Discovering the weird and whimsical sites of New England
Author: Theophanes Avery
Theophanes Avery is a whimsical travel blogger that is hopelessly in love with New England and all it's weird places, people, and things. Besides running way too many blogs they are the author of three books, at least one of them good, and they also enjoy raising aquarium fish in Walsted tanks, sculpting, Sharpie doodling, knitting, tattooing leather, homesteading, and whatever other hobby tickles their raging ADD. Less fortunately they are a hopelessly impoverished spoonie yelling to the world, "WE NEED MORE COMMUNITY!" but alas no one's listening. Make sure to find them on the FaceBook. They love new oddball friends. Fly the freak flag high my darlings!
I had to go back to Peterborough today to pick up either my medical records or the first draft of Moby Dick, I can’t tell you for sure, point is once I finished this chore it occurred to me there was a trail nearby I had passed the last time I was up here. So off I went to check it out!
The sign you can see from the road
Now the sign denoting this little forest path is HUGE but it’s oddly located outside what appears to be a hall of some sort and an orchard and some other random houses. Once you’re in the parking lot you’ll see a bench, a big green field, and a bulletin board type thing describing nearby trees. The entrance to the path itself is past this big board and over the field out of sight of the parking lot. It feels…. awkward…. to get there…. but I did it anyway.
Entrance ot the path
I don’t know if many people use this place. The path was a bit gnarly from the get-go but it is fall and I suspect less people go out hiking when the weather gets cooler. I don’t know why. It’s way more pleasant to hike now than it is in the 80 degree heat of summer! But hey, if you want to dissolve into a puddle of sweat be my guest…
The path started to diverge into dozens of other smaller tributary paths. All of them were marked as trails but there seemed to be no logic or deeper meaning to the markers which were spread like confetti randomly through the trees sporting every color for no reason I could tell. Normally this sort of thing would make me head back but it was a small area surrounded by roads and since I knew the roads I figured I was safe enough to wander.
PINE TREES.
This was a somewhat unusual hike for me as it was straight into a pine forest. Most of the places I hike are decidedly deciduous or at least mixed. They’re arguably prettier but pine forests are definitely creepier… and I am not the only one to say so. It’s no surprise to me that years ago when I was chasing the Jersey Devil he was said to live in the pine barons. Today wasn’t disappointing either. Once I got to the river I could sense the presence of a teenage girl but I couldn’t see anyone at first and then at three separate points I noticed in the corner of my eye someone in an ankle length historical dress darting behind the trees 100 or so feet away. I know what you’re thinking, this seems like a great reason to head back to the car and pretend nothing was out there. I however am not that easily swayed. Whoever it was seemed to be watching me, yes, but they seemed to be doing so in a playful manner so I took a different option – I just started to talk to them. “Hello there! I can see you and I don’t have a problem with you if you don’t have a problem with me…” And maybe she just wanted to be validated because I didn’t feel or see her again. I have no idea if this place is known for such encounters or if today I witnessed something special.
I spent some time sitting on some rocks over the little brook but there were also picnic tables nearby and despite the trails being a total rat’s nest this did seem like a sweet little nook in the woods, perhaps a great place to take a date for lunch. Although you might not want to take dating advice from me considering my idea of a date involves far more death than desserts. Stroll through a cemetery? Sounds like a Gothic dream to me. Winding down unexplored “roads” with a Prius where you might be attacked by Bigfoot or get mired in a mud puddle and die? AWWWWE. Going to an abandoned asylum at midnight looking for ghosts? Fuck, if that’s your idea of a date I’m marrying you! This is probably why I’m single… I mean I think it’s hilarious I have the audacity to bum rush a bobcat without thinking (to protect my bunnies) but most people find this at the very least intimidating. SIGH.
ANYWAY, back on track… This was a lovely little outing. If you happen to be in the area with a bag lunch by all means check it out… otherwise it’s tiny. I guess historically these paths used to go everywhere in Peterborough but they’ve been chopped up by the purchase of private property. Some of the trails did lead to longer ones if you didn’t mind crossing the road (I wasn’t about to do that…) Anyway, here’s the photos I managed to take – including a couple of a FUZZY CATERPILLAR, the perfect distraction!
One of the things I have not been able to explore as much as I have wanted to is the local music scene – both what’s up in Boston as well as all the weird and unusual things going on in Vermont. Problem is I don’t like going to these shindigs alone (for reasons of safety) and none of my local friends are uh… as enthusiastic as I am about avant guard music. Soooo…. when I learned that a band I actually really adore out of Boston was showing up in Fitchburg for an open-air gig in the park I couldn’t say no.
If I’m honest it’d been a tough week for me but that made me all the more determined to get out there and enjoy this. Problem is there was pretty much no information anywhere. All I could find is it started at 4PM and tickets were $10 online (with no link to buy them) and $15 at the gates. Oooookaaaay. Right from the get-go I thought 4PM sounded weird as fuck for such a thing but whatever… I can still roll with it.
