Author Archives: Hampton Gazette

From the Registrars of Voters

The polls will be open from noon to 8PM on July 9 in the Community Room at Town Hall to vote on the following questions:

  1. Shall the Town of Hampton appropriate $1,675,184 for the General Government for the 2019-2020 fiscal year?
  2. Shall the Town of Hampton appropriate $2,104,318 for the Hampton Elementary School for the 2019-2020 fiscal year
  3. Shall the Town of Hampton transfer $250,000 from the General Fund to a municipal reserve?
  4. Shall the Town of Hampton purchase 51 acres of land along the Little River funded by Open Space and Land Acquisition Capital and Non-Recurring accounts for $171,500?
  5. Shall the Town of Hampton approve the Ordinance to establish a bidding requirement and procedure for purchases and services?
  6. Shall the Town of Hampton approve the Ordinance to make the position of Tax Collector one of appointment?

Registered voters and taxpayers listed on the October, 2018 Grand List as owning property assessed for at least $1000 are eligible to vote in the referendum. Absentee ballots are available during regular Town Hall hours from the Town Clerk up until the opening of the polls.

Rural Heritage Arts School

Learning a new skill, or even wanting to hone one that’s already there, is never easy. It’s a daunting endeavor, and can become something of a nuisance if not met with patience and excitement. But sometimes that may not be enough; sometimes we need a helping hand and a little guidance to get us to where we want to go. If you’re someone that needs hands-on learning, there’s a place right here in Hampton just for you.

Located at 170 Estabrooks Road is a newly opened workshop owned by Renee Cuprak, whose skills range from felting to jewelry making, and who is looking to teach you whatever it is you wish to learn. Have you ever wanted to learn how to sew? Or try your hand at wood burning? Maybe even master the art of baking? Then here at the Rural Arts School you can learn the basics to it all, and at a reasonable price of just $5 for every visit (first visit free), you can finally begin learning something new.

Starting can be as simple as picking up one of the dozens of How-To books shelved in the living room, where you can sit and read for as long as you want. If you aren’t sure what it is exactly you wish to learn, don’t let that stop you from venturing out. There are plenty of options to choose from, and you can try each and every one until you find one you’re comfortable with.

In a lovely sun room just off to the side of the living room and kitchen is where classes in sewing and exercise will be held, as well as performances. The spacious room will hold sewing machines and repurposed church benches, as well as an antique card catalog for the various threads and needles. And it isn’t just the benches and card catalog that are recycled; it’s also the wood that will be used for pyrography. For the wood burning classes, the wood that will be used will be from left over casket making, which speaks to a lot of what Renee has going on here at her workshop: everything is recycled and repurposed. Nothing goes to waste.

In the kitchen area is where classes in cooking will be held. One-on-one learning is always the best way to learn something quickly, and if you’ve been meaning to enhance those baking skills, then this is your chance. If you’re looking for something more intricate, then down the hall and in a small sewing room is where you can sit and make jewelry, sew, and try scrimshaw. It’s important to note that the Tagua Nuts used for scrimming are eco-friendly, and though they look similar to ivory, they are simply a better alternative. And buying these nuts helps the environment tremendously since it prevents trees from being cut down. Scrimming is a wonderful art, and one that can be enjoyed immensely, but more so when you know the Tagua Nut you’re using saved a tree.

There’s a lot to learn here at the Rural Arts School, and a time spent gaining knowledge on a useful craft is never time spent poorly. If you’re serious about mastering a new skill, then be sure to stop by every Thursday for a chance to do exactly that. With tools already at your disposal, all you’ll have to do is show up and get started. Renee will be there to help you with whatever you need. Don’t miss out!

Suli Perez-Pagan

Our Rural Heritage: the Farm at Popover Hill

The property at 153 East Old Route 6 was christened “Popover Hill” by the Ostby family to describe the experience of climbing the narrow, unpaved drive, stonewalled and lined with tall pines — an enchanting corridor — “and popping over the top of the hill” to reveal one of our town’s most bucolic locations, an old farmhouse — a center chimney cape, nestled within stonewalls, surrounded with rolling hills, and sheltered with evergreens.

