How could we go out for a day of sight seeing without ending up at a cemetery? We can’t, that’s how. Especially when said cemetery is in pristine condition, hosts rows of beautifully engraved slate stones, and is right in the same historic district we were already wandering around. Such is the case for the Charter Street Cemetery which is bordered by memorial stones which have all the names, birth, and death dates of all the Salem witch trial victims who were not buried here – in consecrated ground – but were buried in unmarked graves somewhere. We have long since lost where. It’s an interesting turn of events as it was installed by the town in the early 1990’s and now surrounds the same cemetery which hosts the hanging judge who condemned them all to death as well as a number of other historically pertinent individuals involved with these unfortunate circumstances.
The cemetery has its own gift shop which… I mean, that’s a cemetery after my own heart right there. Who wouldn’t want a T-shirt with the cemetery’s name and a death’s head brandished on the front? This is the place for the morbid at heart. And the cemetery itself is gorgeous! It’s VERY well taken care of and although the stones are from the late 1600’s and early 1700’s they’re in great shape. Almost all of them were legible, above ground, and displaying some delightful art. There wasn’t just death’s heads here but cherubs heads, skull and bones, and random faces.
And the people were hilarious. I was not the only one with an expensive camera sitting on the ground taking close up of the stones I found interesting and all the other taphophiles here seemed very welcoming. This was definitely a different kind of tourist and part of why I love Salem so much.
Meanwhile, as i dithered about, my travel companion was on a quest to find the hanging judge. Luckily there was a little map at the beginning of a cemetery that was easy to follow to find this grave. His stone was encased in granite for some reason, maybe to prevent theft? I don’t know but it was the only stone I could see that looked like this. We held in our boos until we left but really… it’s probably best not to be known as a real life super villain. Just saying.
In any event the cemetery was small but absolutely beautiful and I fell in love with the death’s heads and wish to use them as inspiration for tattoo designs. Would definitely suggest a visit to this cemetery to anyone in the area who may appreciate these things.
I know, I know, another Newport entry?! Yes. Because life and schedules and so many other things! Just keeping it local for yet another week after last week’s lovely Cliff Walk.
Touro Park & Tower
Awhile ago I lamented I hadn’t gone to see the ever mysterious “Viking” tower in Newport which is pretty lame because I have spent the past year and some months going back and forth to Newport without seeing what’s arguably it’s most contentious monument. Back in the day the Old Timers liked to tell their children it was built by Vikings sometime before the British colonists. And then some historians came in and said well no… this is in no way Viking architecture which started a wild debate that has raged for decades now. What we do know about it is that it was cited on the earliest maps of the area which suggests it was here either as one of the very first structures built by the colonists or well before them. Right now the most popular theory is that it was built by the first farmers in Newport as a windmill. Not everyone agrees with this assessment.
I was excited to see it for myself because I’d seen pictures of it on documentaries and I was already entranced by it’s bizarrely Roman styled arches. The earliest recorded colonists in the area were British, not Italian, so it’s… an enigma. We don’t even know for sure what it actually was… was it a windmill? A tower? A place of worship? A monument? An observatory? WE HAVE NO IDEA.
The tower is located in a little park surrounded by green grass and other monuments that mark important events int he city’s history but it’s distinctly different. It draws you to it like a stone Mona Lisa. I am so happy I got to see it in person because I immediately noted a few things I didn’t not see on other photos. First off it wasn’t just a tower – inside there were very clearly purposeful nooks, shelves, windows, and holes. I struggled to make sense of them wondering if they could be reached at some point from a possibly wooden staircase that’d long since rotted away from human memory. It almost looked like… a library, little places for books or perhaps religeous statues. None of that made sense in a colonialist context. The first Puritan settlers weren’t exactly big readers (unless youc ount the Bible) and they did not believe in worshipping idols. What made even less sense was the archetecture. Besides having very obvious Roman arches I was also quick to note that this structure was put together mostly by gravity with very little mortar. This was unlike Roman structures but did remind me of the castles I’d once seen in central Europe. A real conundrum.