And I showed up at 4PM to a pretty empty park. In fact it was so empty that I wondered if I had the right park! Turns out I had accidentally bumbled into it from a rear entrance. And it was soooo Fitchburgy. To one side a plaque read about how this park was here because the river was soooo beautiful that it was determined it must be a park. And indeed there was some pretty impressive masonry holding up a flag whoosing over… a VERY overgrown and completely unkempt riverbank. Even hiking into the middle of nowhere I hadn’t seen a thicket of weeds so ferociously thick. I took a photo – and then was asked by a man if I was a volunteer. No? He told me to check in and pointed frantically towards the other side of the park. I shrugged and did as I was told.
Approaching the ticketmaster I asked what was up today, pretending to play dumb for a moment. She told me it was a Steampunk Festival and that there were vendors, food trucks, beer from a local brewery, and live music but they wouldn’t be starting for an hour. I knew 4PM had to be wrong! She didn’t even have tickets or anything so I bid her adieu and wandered the streets like a common urchin for a while. Until I got tired, found a bench, and just sat people watching. Problem is there seemed to be just as many people watching me, including a shuttle bus driver who kept passing and giving me the dirty eyeball. WHY? Is it the orange hair? It’s the orange hair.. or perhaps my general ne’er-do-well appearance. Two parked cop cars were also watching me sit idly by myself. I promise I wasn’t dealing. Seriously. Just minding my own!
Does this look like a face you’d trust? At least I had an excuse to wear the granny glasses again…
Eventually 5PM rolled around so I got off my duff and wandered back to the park, said hello again to the ticket master, and gave her exact change because she didn’t have a change box yet. I did however learn that this whole event was an attempt to raise money to buy the park a permanent stage. There’d been a folk festival the month before (which I wish I knew about) and next month they’re holding Fiesta Latina (Saturday 9/14/19 from 5-9) I could feel good about supporting such a cause. Music and art are a wonderful way to vitalize a community.
I wandered around looking at the vendors for as long as I could muster, said a happy hello to them, but really… there was one guy signing people up for a raffle, the beer guy, and two craft vendors. The food trucks were still amiss. I felt bad for the two crafters, this was the saddest turn out for such a thing I had ever seen. Obviously this meant I needed to shower one with praise for her art (which was actually nice, mind you!) and stop to get a Henna tattoo from the other. I’d always liked the idea of letting someone doodle on my skin… I mean this isn’t quite as involved as checking “volunteer sorry carcass to be full body painted” off my bucket list but it was close enough. Did you know Henna smells really weird? It smells like a head shop. I wasn’t real fond of it and kept smelling myself the rest of the day. SIGH. I did however listen intently to the care instructions – should last 24 hours before starting to fleck off leaving a stain. Don’t bash it against things. That last instruction may have been too much for me – someone who has consistently failed at being refined and dainty since birth. And yes, I saw the exasperated look the artist gave me as I then wandered off and sat on the ground in what I can only guess was the least feminine manner possible. Shockingly I did not smudge it in the grass! I did however pick it all off later that night because it was driving me nuts. Can’t win them all. TO NEW EXPERIENCES!
Honestly it looked better as a stain.
By now I wasn’t the only one in the audience but I was pretty damn close. A row of local older hippies sat in camping chairs up near the front. Damn! I had two of those in my car if only I had the audacity to lug them through Fitchburg and into the park. Nope, nevermind. I’m nutty enough a scene without a damn chair. I plopped my ass down a little behind them and off to the side.
AND SO THE SHOW BEGAN! First up was The Dirge Carolers. To me they had a typical steam punk sound mixed with a lot of murder ballad type lyrics. I relaxed. Gallows humor will always be a hit to me. By now some people were filing in and out and I was starting to enjoy the people watching. There were a lot of costumes, corsets, top hats, bustles, goggles, that sort of thing, and flashes of unnaturally colored hair abounded. I was home here. However this was not the feeling everyone got as I witnessed one old black dude just wandering aimlessly, staring wide-eyed at everyone with an unmistakable impression on his face, “Uh-oh, the crazy white people have taken over the park again.” He wasn’t wrong.
I was sitting directly in the sun which was glaring in my eyes bad. I couldn’t see a damn thing but I knew the stage was probably populated by oddly adorned individuals – how? Well by the amount of amateur photographers who seemed to be floating around taking snaps with great glee – captive bizarre human subjects!! I’ll admit, I had thought about doing the same but I didn’t bring my camera, just my phone. One particular photographer was college aged, seemed to think a lot about each capture. She kept circling me, taking photos of everything around me. And then she worked up the nerve to take a photo of me, just me. There was NO WAY she could hide this so I just looked up from my reclined position on the grass and smiled broadly. Sorry. Better luck next time getting a natural shot of me. She seemed embarrassed. I just laughed and nodded.
As the band continued to play the most Fitchburg-y thing happened. A train rumbled through right behind the stage completely blocking out all music for a good three minutes or so as it dragged car after car after car behind it. I thought it was a terrific piece of ambiance for a steampunk festival! The band played on like they were on the goddamn Titanic. That’s dedication there. They eventually left off with some song from a B-rated horror movie they wrote it for, sullenly leaving the stage with this odd lamentation, “Sorry, no Zombie Llama today.” Though I’d never heard of this band I suddenly wanted to hear Zombie Llama.