New owners, Sam and Rosetta Fisher, a Mennonite family from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and their four sons, are preserving the former name in their “Organic Roots Farm at Popover Hill.” The Fishers are also preserving the roots of the property by establishing a farm here, from which they will sell seasonal crops of fruits and vegetables. The sloping fields southwest of the house have been plowed, fenced, and planted.  Strawberries, red and black raspberries, and blueberries are being cultivated, along with a spring crop of asparagus, summer’s cucumbers, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, and eggplants, zucchini and summer squash, string beans – yellow, green and burgundy,  sweet corn, and an autumn harvest of butternut and winter squash, sweet potatoes, early red and Yukon gold potatoes, ornamental and edible pumpkins. Fresh herbs are also anticipated– basil, parsley, dill, mint, and nasturtiums. The Fisher’s own roots are visible in the garden as well, in several of their plants, in heirloom tomatoes such as one for a special “Amish paste” that promises a thick tomato sauce.  An Amish woman started the plugs for several types of peppers, including a variety likened to “candy for the kids.” Among the melons, there are heirlooms such as “Teacher Lydia” watermelon, with larger, yet fewer, seeds. “Lizzy’s Lettuce” also originates from a former Amish neighbor, from seeds saved through the years. During our visit, Sam and his older sons returned from Lancaster with plants from neighbors there. Most importantly, the crops grown on the farm at Popover Hill are completely organic; no chemicals are used on the plants or in the soil. Customers can purchase produce that has never been treated with chemicals, nor has the soil, nor the seeds.

All farms entail a lot of labor, with everything else dependent upon the weather and the farmers’ trials and errors as they discover the strengths, weaknesses, and idiosyncrasies of their particular site. So far, Rosetta’s only regret — “We forgot to leave a spot on the slope of crops for sledding.”

The property has always served as some sort of a farm. A brick in the chimney is inscribed with the date 1809. Earliest documents record David Fox, who operated a fulling mill here along the Little River, which traversed the property, as owning over 100 acres of land east of Bigelow Road and on both sides of “the road from Hampton to Brooklyn”.  His will mentions two houses and there’s speculation that the Sears house was once part of this property. This section of town is a little confusing because of changes in the town line, moving east when Hampton was created. In 1827, David Fox left “the old farm” of 103 acres to his son, Anson. Josiah and Jackson Horace owned it from 1834 to 1877, and John Smith from 1877 to 1887, when it became known as “the Sherman place” until 1916.

The Ostby’s operated a renowned Christmas tree farm for over 30 years on Popover Hill, starting in 1969. They also built a new barn to house their small assortment of animals — goats, sheep and chickens, and a horse — after the original barn collapsed. The old foundation of the barn near the house remains and is now host to lettuce, kale, peas, echinacea for tinctures, and rose bushes to attract bees.

Although the Fishers have only lived here for a half a year, the match of family and farm is more than evident in Sam and Rosetta, in their sons, Adam, Max, Spencer and Ben, ranging in age from 15 to 6, and in the settled look of the place, which appears as though they’ve lived here forever. Across the front of the house, window boxes brim with an assortment of flowers, and outside the kitchen door, a window box stuffed with lettuces provides the ingredients for fresh salads. Along the barn’s old foundation, a row of bluebird houses are inhabited by blue birds, and little blue eggs have been discovered inside. A new house has been erected for Sam’s parents, who are Amish and are expected here shortly.

The Fisher’s appreciation for the property is evinced everywhere. The stone walls around the house, Rosetta says, make the home feel like it’s “cradled”. Beyond the patio at the back of the house, the Fishers unearthed the truth of the rumored existence of an outhouse when they ground a tree stump and discovered the privy’s old boards.  Stone hitching posts delineate the home from the pastures beyond, spilling first into a sea of Siberian irises and purple tradescantia, the massive stone wall extending into the meadow, lining a path and cloaked with Concord grapes and wild roses, punctuated by an enormous honeysuckle perfuming the air. The path leads to a pond from which water is used to irrigate the vegetable field. East of the house, the family is excavating for an orchard – apples, plums, peaches, and pears. A couple of buildings brought from Lancaster will be used for the harvest, preparation, and sale of crops. Produce sheds wait to be situated in the garden for storage and near the lower driveway for sales. Old wooden boxes for displaying produce have Rosetta’s grandfather’s initials carved in them. A small pen houses guineas. Free range chickens will produce eggs for sale later in the summer. The family expects to open the vegetable stand in early July.