In case you’re wondering if perhaps this wasn’t the work of the indigenous peoples that’s about the only thing I am willing to count out because they were not known to create permanent monuments of any kind and although there are stone structures around new England that were likely built by native peoples this looked nothing like those modest little places of worship. Whoever did this seemed… worldly. One of the possibilities that is only murmured about is the fact it may have been built by other white settlers who came before the Mayflower. There’s no proof anyone ever made it here but there are a lot of weird unexplained artifacts here and there that suggest several ethnicities of people made it across the sea at some point either to die stranded here or perhaps taken in by the indigenous peoples. This is my favorite theory although it doesn’t go so far as to explain exactly who these intrepid explorers were or why they built this thing.
ANYWAY. The tower was just the beginning of our adventuring that day. We also checked out the rest of the park which had some sort of monument in the middle that was hard to interpret. Something about relations with China and then the physical part of the monument seemed to be a bronze work of a bunch of slaves being taken from Africa. I do not believe the two things were related but this was probably once the town common where slaves would have been sold alongside livestock and other goods. It makes sense… but I it still strikes me as a bit tone deaf.
We just walked around after this. Newport is FILLED with named homes all on the historic register. Each displaying cute little plaques. Everything from the elk’s lodge that was once a Naval Academy during the Civil War to the home of the guy who first introduced the tomato to America! Plus some homes that really looked like they started life as a barn and a weird reclaimed church someone painted a delightful Gothic purple. Appreciate your sense of humor – whoever you are!
Trinity Church & Adjoining Historic Newport Cemetery #10
Of course the day wouldn’t have been complete without some cemeteries and churches. our first was the Trinity Church which looks quite plain from the outside but that would have been the Puritan way. Built it 1726 as a church for a congregation that formed in 1698 it’s claim to fame is that George Washington once visited here (as well as other notables Queen Elizabeth II, Prince Andrew, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu.) Plus the guy who once asked, “if a tree falls in the forest will it make a sound?” was one of the Bishops who gave sermons here. Legend says he came up with that question while meditating on a nearby beach. The church has kept much of its historic charm – including box pews and nodding rods once used to poke people awake during services. People still worship here and I guess they still give tours as well. We didn’t check this out but we did pop around the back to amble through their adorable historic cemetery – also known as Historic Newport Cemetery #10. As far as I can tell the only person of note to be buried here is US senator William Hunter – 1774-1849. That being said it was a small and well maintained cemetery with a lot of wonderful slate stones, worn by the salty weather on the coast here but still legible. A very nice introduction to this sort of graveyard.
Bowen’s Wharf
By now we were wandering by the wharf which… I’m sure my companion was sick to death of but probably got to see through new eyes on this particular day. I am not 100% sure associating with Benedict Arnold is the best selling point they could have thought up but there it is proudly displayed on the sign. People were everywhere on this gorgeous summer day. The place was bustling. And the smell of delicious food from the local restaurants wafted through the air. I’m told seals exist somewhere in the water which is news to me. New England has seals?! OK! We didn’t poke any further instead deciding to walk on by the wharf to the end of the street where I found this terrifying statue of a child being eaten whole by the ocean.
The Sailing Museum
We didn’t go in the sailing museum but I was brought by it because it looks like a castle and well… that’s kinda cool. But hey, if sailing is your bag then by all means I’m sure it’s lovely.
Saint Mary’s Parish
From here it was a mere hop to Saint Mary’s Parish which is where John F Kennedy got married to Jackie Bouvier. It’s pretty. And in a very active part of town. I took a bunch of photos all while telling my travel companion this whole street looked haunted. He told me all the churches were supposed to be and that’s the exact moment I took this photo with a weird white mist. Take from that whatever you want.
The International Tennis Hall of Fame
Next we walked to the International Tennis Hall of Fame which is situated next to a building that looks distinctly out of place with what to me looks like Bavarian architecture. The Tennis Hall of Fame was no less bizarre. I couldn’t even put my finger on what style it was supposed to be built in. A lot of the ornamentation looked vaguely Asian but the building itself looked like… a lot of people added to it over time. It was odd. We walked through to the courtyard. It was a nice restful stop away from the hustle and bustle of this tourist town. Out here there were numerous tennis courts and several people of varying skills whacking the ball back and forth. it was surprisingly chill. There was even a bunny here just wandering around chewing on the grass, oblivious to the humans. I very much enjoyed the beauty of the buildings as we walked around. “Is tennis a big thing here in Newport?” “I don’t know… I guess?” And that’s when we came to the old theater which had a plaque out front stating some famous thespian had played Sherlock Homes there back in the day… I knew nothing of the guy but I guess he is the one who started wearing a deerstalker hat for the character and it really caught on. Whether that happened here in Newport I have no idea but it’s a fun little story and I’m sorry I forgot his name. Basil something. Basil Rathbone. Yes, the most Englishy sounding name ever. Thank you Google!
