Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened…

   — Terry Pratchett

Ok, let’s face it, those of us over 55 dread the idea that we are considered, officially by AARP, to be SENIORS. Yikes! How did this happen to me? The word has so many connotations. The adjectives run the gambit—we have been called “elderly”, “mature”, “senior”, “older adults”, and “old people”. Hey, 70 is the new 50, right? We earned this time in our lives with dignity and respect, so let’s embrace it.

Did you know?

• There are 729 folks over the age of 55 in Hampton—over one third of the Hampton population.
• Senior centers serve as a gateway to the nation’s aging network—connecting older adults to vital community resources that can help them stay healthy and independent.

Hampton Seniors will be starting up their monthly luncheons on the 2^nd Wednesday of the month, beginning on May 12th. Details to follow. Lunch will continue to be $5 for Hamptonites. For out-of-towners the fee will now be $8. As it has been for years, the town continues to subsidize the luncheon.

We want to encourage everyone to join the Seniors Club. We have had up to 70 people enjoy a meal and fellowship. Currently only 30 people have joined the club. That leaves about 700 boomers and beyond who could get involved in all aspects of planning activities and events. Membership is only $5 annually. You don’t need to join the club to attend the luncheons or participate in field trips. Our first trip will be in May to the Wicked Tulips Flower Farm in Preston. Stay tuned! We are looking forward to seeing you in May!

For more info on the Seniors Club, contact Lisa at hamptonseniorclub@gmail.com

Andrea Kaye, Senior’s Vision Committee Member

Auntie Mac,

Now that they’re eligible for the vaccine, my in-laws, who live under our roof, are refusing to get it on the grounds that it’s all a hoax and on suspicion of microchips. I’ve put up with their politics for four years now, but I’m not willing to sacrifice my health. Any and all advice is welcome.

A Non-Conspiracy Theorist

My Dear Neighbor:

Auntie Mac wonders how, if your in-laws have so far eluded the open field of scientific fact for the shady undergrowth of conspiracy theories, she will be able to help you convince them of anything, but she is, as her field hockey instructor once called her, “a plucky lass,” so she will make an attempt.

Your predicament is tricky, since yours is a situation in which some family members are putting others at risk, though they might not see it that way. Your best first approach is, as always, empathy. Acknowledge that there is much confusing information swirling about. Auntie Mac herself remembers hearing that Bill Gates thought it would be a cracking good idea to slip a microchip into vaccines so people could finally be tracked and, presumably, sold more word processing software, or some such evil-capitalist scheme. The truth is much more mundane, having to do with the company making the syringes and their idea (not yet a reality) to put an optional microchip on the syringe label (not in the vaccine) to track actual doses—not people. However, your in-laws have simultaneously told you they believe that COVID-19 is a hoax. These two somewhat delightful—and polar opposite—worries make me think that what is really behind the pronouncements of these two older adults is fear. To them, and many people like them, there are just too many unknowns. And the unknown is often terribly frightening.

Auntie Mac suggests that, as patiently and lovingly as possible, you and your spouse have a sit-down discussion with your in-laws on how important it is for you all to feel safe in your home. Acknowledge their belief that everyone’s perfectly fine, but ask them to also honor your beliefs as well. Tell them that you will do everything in your power to protect your family–including them. Ask them what would make them feel more comfortable about taking the vaccine. Arrange a group video chat with a health care provider they trust, to explain that getting vaccinated is not only good for them, it protects our whole community; they’d be doing the truly American thing by stepping up to protect their fellow citizens. Remind them of previous vaccines they have received (including, possibly, the polio vaccine). And if the microchip fear still raises its ugly head, promise them that as a gift you will cover the cost of a full-body scan to alleviate their worries.

You do not mention if your in-laws routinely flout good social distancing and mask-wearing guidelines, and often return to your home after having spent maskless hours in close quarters with others who may be infected.  If this is the case you should set some ground rules immediately regarding current protections in your own home.

And as a last resort, should they continue to dig in their heels, suggest that there are apartment rentals nearby that are really quite nice, and you’d be happy to help them look for a suitable place to continue to pretend that no one is contracting this disease that so far in the US has caused or hurried the death of as many Americans as those killed in World War II, Korea and Vietnam combined.

Your Auntie Mac

Scouting was another in a long procession of great escapes from the hub-bub of home life that I engineered rather than a burning passion for outdoors-man-ship and male bonding. Still, I learned lots during the years I was active and somehow accumulated a sash-full of merit badges along the way. Some of those merit badges taught me skills I still employ today – cooking, for example, is one of my great passions as an adult although I’ve scrupulously avoided recreating any of the mess-kit menus that I had to learn. Others are skills long and gleefully abandoned; “camping” for me these days is staying at a budget hotel rather than sleeping on some rocky plot in the woods. And even though I managed to get a merit badge in knot tying, I still can’t tie a bowline to save my life.