Although the Fishers only arrived soon after Christmas, they have already transformed their home, opening the small rooms typical of capes to allow for one large room encompassing the stone hearth, the kitchen, dining, and living room areas, lending an airy feel to the sunlit space, antiquity and structure alike supported with repurposed tobacco barn beams from Pennsylvania. The room that was once Leila Ostby’s jewelry shop, however, remains separate.

Settling in Hampton, the couple feels like they’ve come “full circle”. Sam and Rosetta honeymooned, and celebrated a New England Christmas, in Mystic, returning to Connecticut on their 10th anniversary. On their 20th anniversary, last Christmas, they came to stay.

Though the Fishers were one of first families to commit to coming to Connecticut, they searched for three years for the right property.

Selectmen Allan Cahill and Mike Chapel were “instrumental in getting us here,” says Sam. When the property became available with Leila’s passing last year, Mike told them — I think I know exactly what you’re looking for. Popover Hill “was a direct answer to our prayers. All the dreams we have for this property, we won’t fulfill in my lifetime,” but subsequent generations will, he says. As to their progress in fulfilling these dreams – “the property is doing its part.”

Sam speaks reverently of the fertile soil, the stream, the pond, the beautiful land, the cozy home. And Rosetta describes a “Currier and Ives homestead where we can grow crops and raise our children” and calls their discovery, “a blessing from God”.

While they grew discouraged with their futile searches to find the right place, someone said – “You will never find a property with everything you want,” Sam recalls, “but we did.”

As they speak, circles form, full and concentric, their sentiments echoing someone else’s discovery of another special spot in Hampton – Trail Wood. Ironically, Edwin Way Teale wrote of the Ostby’s assistance in their search for a place here, too, referencing “the list of things we had hoped for in a country home. Miraculously they all seemed here.”

Watch for signs announcing the opening of Organic Roots Farm on East Old Route 6.

“I lived at the farm for 14 years. I was brought into the family when I was three days old and lived there till I was 14 or 15, when my parents, Lester and Hattie Hawes, sold the place and moved. I think my mother was worried the new road, Route 6, would cut through our property, so we moved. The old barn – it was a nice old barn. There was always a cow, sometimes two, sometimes a calf. There was one horse, and on the other side of the horse’s stall there was a smaller pen with a nanny goat and three babies – that was unusual, for a goat to have three babies. The other half of the barn was used for hay. My father worked for Lester Burnham who owned the farm before we bought it from him. We would bring the horse and wagon up to the hay field, we’d rake up the hay, and my father would pitch it up into the wagon.  We worked until we were finished, and sometimes we returned home in the dark. We used to sleep in the barn sometimes. It was cooler there, with the big doors open. We slept in the hay.”

Margaret Easton, Judy Noel’s “Aunt Maggie”

Doug, the Mighty Little Roo: Dedicated to Two Heroes Who Really Did Save a Life!

“There she is again!”

“Who?”

“That lady. The one who came here in the summer and adopted Lily and Esmerelda.” Four hens and a rooster pressed closer to their gate to have a look. “She’s coming over! What do we do?” the four hens said with a slightly worried ‘cluck, cluck, cluck!’

“Just be yourself,” answered the tiny rooster.

I went over to the small flock only to have a very quick peek. I had a lot to do that day and not much time to do it. “My goodness,” I sighed, and without hesitation spun around and went back to the store to continue my errands. “Can you tell me a little about the four red chickens and one rooster?” I inquired.

“They are the last of our bunch awaiting adoption,” the manager answered. “We think the four girls will be leaving this weekend.”