Christopher Columbus Statue
After wandering like a deranged squirrel for a while we ended up passing a statue of Christopher Columbus which seemed… odd and out of place. I only make note of it now because I think it won’t be long before we take down all depictions of this genocidal dipshit. There are a lot of better historic figures to worship.
Newport Art Museum
The Newport Art Museum is as whimsically adorable as it is beautiful and I really enjoyed talking a photo of it coyly hiding behind a big flowering tree. We didn’t go in – I’m not even sure if they’re open considering Covid and all. It didn’t really look very lively… but it might be a nice place to poke at at some point.
Redwood Library and Athenium
As we made our way back to the car we passed our final curiosity – the Redwood Library and Athenium established in 1747. They have historic books and records and were currently inflating a huge silver alien to place on an equally giant rocking chair in the front yard. Two women caught sight of me and happily burbled, “Hello!” That’s the perks of having crazy colored hair. Other weird people are so excited to meet me. We both really wanted to check out this place but it closed at 4 and we didn’t get our lazy butts around in time. Perhaps another adventure for another day. It does look super interesting!
Miniature Occassions and Dolls
Oh! I lied! There was one more totally weird stop I forgot about – Miniature Occasions and Dolls. When we walked by it we just had to go in – you know, to see if they had any haunted dolls. Keep in mind I’ve never been into an actual doll shop before so this was quite the experience! It was a tiny little shop crammed to the ceiling with dollhouses and miniature treasures to put in said dollhouses. It was all at once terrifying and fascinating. On a couch sat two antiquated ventriloquist dummies and above their head, I kid you not, was a ceiling full of hanging naked headless baby dolls. I have no idea why but I could not for the life of me resist taking one quick snap when the shop owner was looking away. CAN YOU BLAME ME?! Anyway – all serial killer vibes aside this looks like a great place to buy such novelties if you’re so inclined. And so ends this adventure… until next time!
Believe it or not we didn’t go to Foster Rhode Island to go cemetery hopping but when in Rome…
Historic Cemetery #45 (Also called the Hopkin’s Mills Lot)
The first cemetery we came across was adjacent to the Ramshead Trail we wanted to walk down and just a stone’s throw away from a purportedly haunted bridge. So why not wander through the cemetery as well? It was a fairly decently sized cemetery, well maintained, with most of its stones from the mid 1800’s. There wasn’t any particularly interesting stones or monuments about but I did enjoy reading some of the names – like the last name Willowby (HOW ADORABLE IS THAT?) or the first name Zilpha. Mostly it was just a ton of Hopkins though.
Since it’s near a bunch of ruins which were once a bustling little town there are a lot of ghost stories around this cemetery. The specter of Betsey Grayson has made her rounds on the nearby bridge, as well as the ghost of an old man who vanishes alongside the road, and the vision of a small girl picking flowers. Today however was hot and sunny and although I was loving the beauty and serenity of such a wild place I didn’t feel at all uneasy or see anything from beyond the veil. Perhaps that is an adventure best suited for the night.
Historic Cemetery Number 27 (Also called the Hopkins Tucker Lot)
We actually went out to find this cemetery on purpose. You see my navigator and myself were playing “whose ADD will lead us to the weirdest location” and so he picked random spots and I drove. I don’t know why he picked this little lot, situated ever so cozily in between a bunch of houses on a narrow dirt road. He was taking it out of a book about hauntings so I’m guessing… it’s haunted. That being said I have no idea who by. It was cute, maybe slightly spooky in how decayed it looked. There were only about 30 stones, unremarkable, but nestled sweetly between lovingly built stone walls and a little iron gate.
UPDATE: Having gotten my paws on said book I learned this cemetery is haunted by an old woman, Aunt Lonnie Davis, who lived nearby whose last wishes were that her house be completely demolished after her death – claiming she would come back to haunt anyone who left so much as two boards still nailed together. Legend says out of curiosity someone did indeed leave just two boards nailed together and now she’s seen sitting on the cemetery wall… a cemetery which she is not actually buried in. Strange.