The best thing about participating in Boy Scouts was that it brought together boys who normally wouldn’t have interacted with one another. Hampton was – and is to this day – a small town and certainly everyone knew of each other but the usual cliques would form or geography would interfere or some other division would serve to keep us apart. Scouting, though, created an environment where we shared a common bond and, at times, learned to rely on one another. That we would occasionally torment one or another of the troop members by tying them to a tree – or worse – was simply a measure of our boyish bonding rather than a Lord of the Flies proof-statement.

Our troop would meet in the evenings at the firehouse, a shortish walk from our home on Main Street. The firehouse served as a de facto community center and gathering place for the men in town but there was always a moment when no one was in the big bays where the firetrucks were parked. That was my opportunity to sneak away from the Boy Scout meeting to buy a pack of cigarettes out of the vending machine. My mother’s coin collection suffered from that enterprise — something I’m ashamed of today — although I guess I could blame my parents for smoking Parliament cigarettes, a brand so unappealing that I’d only steal them in desperation.

Aside from the permanent imprint that our winter camping left on my psyche, or the fact that I still wince when I drive past the June Norcross Webster Scout Reservation in Ashford, my favorite memory of scouting was the night of the skunk. I was walking home after the meeting concluded one cool and starry Spring evening. Dark had settled in and a chorus of night sounds surrounded me as I started my walk home. I wasn’t too far into my journey when the smell of a freshly squished skunk permeated the night air. As I approached the carcass in the road, I saw several baby skunks circling their newly deceased mom as they tried to sort out what had happened. Despite the awful smell, the babies looked so lost and so absolutely adorable that I picked one up and brought it home with me curled-up in my jacket.

Nature’s bounty has spawned so many creative defenses – the thorn of a rose, the venom of a snakebite, the kick of a kangaroo – but the spray of a skunk has to be the most persuasive of them all. My young kit, as baby skunks are serendipitously called, hadn’t developed the ability to protect itself yet but both of us carried mom’s departing scent with us. By the time I got home, I no longer could smell it on me but, by golly, my dad sure could. I didn’t have one foot through the doorway when he shooed me out of the house, proclaiming that there was no way on God’s green earth that the baby skunk was spending one more moment on our property. I was dispatched to the far reaches of our lot to free the baby skunk and then invited to spend the night in the wood shed so that I didn’t foul the air in our house. I was crestfallen that my rescue plan had been blunted and that I’d been banished from my home.

These days, I tend to favor my father’s disdain for the hideous smell cast by a passing skunk but the memory of cuddling an innocent – and unscented – baby wafts over me yet. I’m still waiting, however, for a merit badge commemorating my rescue.

Kit Crowne

Kit Crowne frequently amuses us with his tales of growing up in Hampton, which he contributes to “Hampton Remembers the 2^nd Half of the 20^th Century”, and has granted us permission to publish some of these stories on our pages. We are grateful for these and all of your recollections – please send them along.  

This past year has been one filled with sickness, isolation, and loss for families. The pandemic that imposed all of this also pushed us out of our abodes and into nature. A good thing – though a less likely occurrence in the most isolating of seasons; and when the winter temperatures convinced us to venture outside, the wind too frequently forced us to reconsider, restricting us with the dreaded words, “wind chill factor”.

The wind proved a steadfast companion this year, though with all the variant adjectives to describe it, “pal” wasn’t among them. We came to accept the fact that 40 – 50 mile an hour winds would begin late in the day and get stronger as the night progressed. In spite of the gusty howling that shook the house, rattled the panes, pounded the door, roared in the chimney, our household only lost power during the hurricane, but that didn’t prevent us from preparing for the potential loss. How many times this winter did we fuel the generator, prepare jugs of water for the kitchen, buckets for the bathrooms, setting out candles and flashlights on Christmas Eve along with the cookies and carrots?

Where I grew up, the wind I encountered daily was a Gulf breeze that started out gentle, but by evening would become blustery. Sometimes the wind would instigate dust devils, or sand storms, or turn into hurricanes, or chance tornados. I’ve survived a few of them.  Here you call them “Nor’easters”; we call them “Northerners”.  Besides the obvious dark storm clouds rolling in, we’d smell oil and gas mixed in with the wind. In this context, the term never had any association with our northern neighbors. This neighbor told us — autumn is here, and winter is coming.

In high school, I ran track. This meant running against and with the wind on certain sections of the track. I learned to lean into the wind on one straight away and curve, and then to let it push me as I ran with it on another.  The coach was oblivious to anything other than the speed of the runners. He never seemed to notice that the wind was constantly blowing around 20-30 miles an hour when we practiced.  Nor did he notice how many times he’d chase his ball cap after getting it blown off, or his papers from the clipboard he’d carry to write our times. He was too busy yelling at us to “Go Faster!” to notice anything else.