“So, the tiny rooster doesn’t have a home yet?” I was kind of hoping that he did. I still wasn’t over the loss of our big Brahma rooster, Jack. We’d gotten him as a baby and had grown very attached to him during his six years as part of our family. Not seeing him in our yard anymore, or hearing his proud and songful ‘cocka-doodle- doos’ left quite a little ache inside me. “Will someone come get him before winter sets in?” I said, more as a statement than a question.

“Well, we really hope so. Otherwise, we can keep him in here.”

“Thank you,” I said and left the shop with the little rooster still on my mind. When I returned home later that day, I described the rooster to my husband. “He’s so little but he has all these gorgeous feathers and the ones around his neck remind me of a lion’s mane”.

“What breed is he?” he asked.

The manager hadn’t been sure. “He was supposed to be a Serama (a small, colorful Malaysian breed) but some of his characteristics don’t match, so no one knows for certain.”

My journey to and from work takes me right past the store with the four red hens and the one beautiful rooster. I tried not to look over as I drove past. “I’m just not ready for another rooster,” I’d repeat to myself upon each passing. “Plus, everyone is getting along right now and we don’t need any upsets in the coop.” There. I had convinced myself. Friday came, and all five were still there. Saturday, still five. “Maybe whoever comes for the girls will take the rooster also,” I thought to myself.

Later that day, Doug and his four pen-mates were happily munching on the grapes they’d been treated to by the shop keeper when their friend, little bunny Maxwell, hopped over for a visit. “Max! Hi Max!” the four chickens and one rooster called. “We got grapes today,” they all clucked at once. “Here, try one,” Doug offered as he rolled the grape under the fencing and over to Max.

“Oooo, delicious!” bunny Maxwell replied. “I brought you lettuce.” All five ran this way and that gobbling up every piece the little rabbit tossed in. “Yum! You’re the best Max. Thanks!”

Just then, Sally, who had gone back to eating grapes, stood up straight and stopped talking. She had a strange look on her face. “Sally. Sally. Are you ok?” they all asked. Sally just stood there.

“Something’s wrong!” Doug ran over to Sally who opened her mouth wide. “She has a grape stuck way back in her mouth,” he informed the others. “Keep your mouth open,” he instructed Sally. “I’ll try to pull it out.” But try as he did, that grape would not budge.

“I had a carrot stuck once. I was so scared. It was hard to breathe. Momma thumped me on the back and it flew right out of my mouth!” Maxwell blurted.

“Yes, that’s it,” Doug said as he took hold of Sally and moved her close to the fence. “Ok Max, do to Sally what your Mom did to you”. Maxwell carefully stuck his best thumping foot through the fence and gave Sally a few thump-thump-thumps. Nothing. He tried again. The grape still did not come out. Sally started to wobble. “Oh dear! We need help!” Doug took a deep breath and yelled his very loudest ‘cocka-doodle-doo!’ At the same time, Maxwell took a deep breath and screamed his loudest “Mommmmaaa!” And they kept on yelling until Momma bunny finally arrived.

“Child, what in the world is going on?! And what are you doing way over here so far away from our burrow?”

“These are my friends and Sally has a grape stuck in her mouth. She can’t breathe. I tried to thump it out, but it won’t budge. Help Momma, help!” Maxwell panicked. By now, the other three hens had joined Doug in a fretful chorus of clucks and squawks. Sally was still wobbly and looking a bit pale.

“Ok now, everyone stay calm,” Momma soothed. “Doug, bring her over here near the fence and hold her tight. Sally honey, this might hurt a tiny bit.” Momma slipped her foot through the fence and gave Sally one big, firm thump on the back. Sally coughed and opened her mouth wide. “Anything?” Momma asked Doug.

“I see it!” Doug quickly reached in, pierced the grape with his beak and pulled it right out of Sally’s mouth. Relieved and able to talk again, Sally clucked grateful clucks and hugged Momma bunny.

“You’re a hero Momma!” Little Maxwell exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around his mother.