Historic Cemetery 26 – (Also called the Hopkins-Ide Lot)
This last cemetery was an adventure! I don’t know why we went there but it has to be one of my all time favorites. Getting there was a challenge – especially in a Prius. The locals were already aware of a Prius driven by someone with vibrantly orange hair circling the area like a vulture going up and down and up and down the same roads. It was just one of those days and finding this last destination was no different. Pretty sure we scared the tar out of a woman walking her baby in a pram who probably thought we were stalking her down a long dirt road with seemingly VERY few houses.
The directions were to “go down the lane directly across from electric pole 15.” And with directions like that how could we possibly get lost, right? Well… it was a very long and very thin dirt road which the Prius was none-too-happy about traversing and was even less happy to be repeatedly turning around in the few driveways we found. The problems started with the electrical poles. My navigator didn’t realize they were numbered – and being a city dweller who doesn’t make a habit of such excursions, why would he? So I showed him the numbers and we started to count starting with the first pole #5… We drove quite a ways and found pole #15 sitting alone in the middle of nowhere, nothing but woods to be seen around it. We then got into a discussion about what “lane” could possibly mean. A road’s a road but what is a lane? Neither of us knew.
So we kept driving, occasionally turning around when we thought we’d gone too far only to turn around again. Eventually, after passing the woman and baby three times, (at which point it’s a bit awkward to roll down the window and ask, “So is there a cemetery on this road?”) we finally came to Crowfoot Farm. They were the first driveway I’d seen in what seemed like miles and they had the pure gumption to have a farm stand way out here selling eggs “on Saturdays and Sundays – first come, first serve.” WOW. I used to try to sell eggs on a main road and failed, the fact that they sounded like they were selling out way out here made me immediately love these people. But we weren’t here to see a farm, as fun as that is, we were here looking for a cemetery which as luck would have it was directly across the road from their driveway.
A tiny sign peeked out from the woods reading Historic Cemetery 45 and just beyond there was indeed a lane. Now this “lane” was actually just a path for occasional cars. It had tire tracks but was mostly weeds and grass, was even narrower than the road (if that was even possible) and more terrifyingly still it was down a small but steep hill. I had nowhere to park aside the road so I was forced to turn the Prius onto this little lane and pray we wouldn’t get stuck. It has all the strength of a great grandmother, especially in reverse, and up hills.
I was obviously nervous about the car but the fact this place was so far out in the middle of nowhere really intrigued me. We couldn’t see the cemetery from the road and didn’t know how far we’d have to walk the “lane” before getting there. Luckily it was only a short jaunt, it was just blocked by trees, and there out in no man’s land, almost completely forgotten, was the most beautiful little cemetery I’d ever seen.
Long gone were the well mowed lawns that surrounded the stones, instead ferns and weeds jutted up from a thick pile of dead leaves. The stones were antiquated, and although most were only from the mid 1800’s they were worn and often sunken into the ground. Most were long since illegible. I got the distinct feeling we’d stumbled into some special secret realm no one else knew about but believe it or not someone else had been here. Sticking out like a sore thumb there were two brand new wooden benches, just chilling, no memorial tags, no explanation, just a couple benches minding their own business. And it made me fall in love with the place even more.
I was taken in by a couple of stones – one with a particularly unique Cherub’s head, and another that seemed more like a scroll than a stone with so much writing on it. My navigator meanwhile disappeared to the other side and when we came back together he noted the oldest stone he found was from 1805. According to Find A Grave this place had, “175 burials with 70 inscriptions from 1797 to 1937.” Most notable to my companion were the many Civil War burials, each still brandishing a flag and a metal marker and some with inscriptions that told stories about dying in battle or in battlefield hospitals hundreds of miles from home. It was sobering.
We quietly wandered off after this with a deep memory and fondness for this place – well, that is, except for the Prius who was still parked on that little slope, it’s little Prius butt sticking almost straight in the air and looking towards the road. I said a little prayer before backing out of that spot and it must have worked because we made it.
I know I am a little late starting out this year with my adventuring but truth be told I did attempt to go out a few weeks ago – sadly that destination ended up as such a clusterfuck I didn’t write about it (or even have photos to show off as my camera randomly decided the memory card was not readable.) Some days are just hard like that – and you find yourself arriving at a closed sandwich shop after the GPS sends you backtracking for half an hour after already driving for two and a half. And then you find out just how badly out of shape you are as you huff, puff, and puke trying to reach the end of a very short hike, and to top it all off you end up locked in a park after hours because you couldn’t get your ass back to the car in time. I didn’t want to ward people off from this otherwise lovely location so we decided we’d go back at a different time and try again.