Windmills dotted the landscape on the plains. They were the lifelines to the farm and ranch animals. When they broke, my father, a plumber, would have to fix them. Beginning at the age of seven, I was the designated volunteer for this job. My father would never ask, “Do you feel like climbing one of them rickety wooden windmills today?” What was the point in asking when “no” was an unacceptable answer? Off we’d go — him driving silently and me saying a couple of “Hail Mary’s” and “Our Fathers” under my breath. After we’d arrive at the site and unload all the tools, he’d look at me, look at the windmill, and say, “Well, what are you waiting for? The sooner you get up there, the sooner we get home.” My job was to climb up and tie off the blades. He didn’t care how rotten some of the boards could be, how high it was, or the fact that once I got up there, I had to stay up there until he was done. Let’s not forget that the wind could be still one moment and then suddenly gusty the next. Of course, he’d joke about me not losing my head or a limb while I was waiting for the blades to stop — ha, ha. That’s not really funny, especially when you start climbing up and find some of the boards tied with bailing wire, or missing nails. I had to be sure to remember my exact route down. As he’d remind me – “I don’t want you falling and scaring the livestock!” What about – “Be careful”? Later on in my life, he told me it was because he didn’t want me to get scared!

The windmill did prepare me for my future on a naval ship. I was the one who would volunteer to paint the crow’s nest, underway or in port. A cakewalk after my windmill days.  The wind was no more or no less, and though you had to deal with the rolling and dipping at sea, and the OD Officer would need to be reminded to shut off the radar while I was doing my job, the significant difference was that I had rope lines to keep me from being blown off the crow’s nest.

All of these earlier experiences have helped me to adjust to my retirement, a word synonymous with “gardening”.  As much as I’d like to spend my time flying a kite with our grandson, there are those fallen leaves and limbs to deal with, the cause of the vast accumulation: the wind.  After watching the branches battling one another during the wind storms that demanded the trees sacrifice some of their limbs, spring revealed the survival of the fittest, the lawn littered with those that “took one for the team”.  We’re left with the question of where all the leaves came from. We only have one maple and a couple of oaks, but with our unnatural abundance, one would think we lived in a grove of them. To further the injustice of having to remove everyone else’s leaves from our yard “downwind”, the  spring breeze mocks the task of raking, determined to scatter all the leaves that have been piled up in heaps to be hauled away. I find myself yet again engaged in another sort of race against the wind.  You learn to ready the tarp and anchor it in place with your feet, but in the split second it takes to cover it with the leaves that will hold it in place, it flies up and wrestles you, or cavorts down the street.

The wind has made this year more laborious, but at least I’m still on the planet. And when spring’s gardening projects are completed, there’ll be time to grab a pillow and a good book and occupy an empty hammock to enjoy its gentle rocking, courtesy of the wind.

Juan Arriola

A month before my annual visit to the osteoporosis clinic at UCONN HEALTH in Farmington, I received a letter informing me of their move and directions to the new clinic. After reading it I was puzzled and alarmed.  First of all, it said my physician’s office had moved to 3 Squirrel Lane, and then it said use GPS to find that.  I don’t have GPS. My car is very old so GPS didn’t come with the car, and I am old and phobic about new technology so I haven’t bought a GPS. And my doctor’s old office was in a glass building next to a parking garage, parking lots, a hospital uphill, and more. No clues were given as to where 3 Squirrel Lane might be. Just use your GPS. That immediately told me that the directions were written by someone male and someone very young (meaning under age 30). The instructions to the new doctor’s office said, oh, by the way, your bone density testing will remain at the place it was before.  I hoped, as I drove all the way from Hampton to Farmington that the people in bone density testing would know where 3 Squirrel Lane was.

First of all, it’s been a year since I drove on Route 84 through Hartford and beyond.  Because of the epidemic and the doctors warning against going anywhere not absolutely necessary, I rarely go out, except for food shopping.  Somehow, driving through Hartford surrounded by huge trucks with trailers going faster than the speed limit was very different than driving on narrow antique roads in the northeast of Connecticut.  When I got to the parking garage in Farmington, I got good news. I could park in the lower level and walk out of the garage onto a sidewalk and over to the glass building where the bone density test is done. And more good news! The doctor’s office had merely moved across the street from this glass building! That’s when I knew that the letter with the directions to the doctor’s new office was written by a young man.  Anyone who is old will know why I say the writer was young…because the writer assumes everyone has a GPS. And why do I know it’s a male writer? Because he does not give directions by landmarks (meaning by common sense).

Years ago I read an article written by a psychologist about possible differences between male and female brains. His article gave the result of tests done on men and women for directions on how to get to a certain place. For instance, if you ask for directions to the new restaurant in town, a man will give the directions by vectors, saying five blocks west, then two blocks north, then one block east.  A woman would say, do you know where the Good Bank is in town?  Well, go past Good Bank towards George’s Grocery, turn right at George’s and go to the gas station, then turn left. In other words, women give directions by landmarks, not vectors. That’s how I know that the writer of the letter giving me directions to my doctor’s new office was a man, because a woman would just have said the doctor’s new office is right across the street from the bone density office and parking garage.

The only thing more dangerous than directions from a medical facility is directions from the government. Months ago I got via snail mail my new Medicare card with a new Medicare number on it. The federal government did this to all Medicare recipients because the old ones had the same number as your social security number, and identity theft was becoming more of a problem in this country. The letter said in the first paragraph, this is your new card and new number, shred the old one right away. Immediately, my instincts said no, don’t do that yet. Why? Because as an attorney (retired now) I had to deal with town governments and the state government, and I found that their directions were not always easy or accurate. I kept reading the letter. Sure enough, at the bottom of the letter, it said, oh, by the way, if you have signed up for medication/pharmacy benefits with Medicare, don’t shred your old Medicare card, you may need it for the pharmacy.