“No son”, Momma corrected, “you two are the heroes.”

“What do you mean?” Sally asked.

“Well, Maxwell loosened that grape with his powerful thumps,” Momma put her arms around her little bunny. “And both you boys used your mighty shouts to call me. Doug, you used your strong beak with such precision to remove the stubborn grape that wouldn’t budge. Yes sir, these two are the real heroes.”

“Hooray for Max and Doug!” everyone chimed in. Little bunny Maxwell didn’t feel so little anymore. Doug, the tiny roo, didn’t feel so tiny anymore.

“I’m so glad we all got to be friends. Us girls are going to our new home tomorrow so you’ll have to take care of Doug,” Sally said to Max.

“I’ll be ok,” Doug tried to sound optimistic.

It was now late Saturday afternoon and the day was getting on. “I forgot something at the farm store,” I called to my husband. “Be right back.” I pulled in and parked next to the pen housing the small flock. Two cute rabbits were peering out from behind a fallen tree. “Awww, hi you guys!” I called quietly. To my surprise, the bunnies did not run away.

The shop keeper came over with my receipt. “There you go,” she said.

“I know you are closing soon. Thank you for waiting for me,” I replied. I reached in and gently picked up the tiny, little rooster. “I’m told you girls will be in your new home tomorrow,” I said to the four red hens who were all now around my feet.

“Cluck, cluck, cluck! The lady came back! See Doug, it all worked out!” They circled around me as if they were saying goodbye. With the rooster in my arms, I squatted down so the hens could see him. “Bye Doug!” they chirped and cooed. The little roo cooed back as if saying his goodbyes.

“Don’t worry, my girls at home are going to love you and we’re all so happy that you’ll be part of our family now,” I said to the tiny rooster.  I put Doug carefully in his carrier and seat-belted the carrier in. As I started the car, the two rabbits came out from behind the tree where they’d been hiding.

“Good bye Doug!” little bunny Maxwell called. “You’re gonna have so much fun!”

“Bye ladies! Thanks Momma. Good bye Max! Thanks for all the fun times!”

As we drove off, Doug let out a strong and proud ‘cocka-doodle- doooooo!’ Yes, that what is was. I’m positive Well maybe… now I’m wondering. “Nah, don’t be silly,” I thought to myself. “Roosters CAN NOT talk!”  But then…there it was again! Yes, I heard it loud and clear! My little Doug definitely said it: ‘Cocka-doodle-dooo…I’m Doug the Mighty Rooooo!’

Cindy Bezanson

Garden Cats as Pets

No discussion of gardening would be complete without envisioning the roles that pets play in your gardening.  If your vegetable garden is invaded by woodchucks, who are cheerfully eating your beets, squash, and anything else they desire, then your best friend is indeed a dog.  Dogs love the chase, and they are capable of catching and killing those woodchucks.  Maybe you are a vegetarian, but Fido most definitely is not.  You can use this to your advantage with coons as well. Raccoons are smart.  The evening you check your ears of corn and say tomorrow they will be ready to pick, that will be the evening the raccoons come and pick the ears off the stalks, then daintily strip the husks off the corn, and greedily eat all those ears of corn you were dreaming of smothering with butter. Hanging rags soaked in gasoline next to the corn does not work. Leaving a radio on in the corn patch does not work. A dog next to the corn patch does work. If your dog is in the house and barking like crazy at midnight, better check that corn for masked bandits.

Less well known are the benefits of garden cats.  I remember one particular summer in Scotland when I was picking our black raspberries. They were planted in a circle. Being an unmannerly sort of bramble they had grown into a nearly impenetrable patch.  I was picking berries around the edge of the patch and reaching deep into the center when all of a sudden a furry body leapt into the air in front of my face and grabbed a bird off a berry limb. My heart stopped.  I nearly fainted. With heart pounding, I stooped down and peered into the grass around the bushes’ base. It was Tiger, munching on birdmeat. Tiger staked out the black raspberry patch each summer he lived with us, and we picked more berries while he resided here than before or since. These were the only acrobatic performances I ever saw him do.

