed enjoying their meals.

There are several sculptures – a stone basket brimming with petunias and complimentary annuals. A stone bunny, acknowledgement of the wildlife apparently reigning supreme, though if Geri hadn’t informed me of the rabbit’s undeterred destruction of perennials, I wouldn’t have noticed. Voles and Asian jumping worms also have something to do with the difficulties in gardening here – the proximity to the woods makes this parcel particularly vulnerable to critters and insects which have their own designs. Many of the trees  were decimated by  gypsy moths. A sculpture of two women greet visitors at the entrance to the house in a pose Geri describes as expressing “joy”, and serves as a symbol of the effects on the homeowners of spending time outside immersed in nature. These joyful sculptures are just one expression of this; there are plenty of invitations – on the porch, the deck, at picnic tables, in the gazebo, screened in and lit with white lights for summer evenings — evidence everywhere that the yard is used and enjoyed.

At the rear of the property, a sacred structure — protected by pine trees and a wild shadblow weaving its spring snowflakes, summer fruits, fall foliage —  is surrounded by boulders unearthed from an excavation project and rescued for this purpose. From the four directions, the site is entered through four cedar doors, a carving of an eagle on each, leading to a center fire pit circled with sections of small stones in red, white, black and yellow, the tribal colors of the Mohegan tribe.  Even from a distance this site evokes a natural reverence, within, a certain peace, a sense of the “beautiful forests, streams, and trails” which Beth wrote “spiritually connected to the land of my ancestors”.

In late summer, annuals are in their full glory, at every entrance, surrounding the deck, circling the gazebo – marigolds, lantanas and coleus in fiery hues, dahlias the color of tropical fruit , flames of celosia , multi-colored impatiens, sunshine rays of gerbera daisies.  Taking center stage throughout the year is the front porch where wind chimes beckon visitors and white lights lead the way, where baskets of red geraniums hang from the ceiling and potted petunias in all colors, from lemony yellow to deep purple, mingle with delicate nemesias and silver leaves to form a pyramid with an assortment of urns and containers on pedestals, tables, and chairs.  “I love color,” Geri explains, and despite this drought, color is everywhere.

Perennials flourish as well in summer. First the red and ivory peonies, then deep purple irises – the bearded and Siberian varieties. The deck and the stone wall are lined with lilies in vibrant hues of rust, brick red, marmalade, lemon, cantaloupe, peach, pumpkin. At the fence around the entrance to the vegetable garden, a Rose of Sharon spreads its violet saucers, towering over a clump of white yarrow, stalks of scarlet bee balm, sprays of black eyed Susans and an indigenous cone flower with branches of yellow daisies. Along the inner wall, flamingoes walk among phloxes of the same tones of pinks. Autumn brings hydrangeas, a row of lace-caps cushions the house, and at the entrance, blue blooms of mop-heads on one side and late-season creamy panicles on the other. In fall the garden will also fill with sedums and chrysanthemums, the evergreens showcased through winter.

Beth wrote that “as time went on, the town of Hampton and its residents also drew me in,” naming acts of kindness from neighbors who “wanted nothing. It was simply the Hampton way.” A few years ago when our property was one of those vandalized because of a political sign, our basket of fuchsias, which happily resided at the entrance to our property for 30 years, destroyed, Geri surprised us with a new basket of flowers, a gesture of neighborly goodwill, reminding us, during an uncharacteristic time, of “the Hampton Way”.

Dayna McDermott

CHALLENGES OF GROWING OLD

I couldn’t live here without my Kubota! (No, I do not sell Kubota tractors.) When my wife and I moved to Hampton eight years ago, I was a healthy 65-year-old man. Now I am an aging 73-year-old man who realizes that the only reason we can live in our converted 130-year-old barn on our hillside overlooking the valley below is our trusty BX24 Kubota tractor.

It sounds somewhat silly. Why would a small tractor with a bucket loader and backhoe make any difference? When I was younger, I could bend my knees, lift a 454 Chevy block onto the workbench of my automotive machine shop, and set it up for boring. The next moment, I could pick up the heavy cast iron heads for the big block Chevy, lean over the side of my cylinder head grinding machine and locate the head to be surface ground. No problem! Today, when my wife hands me a new jar of peanut butter, I must brace my body against the counter, grit my teeth, grasp the jar with both hands and make a gigantic physical grunting sound as I attempt to free the lid from the jar. In the end, the effort expended may or may not get us to the peanut butter waiting within. I would hand the jar to my grandson, who twists the lid off with youthful ease. Growing old gracefully is not in my vocabulary.

When we arrived in Hampton, we fell in love with the 130-year- old converted barn, perched on a hillside, down a steep 300’ driveway, and overlooking a steeper hill above the Little River Valley. If you have heard the expression “Love is blind,” you can appreciate how we missed the “steep driveway, house perched on a hillside, overlooking a steep hill above the valley floor.” We did not buy the house with snow on the ground. By that February, we had two blizzards in a row and no practical way to clear the snow from our driveway. We then slowly realized how vulnerable we were in our “house on a hillside.”