And you know what else? When I got to Farmington, there was no street sign saying Squirrel Lane.

Angela Hawkins Fichter

Chickens have always been members of the family farm. In Hampton Remembers, Vera Hoffman and Evelyn Estabrooks recalled: “In those days chickens ran around loose and found food but we fed them, too – they ate a lot of table scraps and cracked corn and we had to put out ground oyster shells to make the egg shells firm. They hid their nests and we had to look for the eggs all over, besides in their proper nests, and they had clutches of little chicks they’d hatch in a nest they’d make for themselves in the barn. We had a china egg we’d put in the regular nest to get them to lay there instead of hiding all their eggs where we couldn’t find them.”

In an article titled “Fruit of the Land”, Pearl Scarpino reported that poultry farming grew here during the post-depression days and through the war years.   The Burdick brothers, for example, “diversified the farm and started raising broilers,” according to a Rural Heritage article that featured their farm, “supplying chickens to the war effort and providing the family with a new source of revenue as the price of milk dwindled.” Eight of the thirty farmers listed on the 1957 Grand List were poultry farmers.  The house that I was raised in was a chicken farm prior to my parents’ purchase of the property in 1956, a few lovely houses in town are converted chicken coops, and there is still evidence of the Huling poultry operation on Route 6. There was even a poultry farm on Main Street which housed tens of thousands of chickens!

Though there are no longer any poultry farms in town, there are plenty of chickens – even on Main Street.  Many residents raise at least a couple of hens and, perhaps, a rooster.  It’s so common, that when we confess that we have none, owners find this inexplicable, regaling us with evidence of their merits and their endearing personalities. These fine, feathered friends are like family to their owners, who speak with an affection exemplified in the articles of frequent columnist, Cindy Bezanson, who keeps us apprised of the escapades of her brood with stories that delight readers near and far, young and old. So here’s a tribute to the chickens – who continue to provide us with fresh eggs for ourselves and our neighbors, to entertain us, and to preserve our rural heritage.

“Three Cheers for The Working Hens!”

“Morning Phyllis.”

“Good Morning, Pat. Which box are you in this week?” Pat shuffled through her paperwork and found the assignment map. “I’ll be in fifty -five. Where will you be?” Phyllis excitedly announced that she’d be in box eight. “Wow!” Pat exclaimed, “That’s the best box in here!”

“I hear that it is! I’d switch with you but I’ve never laid in box eight before. I can’t wait to try it out,” Phyllis replied. Pat gave Phyllis a wink. “Meet you at the south waterer at noon?” she asked. “I’ll be there” Phyllis promised and both rushed off to their assigned locations.

“Excuse me, pardon me.” Pat apologized as she pushed through the rabble of hens. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry to get to work that day. The production hall was unusually chaotic.  “What’s going on!?” Pat was starting to get annoyed. She had a long walk down to box fifty-five and the dilly-dallying of her coworkers was starting to make her cranky.

“Haven’t you heard!” they all clucked at once. “Heard what?” Pat asked with mild disinterest. This group was notorious for their gossip and disorderly conduct. “The NEW girls are coming!”

“That can’t be right…” Pat thought. The only time a new, younger group moved in, was after an older, non-laying group had been moved out. Not wanting to be part of that crowd, Pat squeezed past the gossipy girls and rushed quickly to her box to lay her egg. “Ah, peace at last,” she sighed and cozied herself deep down into the pile of shavings.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the production house, Phyllis had found box eight and had already laid her egg. Phyllis, however, had no interest in leaving the nest. Box eight was hidden behind one of the structural beams, which offered much coveted privacy and the hum of the ‘egg belt’ below was calming as it drowned out the chaos of the crowded hall. “Oh yes!” Phyllis declared to herself. “This is the life. I think I will just… stay… right…here”. She sunk a little snugger into the nest.

A little while later, Pat stood at the south waterer wondering where her friend had gotten to. Phyllis and Pat were on the same schedule and they always met at the south waterer after they laid their eggs. “Where could she be?” she puzzled. One by one the rowdy group from earlier that day joined Pat, still whispering about the prospective new comers. “Ok ladies. What exactly is happening?” Pat asked.  Flo, the leader of the pack, told Pat that she had overheard the supervisor announce today as: ‘the day the bus arrives’. “The bus is full of girls who are coming here to lay eggs with us. We have to share boxes and the boss wants double production by the end of the week!” Flo announced. “Yeah, two to a box…share our space… double production” — the information swirled in Pat’s head. This was not good news. “And worse of all, the outdoor area will be closed for the duration of the week,” all the hens complained in unison.

Pat marched straight down the hall, all the way to the supervisor’s office. “Ahem,” Pat coughed and tapped on the door. “Yes, come in,” Maeve answered. “Pardon the intrusion,” Pat curtsied, “but I’d like for you to clear up some rumors I’ve been hearing today.”