Frisky, on the other hand, loved rabbit, and the rabbits loved our lettuce and garden greens. Eventually I was no longer startled by certain sound effects in the vegetable garden, such as a crunching noise that sounded just like someone eating peanut brittle. That was Friskie, who saved the rabbit legs until last. If you find that unsettling, ask yourself when you last savored a chicken or turkey leg and your hypocrisy will be cured. You, however, probably don’t eat the bones as well as the meat. When a cat was not hungry, it just enjoyed the thrill of the chase, with the rabbit staying about 25 feet ahead of the cat, and stopping to eat clover the moment the cat stopped, and hopping on again when the chase resumed. Those leisurely lopes around the garden were entertaining to the cat and to us, and though the rabbit may not have been amused, it did not seem terrified either.

Anyone who allows their cats outdoors fears that they will be run over. I remember years ago sitting in my law office and discussing a case with a client. I had an office in my home, and my desk faced the interior of the room with my back towards Route 14. The client set next to my desk, facing the road.  Suddenly the client stood up and shouted, “Your cat just got run over.” I heard a screech of brakes and the acceleration of a car that drove off.  I ran outside. Charcoal was in the highway, dead.  I picked her up and laid her on the lawn. Her head was crushed, but I knew it was her, because she had a very unusual coat.  Each hair near the skin was white, but the color changed to gray and then black as it neared the end of each hair shaft. When the wind blew, the appearance of her color changed.  I felt miserable. I terminated the client interview, and my husband buried her in the back yard.

That night my husband and I went to a movie theater.  I was hoping that an adventure movie would help take my mind off my sadness.  Instead I just felt miserable throughout the movie.  When we drove home and got out of the car, I heard a meow.  That made me even more miserable because Charcoal always greeted us when we came home.  This cat meowed some more and even brushed against me.  We turned on the outside lights. It was a black cat, a very friendly black cat, which kept meowing at us. It couldn’t possibly be Charcoal, but who was it? So I picked the cat up and took it into our kitchen. It did indeed look very much like Charcoal, even the coat.  After several minutes of close examination of this cat, who very much enjoyed the fuss, we decided it really was Charcoal.  Suddenly, I was elated, but the awful heavy feeling in my chest and stomach from the depression of losing her did not go away for some time. I had both feelings at the same time, which was very strange.

If you have ever read Lincoln Steffens’ story, “A Miserable Merry Christmas”, you will know just the feeling I had.  Steffens was a journalist and author in the late 19th and early 20th century.  He wrote a story about a Christmas in his childhood when he told his parents that all he wanted for Christmas was a pony and nothing else. They asked if there wasn’t some toy or game he wanted in case they did not get him a pony, but he stubbornly insisted on the pony or nothing. Christmas morning came, and his brother got toys, and his friends came to see his presents, but he had nothing. The hours whiled away with all the other children enjoying the day. At dusk he was sitting outside on the stoop when he saw a man leading a pony down the street. The man stopped at this house and asked if it was the Steffens’ residence. He apologized for being late.  Steffens recounted the strange mixture of feelings, the joy along with the sadness that wouldn’t evaporate just because he finally got his heart’s desire. That was how I felt with Charcoal’s reappearance.  But then, who was the cat that was killed? We had never seen another cat with a coat like Charcoal’s.  Irrationally, I walked to the grave the next day.  It couldn’t possibly be the same cat, but somehow I had to see the grave myself. The grave was as my husband had left it, all intact. We called her the miracle cat.

Charcoal died at age 17 of cancer.  I held her in my lap at the vets, when she was put to sleep.  She could no longer eat, and then had trouble drinking. I carried her outside to the garden in her last days so she could enjoy the fresh air and hear the familiar sounds.  She is buried for real now in the backyard.