The first intermission was fun. The park was still pretty quiet. There were people around but it seemed like they were just here for the food truck (ouch.) I considered getting up and buying myself a nice shwarma but I’d been struggling with bad nausea all week and wasn’t really hungry. Maybe in a bit. In the meantime I was being kept well entertained by a human blockhead running around with a long nail and power drill – an act I have seen many times before but this one was way more fun because the audience he was playing to – those nice old hippie ladies- were WELL GROSSED OUT, turning their heads in abject horror and audibly gagging. Sorry bud, it’s just not your day. He wandered off a smidge sullen.
Once everyone settled back down with their assorted dinners the second band went up to bat. They were the Busted Jug Band a strange assortment of heavily costumed, utterly bizarre, peoples carrying rubber chickens. And some instruments…. which were very… DIY… They also introduced every one of the members, not by name, but by aggressively odd nicknames which I am not entirely certain weren’t made up on the spot. My favorite was Root Boy which just… brings up SO MANY QUESTIONS. Like what kind of root? And whhhy? Do you aspire to be a turnip? Because you’re giving me a root vegetable vibe. Even better one of the other band members was wearing translucent angel wings… which during the last intermission freaked me the hell out because all I could see through a halo of sun glare was a top-hatted silhouette and angel wings. For a second I thought I might have died. No such luck.
But anyway, the music from this band was… different for sure! And perhaps a bit familiar? I think I may have seen them before… This had a much more silly feel to it. No one up there was taking their life even the tiniest bit seriously. And of course that intense whimsy was all the more adorable to me. I was pretty happy on my little patch of grass though my knees and back weren’t so much. I contemplated lying on the ground and staring at the sky for a while. I could always tell people walking by I was on acid and watching the pretty clouds (there were no clouds) as I knew in this crowd that’d be a perfectly acceptable thing to say… I held it together.
By the time the second band finished up I was just really loving the vibe of everyone here. The old hippies were randomly getting up, wandering, and dancing, and hugging each other – I’m not going to lie, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were on acid. They were warm and lovely bunch. Most of the lookee-loos had wandered off but more and more steam-punky looking people were showing up and I’ll be damned if that old black dude didn’t pull up a chair behind me with his daughter and her friends. Shout out to all the cool dads out there who don’t get their kids hobbies at all but still support them! I can’t tell you how much I respect that. His daughter and her friends were in the maybe 12-14 age range. She was sporting a dark purple mohawk and was giving me some strong Aspie vibes but I couldn’t be happier with that. Be your weird self. She stuttered to me that she liked my hair. I told her I liked hers too and then she blurted out, “But it BURNS!” What? “Bleaching it! It burns so bad!” Ooooh, I don’t think you’re supposed to keep it in that long… “TWO HOURS! AND I CAN’T HAVE MY NAILS DONE EITHER!” Why? She held up her nails, two well done fake nails still remaining with all the others hacked the hell off. I grok that. I held up my own in solidarity and laughed. She asked if I liked music. I said all kinds and asked what she liked listening to. She listed a bunch of 90’s bands and I suddenly felt really old. I felt only somewhat better when I recognized the one modern band she did mention – Panic at the Disco – but if I am brutally honest I only have heard the name in passing. I haven’t the foggiest idea what they sing.
Meanwhile as this intermission dragged on the human block head came out with fire. Ah, fire eating. How dual purpose. But he wasn’t having a great time with it. No one here seemed impressed, the kids were vocally not entertained, and eventually when he couldn’t get his last trick to go right he gave this exasperated expression and wandered off, leaving the stage to a chick who worked at the local eatery across the street. Her fire came attached to hula hoops and she wasn’t fucking around. I was actually quite impressed! We’d see her intermittently for the rest of the night doing different acts – all with various things in flames. It was probably at this time one of the girls wandered off and cornered the blockhead/fire eater and somehow elicited his entire life story from him. I got to hear all about it a few minutes later and had to struggle really hard not to laugh. I’m not eavesdropping, no siree.
The last band up was the one I came for: Walter Sickert and the Army of Broken Toys. They were having some issues setting up with unwanted feedback loops and were taking awhile. I had already seen them perform two or three times before – never thought I’d see them again. That last time I went they didn’t come on stage until the establishment was nearly closed. The pamphlet said they were unpredictable and I had heard rumors that they were hard to work with because of these issues but even with all that they have to be one of the best experiences of my life. They really truly believe that art, love, and music can cure all the world’s ills and their audience is so vibrant, creative, and accepting that in each of those instances I got the hugest contact high just from all the warm fuzzies in the air. That’s what I came for! That and the music. This band… raw fucking talent. And this was obvious when they finally got to singing and the whole audience which had been fidgety and complaining behind me just went, “WOW!” And the grumpy old dad? “I guess this WAS worth waiting for them to set up!”
It had started with sweet sad violin music, not a note out of place, that lulled the audience before walloping them over the head with strong passionate vocals and more traditional instruments. Absolutely amazing. And some of the band members had young children whose birthday it was so they all got up on the stage and danced in a cloud of bubbles as a few songs were dedicated to them. That was certainly different than the body positive burlesque dancers and drag kings I was used to surrounding this act but it was so…. sweet. And seemed so right, all at the same time. Maybe with time everyone grows up – but the smartest among us clutch tightly to the passion and whimsy that brought us this far. I was overjoyed to get one short video of the madness, one of my favorite songs – a cover of I am Sam Hall (Best. Version. Ever.) which I will post below. As the music came to an end I slinked silently back into the night where I found comfort in the darkness and drove quietly home, a smile on my face.