Which brings me to my last little adventure which was MUCH more pleasant! We had decided a leisurely stroll through the village of Chepachet Rhode Island was a better option for the beginning of this year’s blog. The drive was reasonable, the destinations were super easy to find, and it was a gorgeous spring day.
We started with Acotes Hill Cemetery (alternately called Chepachet cemetery and/or Rhode Island Historical Cemetery Glocester #23) which is said to be quite haunted. Or at least that’s what the book we found it in claimed. It was named after a mystery man who was buried here in an unmarked grave. He was just travelling through town when he booked a room at the Kimball Hotel. This is ultimately where he died of a mysterious fatal wound and a fall down the stairs. There doesn’t seem to be any indication that his death was ever investigated as a murder though it sounds like it probably was. This may just be because justice for “half-breeds” (people of both white and indigenous descent) was hard to come across in those days – and maybe that’s why his ghost is said to sometimes haunt these hills.
The cemetery is surprisingly vast and so indicative of burial grounds here in New England. At it’s center there is what was likely the groundskeeper’s house in the past just in front of an old dug crypt. The stones are scattered over a series of rolling hills and a few share the shade a handful of creepy gnarled trees. It’s something from a Stephen king novel.
I noticed when I was there the stones were very chronologically mixed up. Usually cemeteries are somewhat organized by broad age categories and I was told this was an old cemetery so I looked for the slate stones that would have been the markers for Revolutionary War era individuals but alas, I found none. This confusing set of circumstances ended up being because this cemetery is actually a gathering place of many other cemeteries in the area which had been disinterred and moved here.
The monuments here were more or less the usual series of boring marble stones although a few did catch my attention. A large angel looks over the grounds from the back and nearby a bronze of the Virgin Mary cradling a dying Jesus is situated in a corner. I didn’t really know what to make of it.
In any event it was a nice place for a little walk and a great way to start when exploring this sweet little corner of New England. To add to its charm it was also the site of a tiny “armed but bloodless” uprising between the People’s Rights faction and the Law and Order party in 1842. The leader of the People’s Rights Thomas Wilson Dorr surrendered peacefully but was still tried and sentenced to life imprisonment for treason. However public sentiments were so strongly in favor of his cause that he only languished there for a few years before being released and he now enjoys a monument here in the cemetery.
New England is the place to live if you’re into horror. The reason is pretty simple – we have a long and strange history that revels in the terrifying. From our first white settlers we’ve have been a deeply superstitious bunch and this is pretty apparent in the case of Mercy Brown.
Mercy Brown was a young woman in Exeter Rhode Island who died at the tender age of 19 in 1892. She was the latest victim of consumption, a disease that was ravaging a good deal of her family and the surrounding community. Today we know tuberculosis is caused by a highly contagious bacterial infection of the lungs but back in Mercy’s day this wasn’t well understood and locals believed that it was the wrath of the dead – specifically that diseased corpses were raising from their graves as vampires. It was a belief born to the fact that consumption was a wasting disease that took months or sometimes years to kill a person who by the end would frequently look like a shuffling emaciated corpse coughing up blood.
The Brown family previously had lost their matriarch, Mercy’s mother, as well as her sister and herself. When the family’s only son was also hopelessly ill drastic decisions were made. After gaining permission from the community the mother and her two daughters were exhumed so their bodies could be examined for signs of vampirism. Mercy, who was likely held above ground in a local crypt for those two cold months, showed remarkably little decomposition (likely due to being frozen and/or kept in fridge-like temps.) This was seen as proof that she was the vampire responsible for the continuing deaths.
The crypt in question still lies to the far left of the cemetery.
From here things got a bit gruesome. In an attempt to save her brother’s life and stop her own post-death rampage the community removed her heart and lungs, cooked them on a pyre, and when nothing but ash remained they were ground up and fed to her brother. Sadly this folk ritual had no effect and he followed his sister to the grave just a few months later.
These incidences were recorded in the newspapers at the time and were thought to have influenced horror writers of the day – mainly HP Lovecraft but also potentially Bram Stoker. There had been at least eighteen other cases of vampire exhumations in New England’s newspaper reports which suggests there were probably a lot more that went unrecorded, a fact that has been reinforced by recent archeological finds of other strange burials, some being kept down with bricks, others with their bones and skulls being made into a grim cross. However Mercy is fondly remembered here as “The Last American Vampire” for she was the most recently recorded. This ritual is still practiced in some rural regions of Romania and possibly a handful of other countries even today despite laws being made against it.