Within a year or so, we purchased a Kubota tractor from a new friend, believing this would help with our snow removal problem. It helped immensely. Soon, the grand total of tractor possibilities became apparent as I used it for many projects unrelated to snow removal. The tractor came with a forklift attachment for the bucket. When we began to build things in the back of the house, Home Depot would drop off the heavy wood in front of the house, and I would bring it down the hill with my “forklift.” As large trees came down in our woodlot, I could cut up the tree, stack the wood in the waiting bucket, and bring the load up to the woodshed to be split. I used the backhoe to dig trenches for neighbors, carve out a flat area to build our post and beam shed, and even dig a grave for one of our goats in the dead of winter.

After buying a few attachments that clamped to the bucket, I found I could lift massive logs with a pincher device hanging down from the front of the bucket. I could attach a trailer ball onto the bucket and easily move any one of our many trailers around our steep, hilly yard with ease. An eye attachment for the bucket allowed me to lift my big motorcycle out of the mud and into the workshop. The forklift attachment made hauling multiple bales of straw or hay to the storage an easy process. Once I needed to move an entire Quonset-style tent frame to the backyard. I simply parked the tractor under the structure, raised the back with the backhoe, raised the front with the bucket, tied it onto the tractor, and motored off down the hill to find a flat spot to place it on. I can’t remember the number of large rocks I have moved with the little tractor, but there have been a bunch. Our back hill was full of thorny bushes that defied the use of weed-whackers or lawn mowers. After watching a cooking show where the cook sliced celery with her magic knife, I sharpened the edge of the bucket, positioned the tractor at the top of the hill, and drove downhill with the bucket floating. Viola, I cleanly sliced off every thorny bush I met.

When we began to organize the barn raising of our post and beam structure, I was able to pile the heavy beams in neat piles in order of assembly. When it came time to raise the “bents” of the structure, I raised the bucket high off to the end, connected the lifting eye to the bucket, and used a block and tackle to lift the heavy three bents one at a time.

In short, I am the king of the hill using my trusty Kubota. I am the very model of a very savvy farmer who can do any chore around the farm without batting an eye. Sitting high on my worn-out tractor seat, I am an orange superman, able to lift tall logs with a single pull of a handle. I am a master of all I survey in my backyard.

Without my Kubota, I am but a 73- year-old grandfather in search of his grandson to open a jar of crunchy peanut butter.

 Jamie Boss

Auntie Mac

Dear Auntie Mac,

Is it me, or is Facebook’s Neighborhood Watch a bit overboard at times?  “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing” signs, cameras everywhere, suggestions to “Shoot First Ask Questions Later”! Every car driving slowly, or parked on the road, is suspicious? I’m all for neighborhood watch groups, but not for watching my neighbors. Are we not a relatively safe town, or am I missing something?

A Good Neighbor

My Dear Neighbor:

While Auntie Mac prides herself on having her finger on the pulse of all town-related news, she was unaware that the message board to which you refer was such a hotbed of feverish paranoia, so she took the opportunity to examine it. There does seem to be an increase in the number of postings from residents of this and surrounding towns advising of miscreants, footpads, and second-story men on the loose and in greater numbers than in previous years. But Auntie Mac would argue that this is possibly because the site in question has grown considerably over the time it has been active, and given that it is in our nature to want to warn each other of potential poaching pitfalls presently plaguing personal property, some leeway should be given to those who wish merely to hope that the dusty, sputtering Jeep with its dusty, sneering driver, does not draw bead on your porch, hoping to snag a tasty parcel or, in some cases, your mini-van.

Like you, dear, I pine for the days when rogues and scoundrels kept to their own towns and pillaged in appropriate neighborhoods, but as we have seen, times are indeed tight. One’s indignation that “that sort of thing doesn’t happen here” is veritable catnip to a desperate entrepreneur following a dubious moral compass. The smugly unsuspecting are the nouveau-criminal’s target du jour.

Auntie Mac does not think that we should “watch our neighbors” in the context that you imply; rather, we should get to know our neighbors, and the most basic of their habits, so we can tell the census taker, “yes, the Finknottles live across the street,” or deliver a lost cat to its frantic owner, or call the woman two houses down to inquire if indeed a dusty, sputtering Jeep should be parked in her driveway while she is at work.

One of the ways we as residents and neighbors can mitigate (but sadly not eliminate) the need for those “No Trespassing” signs is to get to know each other. It is no use pretending that Hampton is some sort of Brigadoon that the world outside its borders cannot touch. If we know as much as we can about our town and its rhythms, the cautions and warnings we give each other will seem not so much overly fearful hysteria but common-sense caring and protectiveness. Because eventually, the dusty, sputtering Jeep, in one form or another, is bound to approach us all.

 Your Auntie Mac