Yesterday I passed this cemetery and noted that I had to go check it out because of all the slate stones I could see from the road. Had I not been running errands I would have stopped right then and there but alas I had to wait until today to satiate my curiosity.
The cemetery is easy to find. It’s on Old Street Road between East Hill Road and Glen Drive. It’s marked by a large green historical marker and has space for a few cars to parallel park in the front of it. The numerous plaques and markers denote this is the resting place of a great many Revolutionary War soldiers, including a famous drummer by the name of William Diamond. It was also Peterborough’s first cemetery and wow, did I hit the jackpot here! This had to be the largest gathering of slate stones I have ever seen. This was a sizable and old cemetery. I would have never guessed Peterborough was this bustling so long ago!
But first I had to get in. A sign out front said the hours and a few limitations (no pets or stone rubbings allowed) but when I got to the gate it seemed to be welded shut. It was weird. There was already a car here so someone was already in the cemetery but I couldn’t see them. How did they get in?? I tugged at the gate. Nothing. I contemplated jumping over the wall but there were too many cars going by and I am rather recognizable with neon orange hair and psychedelic bell bottoms. After getting frustrated I said, “OK. I will be back!”
Later that day I was talking to my mother about all this and she said there had to be a way in. “I bet you that gate opened somehow.” So I put her up to the task and we both headed out for attempt number two. As it turns out the gate isn’t welded shut it’s just stuck – quite stubbornly. With enough wiggling and pulling it finally opened.
By now I had gone online and realized that this cemetery was only 77% photographed and there were five open requests out to find five separate grave markers:
William Wallace (1698 – ??) Jane Mitchel (1721-1791) Jane Chamberlin (1820-1822) Benjamin Chamberlin (??-1819) and William Robbe (1692-1791)
Two of these were babies during their deaths about a hundred years ago. Who is searching for the grave markers of long dead babies!? I mean I understand the adults – it’s probably a genealogy thing, but babies never grew up to have descendants and with almost a hundred years since their death there’s no one in living memory to want to see their memorial either… It sounds really crass but often times the memorials of infants and babies are… ephemeral. They’re small, often lack a lot of information, sometimes they don’t have any writing on them at all. In the case of stillbirths they’re frequently buried without a name. Today the death of a baby is a tragedy but a hundred, two hundred years ago? It was just another every day event.
Possible gravestone stump to the right…
Still – knowing someone was looking I was determined. I WILL FIND YOU! EVEN THE BABIES! I looked to see if there were any more information on any of these individuals and came up pretty empty handed. In fact the information online about everyone here seemed shockingly scarce for what I felt to be quite a historic place. But alas even the revolutionary war soldiers had only the shortest and most cryptic of descriptions online – birth place, birth and death dates, time of service, if they were married or had kids, and nothing more. Pretty basic stuff. I also found no pennies here. These historical figures were…. completely and utterly forgotten.
It was weird. The cemetery seems like it’s kept really well. Some of the stones were repaired or replaced but most were still in pristine condition. This made the missing stones all the more confusing. It was a bright hot day and almost the whole cemetery is in full sunlight with no shade. I started in the corner and made a beeline for the back where I figured the oldest stones may be. And sure enough I found the Robbe family plot which spanned two centuries and seemed to have all the Robbe’s… except for William. Where are you hiding William? Do you even have a stone here? Or did you ever get one? Or did it somehow get destroyed? There was a rock in the ground which I couldn’t tell if it was just another random rock in the ground or a part of a gravestone that no longer had a top. Hmmmm. The mystery thickens!
And by now the mugginess and heat where getting to the both of us so I had to call it a day. I’m not done yet though. I will be back… perhaps with a map of plots in hand to help guide me. And in the meantime I joined Find a Grave and will offer my photos and finds as they are warranted since I am already touring these places anyway. Might as well make myself useful!
There’s also a two trailheads on the same street and well… I am going to need to check those out too…
The Festival of Fireworks is something that almost everyone I know has attended at least once because it’s so goddamn amazing. Normally it’s 45 solid minutes of fireworks perfectly timed to well loved music like Pink Floyd and Queen. Seriously, you’ve never heard Queen until you’ve seen every note set to colorful sky explosions. It’s AMAZING. And it’s put on by Atlas Fireworks – the same hometown company that does the big displays at our nation’s capital on July 4th. Dare I say there’s no better firework display to see in the US!
This year the theme was Woodstock so I knew I had to go no matter what. I may have been born in the 80’s but it’s the music of 67-69 that really ignites my passion for music. And the 50th Anniversary of Woodstock? Are you kidding me?! I’M GOING.
It’s pretty normal for locals to have parties and gatherings the night of the fireworks and to attend them in little groups. We had done much the same and invited a bunch of people. However things from the start weren’t going right. Mother was anxious to leave early, although she didn’t know why, her friends weren’t responding to text messages despite having planned to meet up, and the one person already at the house had a headache so severe she decided to stay behind. By the time our other guests showed up my mother was in a tizzy.