“What rumors would those be”, Maeve rolled her eyes. “The ones about double production,” Pat hoped it wasn’t true. “No rumor,” Maeve confirmed. “The bus arrives soon and effective immediately, everyone will share a box until the end of the week. No exceptions.”

+Pat dragged her feet as she slowly closed her supervisor’s door and shuffled back down the long hall toward the south waterer. Still no Phyllis. Pat shuffled back up the hall and over to box eight. She peeked around the support beam only to find Phyllis sound asleep on the nest. Pat poked her on the shoulder. “Phyllis, Phyllis, something awful is happening!” Phyllis opened one eye. “It can’t be that bad,” she replied and went back to sleep. “Wake up,” Pat jostled her friend. “A bus is coming with a house full of girls and we have to share boxes and the outdoor area is closed for the rest of the week!” Pat sniffled. Now Phyllis was awake. “There must be some mistake!” Phyllis replied. “No. Maeve herself told me.” Pat answered.

As promised, the bus arrived and the new hens poured in. The large production house got very stuffy. They watched Maeve give the welcome speech as she guided the crowd through the introduction room. The girls gazed in awe at the early 20^th century paintings of old, rustic, wooden country coops in long rows in Windham county towns.  “Those girls must’ve been so cold in the winter,” a newbie exclaimed. Another picture, from 1948, showed a Glastonbury man named Frank Saglio with white chickens and a blue ribbon that read ‘best pure bred’. And of course, the oldest painting from 1860 featuring the Wilsonville farmer, Reverend Upham, with his famous Barred Rock chicken. “Wow! She’s beautiful,” they all sighed. “Alright girls, the tour is over. Everyone, match your assigned number to the corresponding box and get right to work,” Maeve encouraged. “We have a lot of work to do!” Hens raced this way and that, all anxious to find their nest spot and fulfill their obligation.

The resident hens were not as motivated. Their space had been invaded and for a whole week, they had to share a laying box. The only recreation they’d get would be the indoor sand bath. The supervisor announced that “the outdoor area would distract from the mission at hand and would not reopen until the end of the week.” The house hens reluctantly went back to their assigned spots, and sat down next to their new box-mates.

“I’m Dot,” the small red hen in box eight said to Phyllis, who was incredibly upset at having to share her prized space. “Why are you all so excited about this?” Phyllis grumbled. Dot explained that stress from the recent cold snap had shut down egg production in the whole town. Pipes had frozen and hens were relocated. There was not going be enough eggs. “Enough eggs for what?” Phyllis asked. “The children of course,” Dot answered. “They all start school this week and need a good breakfast to begin the day. We supply the eggs to feed the children. It will be hard for them to study without a nutritious morning meal.”

“The Children!” Phyllis jumped down from behind the structural beam. “Listen up!” she shouted. The whole house went silent. Phyllis was shy and rarely spoke. “This must be important,” Flo thought.  Phyllis continued, “Our new friend Dot has shared some critical information about this mission. The children start school this week and won’t have breakfast if we don’t provide enough eggs.” Many gasped, some got teary. “Oh, the children! We can’t let them go hungry! They need nutrition! They need our eggs!” It all became clear. Suddenly sharing boxes and the sand bath and the waterers and not being able to go outside, didn’t seem like such a big deal. Suddenly, all the hens in the whole production house were joined together, united, ready to accomplish this huge undertaking. “All for one and one for all! We’ll do it for the children!” Phyllis squawked. “For the children!” they all joined in. Phyllis let Dot have box eight to herself for the entire week. After she contributed her egg each day, she’d walk up and down the production hall, cheering on her coworkers. It wasn’t easy to produce an egg every single day. The job requirement was four per week. Each worker had to dig deep within herself to find the motivation and strength in order to produce enough eggs needed to feed each and every child in town.

The week went by very quickly, and soon the new girls were heading back out to the bus. “Thank you for helping us! We’ll miss you! Hope to see you again sometime!” the resident hens called to their visiting workmates. As the bus pulled away, the big boss, his bosses, and Maeve walked in. “Gather round,” he called to his ladies. The big boss picked Maeve up and straightened his glasses.

“We all know why we are here today, so I’m beginning with the obvious: a simple, heartfelt, and well-deserved THANK YOU! You girls worked very hard this week. I am happy to announce that, together with the visiting hens, you more than doubled egg production!” The other two men patted the big boss on the back. He continued, “I know it wasn’t easy at times: sharing boxes, reduced recreation and not being able to go outside. But all of you took on the challenge and rose to the occasion. The same gratitude goes to those who were on this project part time, working just as hard so that we could keep pace with our customer’s deadline. I’m so proud of every single one of you! We couldn’t have possibly imagined this success.” The big boss carefully set Maeve down amongst her crew. The other two bosses presented the whole production house with unlimited meal worms and cracked corn and announced that a ‘thank you’ shipment of the same was being sent to the part time helpers.  “How very fortunate I am!” the big boss’s smile was ear to ear. “Three cheers for the working hens!” all three men shouted.