Angela Fichter

Joshua’s Trust – Event in Columbia

On June 8 at 8AM, join birders at the Utley Hill Preserve in Columbia to discover which birds make homes here and which are simply passing through. Also on June 8, the Atwood Farm on Wormwood Hill in Mansfield will participate in Connecticut Open House Day, from noon to 4PM, by offering a view of 19th century farming for visitors with the blacksmith shop, weavers cottage, ice house, hen house, pig sty, 1833 barn and the grist mill, which will be open Sundays from 1 to 4 until October. Admission is free. For more information, call 860-429-9023 or visit joshuastrust.org

From the First Selectman

The Board of Selectmen and the Board of Finance have agreed to delay the Annual Town Meeting until the State Budget is approved in Hartford, after which time an accurate and responsible financial plan will be discussed and acted upon for the Town Government and Hampton Elementary School budgets.

Also on the agenda of the Town Meeting will be discussion on the Town’s purchase of a 51 acre parcel of land along the Little River to the south of the valley on Hammond Hill.  The $171,500 purchase price would be 100% covered by funds already in the Town’s Open Space Account. The 5-Year Plan for roads and capital improvements is also on the docket, including paving projects and generator upgrades at the elementary school.

A hearty “Thank You” to the Mennonite community for their beautification efforts around our town.

Allan Cahill

RD #11 Budget Returns to Voters

The Regional District #11 Board of Education at their May 21 meeting approved a budget level with the current year’s spending to send to tri-town voters.  The initial proposal, a .9% increase, was rejected by the district’s taxpayers on May 7. Though Chaplin approved the spending plan 89-26, Hampton defeated it 113 – 160, and Scotland, 57 – 165, for a cumulative total of 259 in favor, and 351 opposed.

Though the amount allocated for legal expenses increased in the second proposal by $25,529, as did transportation by $44,800, the new budget reduced a position in the Business Department by $12,798 and eliminated two special education paraprofessionals for an additional $35,504. There was also a $75,000 reduction in health insurance due to personnel changes.

The anticipated surplus as the fiscal year comes to a close is $50,000 – $100,000 to add to the audited fund balance of $266,157. There was no discussion at the board meeting on applying a portion of that surplus to the towns’ assessments, which was a possibility raised by taxpayers.

The $6,422,464 budget proposal will be voted by referendum on June 4.

From the Registrars of Voters

The polls will be open from noon to 8PM on June 4 in the Community Room at Town Hall to vote on the Regional District#11 2019-2020 Budget. Registered voters and taxpayers listed on the October, 2018 Grand List as owning property assessed for at least $1000 are eligible to vote in the referendum, though citizens can cast a ballot in only one of the three district towns. Absentee ballots are available during regular Town Hall hours from the Town Clerk up until the opening of the polls.

OPINION: THE GHOST OF ELIZABETH SHAW

On June 29, 1745, Elizabeth Shaw, a ‘weak, simple girl, deficient in mental capacity,’ gave birth to  a boy in Windham [now Hampton], Connecticut . She was not happy. Her son was a bastard child, which could not only bring punishment and public humiliation upon her, but also incur the wrath       of her ‘stern and rigid’ father. She decided to rid herself of the problem by taking the baby into the woods, hiding it in a nook along a ledge of rocks, and leaving it there to die.” 

                                                                                                                          From Early American Crime

This girl grew up in Hampton. I cannot imagine the fear of not knowing what was happening to her body, even the experience of how she got pregnant. Most likely, she was raped, perhaps by a family member, or someone she knew in the community.

In the last month, I have had many angry and bewildering conversations with women friends (and some good feminist men) about our place in the world. Hearing stories of mothers and grandmothers and aunts and daughters, their varied and valid    experiences, the need to have an abortion (pre– and post Roe v. Wade), and to    protect the very human rights of women and girls everywhere. Neighbors and friends have already volunteered to create an “underground railroad” to help women and girls from states like Alabama, Georgia, and Ohio to receive safe and supportive care of their choice here in Connecticut, at the risk of losing their own freedom to inane and unconstitutional laws. 

Elizabeth Shaw is not merely a footnote to our Hampton herstory; she is a tangible  reminder that we cannot remain silent in the face of ignorance, that we must educate our children without fear, and continue the struggle for equality and human rights for all.                                                                                     

Mary Oliver