We arrived in Jaffrey and parked a ways away before walking the rest of the way. There had been threats of rain and it was looking pretty gray but I continued walking. I didn’t care. It rained at the actual Woodstock, who says this wasn’t nature’s little tip of the hat to authenticity? However what we didn’t know is the fireworks were starting early and by the time we got to the gates we had already missed the first third of the show. Still didn’t care. Still kept on walking! Our guests on the other hand didn’t want to pay the $10 a head to see something that’d already started so they stopped before the gates.
As we walked up to the ticket booth I caught the tail end of Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit and by the time I was setting my chair up Joe Cocker was belting out With a Little Help from my Friends and I nearly cried because I was just so happy. Ear to ear grin. And when Santana started playing I felt like I was goddamn flying. I was in my element. There’s something about that music that just makes me feel so…. alive. And I wasn’t the only one grooving to the good vibes. People all around me were singing along to the choruses and giving off this wonderful sense of connectedness.
As soon as we sat down it started to drizzle a bit. People were already leaving. I brought a hoodie and an umbrella, planning for the worst and just staked it out. I took a few videos. They had a lot of the favorites – Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Credence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane, a little Blood Sweat and Tears and then when they got around to The Who’s Pinball Wizard things had really heated up. By now it had started to POUR and people were fleeing in droves, practically no one was staying seated. But the fireworks were going off by now with more vigor than all the songs previous and I was just having a blast! Was I cold? YES. That rain was icy. Was I wetter than a gym sock during a field trial? Fuck yes I was and it was just adding to my pure joy about the whole thing. It just felt right.
After this the rain started coming down in sheets even harder than before which aside from drenching all the people left behind it also drowned out any music I could still hear. A white water rapid formed aside us whooshing a four inch deep stream down into the storm drains. People were running out en masse, soaked through and through. It was like watching a hoard of drown rats fleeing a sinking ship!
Still I managed to video the finale anyway. As usual it was bombastic – just nonstop flashes of colors and chest rattling booms. My mother and I were laughing. I took a selfie to remember the night. By the time we got back to where we left our friends they had already walked back to the car and driven home. We spent the next half hour wheeling around the back roads because my mother got lost. To be fair it was PITCH black and raining and I probably would have done the same.
All and all, despite everything that went wrong, I am sooooo happy I went. I really needed that! And the free ice cold shower was actually a bonus to me. Below are the videos I took.
Janis Joplin – Piece of my Heart:
Bad Moon Rising – Credence Clearwater Revival
You Made me so Very Happy – Blood, Sweat, and Tears
Rolling on the River – Credence Clearwater Revival
All Along the Watchtower – Jimi Hendrix
**having some technical difficulties uploading this one**
Pinball Wizard – The Who
The Finale – Song Unknown.
This blog brought to you by me and my super chill mom.
Vermont in particular seems to have a long and bizarre history when it comes to interesting ordinary individuals. One of those people I just learned was Phineas Gage. If you don’t know who Phineas Gage is you’re not alone. Mostly it’s people in the psychiatric and medical professions that know his name. He was just a normal railway worker living his life when an accident launched him into the pages of history.
It happened in 1848 when he was working on the rails south of the village of Cavendish Vermont. The railways went directly through mountainous areas which meant that workers had to blast their way through in order to put the rails down. This was dangerous work that involved boring a hole in the rock, filling it with explosives, and packing sand on top with an iron rod (called a tamping iron) before lighting a fuse. Phineas was in the process of doing this when his attention was distracted and when he turned his head to speak the tamping iron struck the rock, caused an unexpected spark, and before he had any time to react he had the 13 pound 3 foot rod shot through his head which landed 85 feet away. This would have been the end for most workers but not Gage who convulsed a few times before getting up and staying conscious well past getting to the hospital. Insanely stoic this guy claimed he wasn’t hurt much and should be back to work in a few days. Granted going to the doctors in the 1800’s wasn’t as sterile or educated as it is today. Gage’s recovery was up and down and at one point included the draining of a fungal abscess on his remaining brain issue which may have caused further damage.
Today I visited the spot of the memorial plaque dedicated to this very unlikely survivor. It sits in the Cavendish common which isn’t the site of the accident but is nearby. I parked at the Municipal building which is just behind the monument that is welded to a rock. I’m afraid my photo isn’t fantastic but it shows in brief detail the life of a man that is more of a curiosity now than he was in his own life (and he was very well known then for it.)
If you’re wondering what happened to Gage after his recovery well… that’s where the story gets quite muddy. What is known is that Gage survived his injury and that for what appears a short time afterward he showed symptoms not uncommon among brain-injured patients but remarkably despite his story being repeatedly rewritten for political reasons he seems to have gone on to live a pretty normal life… His intelligence was said to be unaffected, his memory returned, and he even held down numerous jobs before seizures prevented him from keeping them. We don’t know why he died or if his injury had any real lasting effects on his personality because there seems to be a lot of conflicting information.