“Three cheers for the working hens!” Maeve and all the ladies repeated as they happily dug into the delicious treats. And for the next few days, every hen enjoyed her well-earned reward of time off and as many treats as she could possibly eat. And most important of all, unrestricted and unlimited time in the outdoor area, which made for very happy hens indeed.

Cindy Bezanson

A – A lovingly assembled list of soup recipes using eggs rather than chicken. As suggested by the Hen herself.

B – Bacon & Egg Soup: Make broth. Cook bacon, cut into cubes. Toss bread cubes with olive oil on a baking sheet, season with salt and pepper. Bake until golden. Add garlic to bacon drippings and cook. Add broth, water, parmesan rind and parsley; season with salt and pepper. Cover, bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Adjust the heat so the broth is barely boiling. One at a time, crack each egg into a small bowl and gently slip into the broth. Poach until just set. Transfer the eggs with a slotted spoon to individual soup bowls. Stir 1 cup parmesan and 2 tablespoons parsley into the broth and season with salt and pepper. Ladle the broth into the bowls and top with the croutons, bacon and the remaining parmesan. Enjoy! (Recipe Courtesy of Food Network Kitchen.)

C – Cheese. Mix egg and hard parmesan cheese. Slowly drizzle into broth.

D – Danish Cold Buttermilk Soup (KOLDSKÅL): Simply whisk together: egg yolks, plain yogurt, buttermilk, cane sugar, vanilla bean and lemon juice. Ladle into bowls and top with fresh strawberries for a refreshing snack on a hot day.

E –Egg Drop Soup, scrambled: a spinoff of traditional egg drop soup. Scramble eggs with cheese, nutmeg and pepper. When broth comes to a boil, lower the heat to a simmer and add the eggs into the pot.

F – Frothed egg whites used as a soup thickener. In Greece, hot broth is tempered into the yolk and then mixed with lemon and the white froth is added to soups.

G – Gazpacho Soup: plum tomatoes, lime juice, garlic, honey, thyme, paprika, olive oil, salt & pepper. Garnish with diced hard-boiled eggs, cucumbers, onions and peppers. Serve cold.

H – Hot Etor Soup from Ghana: Ripened plantain-boiled and mashed, pepper – boiled and ground in with onions, palm oil, salted fish – ground up, roasted peanuts – ground up, peel of the plantain, cut into pieces and boiled, salt to taste. Garnish with whole boiled eggs, sliced avocado and roasted peanuts.

I – Irish Eggs: not a soup but too good a recipe to pass up: Combine mashed potatoes, beaten eggs, garlic, salt, mustard, rosemary and cracker crumbs mixing thoroughly. Divide the potato mixture into 6 portions. Press eggs into each portion making sure the egg is covered completely. Deep fry in oil at 350 degrees until golden brown.

J – Jewish Salty Egg Soup: In a large bowl, mash the eggs roughly with a potato masher. Add 4 cups of water and 2 tablespoons of salt. Add additional water and salt to taste. Cover and refrigerate until serving time. Ladle into soup bowls.

K – Kale & Eggs Soup is a vegetable stock base loaded with potatoes, kale, onions, carrots, celery and poached eggs. The soup is prepared first. Next the eggs are carefully cracked and added on top, then submerged and poached in the soup.

L – Latin American ‘Changua’ Milk & Eggs soup, also referred to as ‘hangover soup’, made with milk, eggs, cilantro, scallions all cooked together with coarsely chopped kosher salt and pepper. Served for breakfast with bread for dipping.

M – Mayo with emulsified egg (oil or hollandaise) added to soup after is has cooled, adds texture and flavor.

N – Nog – how could I get to the letter “N” and not include my Dad’s famous Egg Nog recipe! 12 egg yolks, 12 egg whites, a pound of powdered sugar, half pint of light rum and peach brandy, a full pint of brandy and heavy cream and three pints of milk. All but the egg whites get whisked together. The whites are whipped and folded in. A dash of nutmeg on the top makes it the perfect desert “soup”.

O – Onion Tomato Soup with Egg Dumplings: A combination of classic French onion and tomato soups. Once the dumplings are made, bring the soup back to a boil and add the egg dumplings. The dumplings cook in the soup.

P – Pancake Soup (FLÄDLESUPPE) was only one of many soups served in German Monasteries throughout the middle ages. Beef or vegetable broth poured over rolled and sliced crepes topped with chives and pepper.

Q – Qatar is a small Middle Eastern country on the east coast of Saudi Arabia just below Bahrain and ranks as one of the richest countries in the world. I could not find soups with eggs but these are a few breakfast foods eaten with eggs and coffee: pita, feta cheese with olive oil, and labna, which is like a thick yogurt with olive oil. Food is mostly eaten with the hands in Qatar, and you use the pita bread like a scoop.

R –Rwandan hard-boiled eggs. Though not a soup, I found this very interesting: “A street food snack. Vendors walk around with a bucket of hard-boiled eggs that they sell for about $.25 each. What makes them special is the sauce they are served with called Akabanga. It is a chili oil that comes in a dropper bottle. All you need is one or two drops of this fiery chili oil to transform your hard-boiled eggs into a taste of Rwanda.” (March 28, 2019, Darlene at International Cuisine).