The grave where her heartless body rests has been visited by all sorts of strange folk including myself and my travel companion. She rests in the Chestnut Hill Cemetery behind the Baptist Church in Exeter Rhode Island. Her grave can be seen from the entrance to the cemetery and lies underneath an evergreen tree. It’s a small white marble stone in her family’s plot that’s hard to miss because other visitors have left pennies and other little trinkets. There’s supposed to also be a little guest book in a Tupperware tub but I didn’t see that – it might have been picked up because of Covid precautions. I was however amused by two Disney princess band-aids stuck to the stone as I left my own penny.
Sometimes I get tired of finding new locations or I just lack inspiration. It’s at these times I like to hand the torch over to my travel companions and tell them to pick a place. I’m always happy to drive and the surprise of these adventures ticks off my ever expanding need for novelty.
On this day the choice was to go to Gay City State Park – a location in Connecticut that came up as a FaceBook suggestion to my travel companion. Let’s go!
Gay City State Park was easy enough to get to but they were taking trees down at the entrance when we drove up so we had to wait for them to move it out of the way. From there there was a really large parking lot for a park. This place was sort of huge. We followed several other people who were already out walking their dogs. They all made their way to a shut off road that goes straight into the center of the park. It had a toll booth and all. To the side there was a campground and signs were up for swimming holes, By Scouts, and various other activities. I am glad I didn’t come to this place during the summer season. It looks like it’d be flooded with children escaping the city. In this sense it was a lot like Rangeley, just bigger. What were we here to see again?
“The remnants of a ghost town.”
OK then! We took what looked like the main trail and began to hike into the woods. It was a pretty easy trail, a few mild inclines here and there but nothing too bad. Since it was gray and threatening to rain on this day the bare trees took on a bit of a foreboding appearance. When we came to a fork in the trail we just started walking down random branches of it. I have no idea how my travel companion can find his way back after doing this – I never could. One wrong turn and I’m screwed. We did eventually come across the foundation of an old house aside the trail. Ferns grew out of the walls and gave it a bit of a Secret Garden kind of feeling. Still, we’re a both a bit jaded at this point having seen quite a few ruins, we had to ask was this it? We continued to hike. Luckily it wasn’t raining yet and the temperature was perfect for a brisk walk through the leaf litter.
Eventually we made our way back to the main path which was supposed to have a ruined mill on it and sure enough it wasn’t long before we found it. I’ve seen lots of ruined and abandoned mills but this one was old! Only part of the foundation remained (after the structure burned down on three separate occasions) and it was not messing around. I’m pretty sure it’ll still be there in another 100 years! It made me wonder what it looked like when it was fresh and new and how many people worked here. I took some time wandering around taking somewhat artsy photos. It was worth the trip!
There’s rumors of a few weird terribly New England-y murders happening here back in the day when the town was thriving. Some people pay for permits to camp so they can ghost hunt at night. We did not… for we had other places to go!
We wandered back to the car to explore a second destination. There was supposed to be an abandoned missile silo from the 1950’s hidden just eight miles away. However the GPS just brought up to a random neighborhood and there was no indication there was a trail, an appropriate place to park, or anything else you might think would go with such a destination. We didn’t even bother getting out of the car. Instead we headed to our third and final destination of the day – the Ballard Institute and Museum of Puppetry.
Life these days can be overwhelming between trying to keep your head above the water financially and dealing with the plague going around… it’s becoming increasingly difficult to take a break and get back in touch with what’s really important. And so here I am once again inspiring someone else to solve an old mystery and mark off something on their bucket list – you know take an adventure and learn something, live.
It had started off as a mild curiosity a week ago. Basically we were talking about a big gap in my travel companion’s family tree that seems to just end with his great-great-great-great-great grandfather who fought in the Civil War. Somehow it was known that he was buried in Springfield Maine. I had to go up to Maine anyway so I figured why not take a little detour to satiate curiosity?