Other common myths around this one remarkable individual is that his injury gave inspiration for the invention of lobotomies. There’s no written evidence of this but I have to wonder why it’s been linked in the first place. As I read up on this to create this blog entry I was filled with far more questions than answers. Did he have any serious personalty changes after the accident and if so did they get better over time? Maybe the lesson in his story isn’t whether or not brain damage can make someone a different person but to what extent one can expect to recover from such a thing. Maybe this is really about the remarkable plasticity of the brain.
This photo of the man was discovered in 2009. In it he sits with his tamping iron which toured with him throughout New England in the two years after the accident. It’s unsettling to say the least.
After leaving the monument I asked the GPS where to go and by happenstance it dragged me onto a narrow dirt road where the same rail line ran through the woods. It was a strange moment to realize this. All and all today’s visit to the Phineas Gage memorial and the Fort at Number 4 satiated my desire for history. Until next time…
It was this and several other little memories that brought me back today as I found myself once again on the road. The Fort at Number Four is a reconstruction of a wooden fort that stood in the fourth plantation of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1735. It was the North Westernmost British settlement in the New World. By 1745 ten families lived within the confines of the fort behind big fortified walls. There were living quarters, a saw mill, gardens, a barn, a black smith shop all nested in the woods like some sort of antisocial wooden castle blockading itself from the rest of the world. Why was such a thing necessary? Well because diplomacy apparently wasn’t one of the settlers’ biggest skills and the “Indians” (which are still referred to as such in the pamphlets they were handing out today) were a little testy about the new neighbors claiming their land as their own. And from there it appears there were some dust ups involving the British, the French, the occasional Spaniard… to me this seems like lunacy. For ten families to live in what amount to the wilderness – thirty five miles from the closest settlement. But OK.
Oh today’s tour was going to be good if this is what I went in there thinking. I am happy to note it was a really easy place to find and on a Thursday pretty much no one was there except a woman taking admission fees ($12 per adult) and one melting tour guide in period garb who I found playing Hoops with some children. He offered everyone else guided tours but myself and the older couple who came in at the same time as me politely declined to go wander on our own. I like allowing myself time and space to take photos from odd angles and such.
Here’s a photo of my knees giving a solid “fuck you” for climbing to the top of the tower. These stairs have to be climbed down backwards like a latter. Fun.
First off I should remark that you shouldn’t revisit places form your childhood that you once thought were so grand because when you get there and realize just how tiny and insignificant they are your perceptions will be RUINED. I headed up the tower, which by the way is only three stories high, and looked out over the river. Yup. There was Vermont. Looking all green and sleepy as she usually does. The view was sooo…. unspectacular, but I guess it would be for someone who has flown in planes, peered down from the Penobscot Bridge Observatory, and nearly died of exhaustion dragging my sorry ass to the top of the Empire State Building. Life and experience had dampened my reaction.
I remembered literally nothing else of the fort from those sweet early days and I was actually happily surprised how expansive the place was. Plus it smelled like old barn wood which made me deliriously happy. Of course being unlit it was pretty dark in spots but that made it all the more fun. Coming into the kitchen I found a number of herbs hanging to dry. One of them brought me straight back to my childhood. It smelled SO FAMILIAR but I don’t know what it was… something from my days in the first house I lived in. I was grinning from ear to ear. The fort seemed to have a lot of personality even with very sparse furnishings. It was indeed the perfect space to play with my photography – the lighting, the architecture, the odd artifacts, all lent themselves beautifully to this task.
Yup, those would be two child-sized coffins int he rafters. Daring motif.
Then I got to looking around – and having a bit of fun with the artifacts. being as this was basically set up for children many of the exhibits were hands-on like the series of pelts that lined the walls of one of the buildings that made up a sort of macabre dead petting zoo of sorts. It wasn’t the most morbid thing by far, there were two child-size coffins in the workshop, and another plaque telling the history of the place said something about “murder holes” being needed to protect the families in their bedrooms. Murder holes. To protect the family. In their beds. Just let that sink in. But the weirdest thing I found was a diorama of the place. There were soldiers reenacting a battle all around it, which I get, but why they were wearing Scottish kilts and who they were fighting…. fuck if I know. Maybe there was a sale on figurines that day. Kilted ones. Or maybe there’s something the brochures aren’t telling me. Quite frankly I left a bit confused and only took one feeble shot of this weird scene because I didn’t feel like being that person taking photos of the diorama. Seriously. That guy. We all know that guy. I still have pride. I wandered off to fondle the zombie pets.
Besides the mystery Scottish militia there seems to be a vaguely Turkish looking dude in the back swinging a bayonet at nothing. I have no idea who they’ve killed.
I spent maybe an hour or so poking around. It was a sweet little way to spend an afternoon. After this I allowed the GPS to try and kill me leading me through increasingly narrow dirt roads on the search for my next destination – the scene of Phineas Gage’s fateful railway accident.
My final stop today was in the South Cemetery in Wendell Massachusetts. It was really weird. I had a moment of deja vu when I saw it. I don’t know when it was but I know I have passed this cemetery before and I knew then I wanted to see it but if I remember correctly it was another hot summer day and I was coming home from somewhere else, again enjoying the back roads. I didn’t stop then but I knew I had to today. Something there was calling me. So I parked badly on the little grass hill in front of the cemetery and headed in with my camera.