S – Shakshouka is a dish of eggs poached in a sauce of tomatoes, olive oil, peppers, onion and garlic, and commonly spiced with cumin, paprika, cayenne and has a stew-like consistency.

T – Turkish Yogurt Soup (Yayla Çorbasi): Mix yogurt, egg and flour and salt in a bowl. Add more water to the cooked rice and stir well. Take the rice off the heat. Using a ladle, slowly add a few ladles of that rice and water mixture to the yogurt and egg mixture. Stir well.

U – Udon Soup with Bok Choy and Poached Eggs is made with veggie broth. Exact origin unknown, although there are several claims that Udon came from China in the 700s. In Japan: 2 anise pods, a cinnamon stick, scallions and soy sauce are added.

V – Vodka and Eggs? ­‘Amber Moon’ – cocktail containing tabasco sauce, a raw egg and vodka.

W – Whites. Egg whites in soup, to clarify rather than thicken. Also used in cocktails for the same reason.

X – Xigua (watermelon in Chinese), Eggs Machiavellion inspired by “The Sims 3”. Eggs over easy with pan grilled watermelon flavored with parmesan cheese.

Y – Yolk Soup: Same idea as Egg Drop Soup but uses raw yolks, no whites. Only successful with Organic Pasture Raised or eggs from organic pasture raised chickens: “Raw eggs, as opposed to cooked, are packed with healthy protein and a variety of vitamins, minerals, and loads of vitamins like A, D, B2, B6, B9, B12, iron, and zinc. Not to mention omega 3 and 6 fatty acids, making them a great food in a healthy diet. When eggs are used raw they retain all of this natural goodness. When cooked, some of the omegas and vitamins are retained, but at least 1/4 are lost in the cooking process.” (Gemma Stafford. May 28, 2019)

Z – Zurek from Poland: Soup containing hard boiled eggs, kielbasa and the main ingredient, soured rye flour.

There you have it! Grab a spoon….. and your appetite, and dig in!

Cindy Bezanson

There were no large signs announcing the projects, describing what is being done and who is funding it. The projects were started and completed with little fanfare. However, they are all important and define what makes a small town like Hampton special. What am I referring to? Recently there have been several projects in town that should be applauded, especially since in most places, they would have been undertaken by a municipality or even the state, considered public works in nature and funded by tax dollars. The recent projects are the library’s sunroom expansion, a roofed pavilion on the Town’s municipal compound, and the rebuilding of an old mill dam on the Little River.

The Fletcher Memorial Library Sunroom Expansion and the Dupuis Family

The Library project is probably the more traditional type to be assisted with private funding from a local family. Needing to create an area to accommodate presentations, speaking events, and larger gatherings, the Library needed to incorporate the new area into the existing architecture of the building’s Italianate Victorian style. The result is an addition that accomplishes both, a tasteful structure that melds well with the building and the creation of a wonderful interior space.

During the initial fund-raising effort, the library was able to raise $23,000, but still needed another $25,000 for the project, and initially considered asking the Town to fund the remaining amount. And here is where the Dupuis family came forward. The family had been looking for an appropriate project to fund in memory of Joan Dupuis, a long-time resident who had worked for over 20 years at the elementary school and touched the lives of many people. What better tribute to someone who cherished education than an addition to the local library, a place that would continue her lifelong commitment to learning? So, the Dupuis family provided the remaining funds needed for the project from the Joan Dupuis Memorial Fund for Children. The September 2019 issue of the Hampton Gazette provides a more in depth piece on the life of Joan Dupuis and the dedication of the Library’s new space.

The Town Pavilion and the Mennonite Community

What is more special in a small town than a place where people can gather? The town is fortunate for the recently constructed pavilion by the town’s Mennonite community. This beautiful structure with its arching rafters and stone pavers is a place for multiple uses. The labor that built the pavilion came from the town’s Mennonite community. Although relative newcomers, they have quickly become an important and vibrant addition to the town. Their deep commitment to family and community is felt by many people and is clearly reflected with the construction of the pavilion.

The pavilion already has been used by many groups during the pandemic, as it provides a large outdoor space to hold events and meetings. I recall having an Inland Wetlands Commission meeting one evening while the Scouts met at the opposite end of the pavilion. At another meeting, a full moon rose from the east, creating a dramatic backdrop. The pavilion certainly provided a special space to safely gather and conduct the town’s business during these difficult times. I look forward to the official dedication of the pavilion, expected sometime in the Spring of 2021, at which time the Gazette will cover more fully the efforts to create this new addition to the town.