The cemetery is located at a fork in the road. There was traffic going by but I have no idea where they were going. This place was sparsely inhabited. Still, the two cars that drove by slowed down to see what crazy person was out here, alone, in an old cemetery in the woods.
For some reason I was being drawn to the back right corner exactly the opposite of where I parked. I passed by an old crypt, took a quick shot, and then noticed something very odd. Here sitting quietly in the shade were two of the most unusual stones I had ever seen in New England. In fact they weren’t stones at all. One was a wooden cross with another chunk of wood sitting at its base, the appropriate details burned into it and laying atop a circle of random rocks. It was a burial that wouldn’t look out of place in the Old West but here in New England it was odd. Even weirder still was the plot next to it which held no cross, just a lump of wood, again with all the usual data seared into it. This was the first time I’d seen a wooden memorial. It seemed so… impermanent. Was that the point? To be remembered and then forgotten entirely once living memory was lost? A dead bird sat in front of them, perhaps left by a cat. It was a bit eerie, certainly the first time I’ve found a headless animal sitting atop a grave.
I couldn’t stop staring at the memorial. The more I looked the more weird details came to the surface. There was a tiny purse hanging from the cross. Why? This was the last resting place of a man. Was it left by an old girlfriend? I don’t know why but I was very saddened by this particular plot. Whoever was here was young when he died – too young. And it was recently. Only 2015. The epitaph read, “Live life real.” I could have seen him alive and never have known it. And the plot next to him read “matriarch” and was only three years later. Was that his mother? Did she die from a broken heart? My own grandmother outlived two of her five children who died in adulthood and… she was never the same.
I sat staring at these two plots for quite a while. So many questions. There were a lot of other Stebbins here. Clearly the family has been buried here for a long time – but they all got stones. It’s odd. The purse seemed to hint someone was still around who cared. Who visited. But the fact that the marker was so… cheaply made and impermanent just didn’t settle right with me. I wondered if they couldn’t afford a stone. It happens sometimes. I looked them up when I got home but none of my questions were answered. If anything their obituaries just brought up more mystery. I eventually pulled myself away.
Not to far away in the same back row another stone caught my eye. It looked pretty typical until you looked closer at it and realized instead of any of the usual motifs it was a hammer with angel wings and an odd inscription, “In peace, through work; joy” And then I realized this was another person who died young. This just made me wonder more. However this person had literally no traces online having died in 1977. So recently and yet not enough.
By now I was feeling pretty strange. Usually as I walk through rows of stones I do have curiosity but this odd sense of being pulled, this mystery, and the overall sadness was new. I don’t know what or who was there but I don’t think I was alone. I wandered through some of the older markers and made note of some of the prose. One was short and cryptic, “Death sure will come, the time unknown.” That is certainly true of Alonzo Granger who “..died from shock from railway accident when his chest was crushed and his feet were cut off.” Brutal. This mixed with my previous experience here today just made me feel like what I was doing right now – living my life to its fullest, exploring, traveling, learning, meeting new people, it’s all the right thing to be doing. I had a moment of gratitude before I finally left and decided to call it a day. I shall be back to this area. It was far to beautiful and poetic to leave behind forever.
Taking a jaunt through the Northwest Cemetery was fun but ideally I was out for a hike today. All the cemeteries and fishing holes were just a distraction. Really I wanted to find a nice trail and enjoy the somewhat moderate weather. It was only 79 degrees out, in the past week it’s been 84 and although that seems only a slight difference it really isn’t when slogging through the woods!
I’d passed by a number of trailheads which weren’t marked. I wasn’t sure if they were private property and was really on the lookout for something that I could park in front of without being towed away or reported. That’s always a plus. So when I started seeing a few feeble signs for the Federated Woman’s Club State Forest I couldn’t help but wonder what that was. I turned in and it was…. completely vacant. I am not sure any cars have been down here since spring. The roads were ROUGH. The potholes were so deep that the undercarriage of the Prius got a bit scraped up despite me trying desperately to drive less than ten miles an hour and go around them. The GPS was also no help. According to my map I was driving into nowhere. The roads weren’t even showing up.
Finally I drove up to a little parking space which looked like it was at a trailhead although nothing was marked at all. I stopped and tried for the fourth time today to type in “Where am I?” into my cell phone and for the fourth time it told me I was out of range for any kind of internet connection. SIGH. So unfortunately I have no idea which trail it was that I took or where it was… only that I was somewhere within the boundaries of the park.
There were signs everywhere warning that hunting and trapping were allowed here. I guess it’s a good thing I have neon orange hair. I don’t feel like being shot today. The trail at first seemed like an old road and someone had probably driven up it somewhat recently but before I knew it the path narrowed and started looking more like a hiking trail. It was SO QUIET out here that all I could hear was the birds. I don’t think there was a soul around and I don’t think many people aside from trappers and hunters must use these trails because it wasn’t long before it went from a pleasant stroll to “Hmmm, there appears to a be a bridge which I am not sure if humans or beavers built and the trail…. doesn’t seem very trail like anymore…” Plus it was getting hot so I turned around at the weird log bridge.
I had on the way discovered some weird mushrooms, the likes of which I had never seen before. I’d also scared a few frogs, tangoed with a dragon fly or two, and spotted and old stone which I could not prove or disprove may have been a burial for someone. It’s not unusual to find stones in State Forests – often the land is donated by people whose families have lived on it for a long time and back in the day cemeteries were frequently tiny family plots of only 1-20 individuals basically in the back yard of the family farm. Over time trees grow, houses crumble, and people forget.
I was pretty melted by the time I got back to the car but I was having such a wonderful day. This was the ultimate introvert’s retreat. I really felt like I was so far from civilization that I could have turned feral at any moment. I drove down the road some more to see if I could find any more trails. There was one that was badly hidden that I passed by accidentally and then the road basically stopped at a T. To the left there was a big sign reading, “Road closed, bridge out!” and to the right there was a gate across the way. There was a small parking area fit for maybe four cars and I was tempted to check it out but I was still pretty overheated and decided this might be best for another day. Besides I had one more adventure – to the South Cemetery in Wendell – to go to before going home.
I had already been enjoying a long ride down so many dirt roads, passing old farms, camps, and artist houses, interspersed through miles and miles of trees. It was gorgeous. And I was feeling totally refreshed from my stop at Guaco Pond. A little stop in a cemetery to stretch my legs seemed appropriate. So when I found a quaint little gathering of stones I parked my car and went to explore.
This cemetery was odd in its placement. Although I had traveled on some very rural roads to get here it seemed to be nestled in a little neighborhood of sorts. A house sat to one side, another across the street. People passing by seemed curious who it was in the cemetery. This place was just large enough to be a proper cemetery but not large enough to rule out being some sort of private family plot which are scattered throughout New England. Granted it seemed very well kept. A little stone staircase led into it. As was usual it was surrounded on all sides by a stone wall.
Of course it was the slate stones that drew me to them first, settled to the back left hand side. Most of these stones seemed in remarkable condition. They were legible and groomed although one was broken in half and set against the stone wall, a few others had fallen on their back. I am always happy to see the rough backs of older stones which apparently didn’t have the need to grind smooth the ridges made from quarrying the raw slate.
I found a marble stone from 1879 which had the most unusual name: Dedidamia Bradley Shaw. Died April 20th 1879, aged 80. A remarkable age and a strange name. I looked her up when I got home but she wasn’t in any records online. In fact she wasn’t even listed on Find A Grave which makes me suspect this cemetery has not been archived. Sooooo…. if you’re looking for this long lost relative, good news! I found her! Otherwise this was an odd footnote. It always makes me a bit sad when I find something unusual and then can’t find any more information on it. Clearly this woman led a long life, she must have made her mark somehow… and yet she’s completely forgotten to history. It’s a solemn thought.
Even more curious was a modern stone – seemingly the only one dated 2002. That of Reverend Wilton Edson Cross and his wife Rosella M Cross Bemis. Judging by the name change I think she must have gotten remarried. Oof. Must be weird to be buried next to your ex husband after you’ve remarried… In any event it was time to go back to the car and go to my next destination the Federated Women’s Club State Forest.
From the West Cemetery I continued on and I can’t believe it but I actually wandered so far into the middle of nowhere that I can’t really pinpoint where I was! There isn’t even a Google street view! And since I didn’t have my own GPS today I couldn’t push the “Where am I?” button. I tried to use my cell phone for this but I failed again because there was no internet to be found. I was in No Man’s Land. It’s not surprising. This place was so scarcely populated that I only saw maybe two houses on the entire road. This was the beginning of my tour though a bunch of dirt roads even further into the middle of nowhere.
I turned onto Monson Turnpike Road from West Street and it was just a loooong dirt road surrounded by trees. It was like going back in time. Driving a Prius down these narrow and sometimes flooded out “primitive roads” is not the best idea but I did it anyway. There were signs up saying these roads were closed from November through April. That’s how I knew I was somewhere cool. You know, the kind of remote regions where only the odd camp sits and where hunters and hikers long to go.
Soon I started seeing signs, “wildlife management area” which I thought might mean a trail or two could be found. I was not so fortunate but I did find a turn off to what I believe was Guaco Pond where there was a tiny boat launch and signs saying fishing and hunting were permitted. I don’t hunt or fish but this place was like a little slice of heaven. I parked the car and wandered towards the water to take a couple photos. I got the feeling I was in real proper wilderness. The ground beneath my feet started to leap towards the water – the shore was full of frogs. Here too were so many dragon flies and wild flowers. A few rocks sprawled out over the water allowing for the absolute perfect spot to just sit and enjoy nature. In the water below I could see fish dancing about – some even looked like the fat and edible varieties, though they were still small.
I stayed for quite a while in this one spot just enjoying the scene, listening to the water gush in from the stream that traveled under the road. It was so remote and peaceful and yet so terribly alive with frogs, fish, dragonflies, beavers, and birds. I can only imagine it would have been the perfect spot to actually go fishing or to take a kayak out. Absolutely stunning. I even found a patch of wild raspberries growing in the sun. The whole time I was there only two cars passed by, obviously locals because they sped by on a road I didn’t dare go above 15 miles an hour (with a Prius anyway.) This was a breath taking find and I was feeling optimistic when I headed back to the car to find another little gem. It would be another cemetery – The Northwest Cemetery in Petersham.