The Fuller-Badger-Rockwell Dam and Paul and Laurie Pribble

The final project I would like to acknowledge is one that most people could overlook, but it provides an important contribution to the town. When I have guests visiting Hampton for the first time, I like to take them for a drive around town. Universally, the response is how beautiful the area is and how extensive its New England character. The old cluster of homes in the village, the farms set on our hilly and rocky landscapes, the many small streams, some even with old mill ponds. Much of what we have is disappearing, and perhaps one of the fastest to disappear is the old mill pond with its earthen and stone dam. Here is where Paul and Laurie Pribble enter. The dam holding back water for an old mill pond adjacent to their property had been breached; the loss of the dam drained down the pond and left a scarred environment. The Pribbles decided to repair the dam. This is not the usual home project, something you go to the Home Depot for. This type of endeavor requires the services of a professional engineer with experience in the repair of old dams and the submission of plans to the town for approvals. All of this, along with the construction work, was completely funded by the Pribbles. The end product: a fully restored dam and mill pond that has a long history.

The Fuller-Badger-Rockwell dam, the historical name for the structure, is located on the northwestern side of Route 97 opposite Hemlock Glen. There has been a dam at this location on the Little River since the mid-18th century, initially used to operate a small sawmill. This part of the Little River, from Old Kings Highway and north past Route 97, is more commonly known as “Hemlock Glen”. In 2007, this area was placed on the National Register of Historic Places as the Hemlock Glen Archaeological District. Hemlock Glen, and another small stretch of the Little River in Howard Valley, were areas in Hampton where small mills operated beginning in the mid-18th century and peaking in the mid-19th century. They were Hampton’s “industrial areas”. There were sawmills, grist mills and even a mill for the manufacturing of pins and spoons. Most years they were seasonally operated, depending on the river’s flow. Dams helped create a stored source of water that, when slowly released, provided the needed power for mills.

The difficulty in writing this article is it provides only a brief description of the story behind each project. However, the intent is more about identifying projects that deserve a special notice for their contributions to the quality of life in Hampton, and to say “thank you” to the people responsible: the Dupuis family, The Mennonite community, and Paul and Laurie Pribble.

Peter Witkowski

This month, the Conservation Commission will be planning their project to control Japanese Knotweed. We would appreciate as much help as possible to eradicate this invasive plant along our town roads. We will work in small groups or as individuals. The Scouts in town have also signed on to help. We will be cutting and not using herbicides. Volunteers will wear gloves, use loppers and clippers, and bag the cuttings into industrial plastic bags which will go to incinerators. The process of eradicating knotweed from the roadsides will occur in May or early June, mid-July, and before the end of August. It will continue for three years, becoming easier each year. Volunteers can volunteer once, or many times. Anyone interested in helping should contact Marcia Kilpatrick at 860-455-1226 or email kalmia1234@gmail.com, or Pat Cascio at 860-933-4561 or email jurneez@gmail.com. If you know of a specific location in need of attention, please let us know.

The following information is meant to assist residents in recognizing knotweed and to inform every one of the risks knotweed places on the environment, threatening native vegetation and consequently, wildlife.

Status: Increasing and invasive in Connecticut, primarily at disturbed sites.

Description: Japanese knotweed is a fast-growing herbaceous perennial that grows in large clumps three to six feet in height. It has hollow stems similar to bamboo, with swollen joints along the stem. Leaves are broadly egg-shaped, with pointed tips and square-ish bases. The flowers are greenish white and profuse, growing in slender fingerlike clusters where the leaves meet the branches.

Preferred habitat: The plant occurs in a wide variety of habitats, in many soil types, and a range of moisture conditions. It appears to be found primarily in disturbed open areas with plenty of sun; shade depresses its growth. Edges of roadways and stream banks are common locations at which to find Japanese knotweed.

Seasonal cycle: In Connecticut, leaves appear on Japanese knotweed in April. Flowers, which develop in August and September, are pollinated by bees and other insects. The seeds mature about two weeks after the plant flowers and are dispersed by wind. Once established, the species reproduces primarily through its extensive rhizomes, which may reach 45-60 feet in length.

Important points: The early emergence of Japanese knotweed leaves in the spring and its stand-forming habit produce a dense canopy beneath which few other plant species can survive. In addition, the persistent accumulation of stem litter within established stands also reduces species diversity and damages wildlife habitat.

The Conservation Commission

Fletcher Memorial Library will be re-opening to our patrons starting on March 3rd. Temporary Covid Hours are as follows:
Wednesday: 1 — 6PM
Thursday & Friday: 9AM — NOON
Saturday: 9AM — 1PM

Patrons must enter the library through the rear door, adjacent to the parking lot. The door will be locked, so patrons will have to ring the bell and wait for a volunteer to answer the door. Everyone must be wearing a mask, and use the hand sanitizer that is provided in the entryway before proceeding into the library. Capacity is limited to five patrons at a time. We are allowing patrons to browse the shelves, but we are encouraging everyone not to linger longer than necessary.

We will be continuing our “curbside” service to anyone who doesn’t feel comfortable coming into the library during the pandemic. We want to remind our patrons that our catalogue is available for perusal on our website: fletchermemoriallibrary.org or feel free to email us at fletchermemoriallibrary@gmail.com or call and leave a message (860-455-1086) and we’ll be happy to help you to find what you are looking for. Thank you for your patience and patronage during this difficult time.