And so we gathered some charcoal and a large sketch pad for a rubbing, woke up early, and headed out to the tiny village of Springfield. It would be a two hour drive and as usual I did not have the exact address of the cemetery because it wasn’t around any houses and cemeteries don’t have their own address. Initially I even got the road wrong. I drove out there and was greeted not with the village I was expecting but instead a vast expanse of dirt road that led us absolutely nowhere.
We decided to redirect towards the town office thinking that perhaps they would have some old records or something of interest. We ended up in the center of town which had a few of the usual buildings but no town office was in sight. We decided to stop at the post office and ask for directions. The post office was TINY. There appeared to be one parking space, taken, and the inside waiting area for a queue could only comfortably fit two people. The clerk there looked at us like we’d just landed from Mars, which I am sure we looked like with both of us sporting unnaturally colored hair. She said he town office was across the road behind the little café. Basically we could hit it with a rock if we tried.
I drove over and found it. It was a refurbished hunting cabin, no parking lot, no sign at the road, and yes, hiding behind another tiny building that was apparently a café. There was a sign out front that said there was only to be one person in there at a time which could be because of Corona or equally because it was only big enough for one person to be inside in the first place. I waited outside for a few minutes. Basically, the women in there directed us to the town’s unofficial genealogist – a woman working across the street at the Smith’s general store. Smith’s aye? I am supposed to be related to the Smiths in these parts… somehow…
Suddenly it was like being in an episode of Northern Exposure. There was nothing about the developing scene that wasn’t terrifically cliché. The general store was again, tiny, with just two gas pumps outside that looked like they were installed in the 1950’s when road trips were the height of entertainment. Inside we found a solitary woman working who turned out to be the person we were looking for. She lit right up when we started asking about her work. She’d been archiving the local cemeteries since 1990 and had already written up as many family trees as she could using information from these cemeteries. She instantly recognized the graves we were asking about, likely due to their odd first names: Liberty and Christopher Columbus. She directed us to where the cemetery was as well as where those particular graves were. She revealed that Christopher Columbus was Samuel’s father which filled in a blank for at least one generation more. She had more information in a locally created book of Spauldings and promised to send a copy. This was wild.
So after this we continued down the road where over the hill we came across Bog Road which contained the South Springfield Cemetery. It was a small cemetery, with maybe 150 stones or so, if that. I parked aside the road the best I could.
There was indeed a Spaulding family plot just to the left-hand corner. There we found a series of crumbling stones under a big oak tree being eaten away by lichen and moss. Some had fallen over, some were possibly sunken into holes in the ground. Several were in pieces and legibility varied greatly. We’d been warned they were in poor condition so I didn’t know what to expect. After surveying what we could find we started to piece together an interesting story.
We learned that Samuel Spaulding was the son of Christopher Columbus Spaulding and Lydia A Mapes Spaulding. He was one of four brothers, served in the Civil War, and probably lost all three of his brothers to the same war. William T Spaulding was the first to go in 1862 at the tender age of 13 (yes, children served – usually as drummers, fife players, and gophers) followed by John W and Liberty B. John W’s age was lost but Liberty B was 20. None of them appeared to be married and the stones all matched implying they’d been bought at the same time. In the Civil War era this frequently means there was either no bodies under them or possibly the wrong bodies who’d been shipped back. Samuel outlived the war and went on to have a family which would move out of Maine. I was struck by the loss. I’m more into Revolutionary War era stones so it was easy for me to bypass the devastation of the Civil War, even this far North.
We took some time to absorb this new information and take a rubbing of Samuel’s stone which was by far in the best condition. I took a few photos and took note of all the Spencers and Websters out here – two more family names I am supposed to be related to somehow. I wondered if this meant that five generations back our two families could have been related somehow. This whole excursion had been as enlightening as it was curious.
On the way home I got the additional adventure of having one of my tires melt off the Prius and explode as we were going down the highway. Luckily I noticed something was off and was already slowing down and turning into the break down lane when we heard a loud pop followed by a lot of wobbling. Trying to tell AAA where we were was a challenge and took at least 20 minutes as we had no idea and the GPS coordinates my phone gave me didn’t come up the same on the phone operator’s side. Another hour of waiting for a driver – the fear of not being able to be let in the cab due to covid – and finally being dropped off at Lincoln’s only tire store which did not carry appropriately sized tires – and we were starting to get punchy. We left with a tire that was too wide but still worked. The next day we’d tour three more tire stores before finding anything that could work for us. This ate up a great deal of time and tried everyone’s patience. Still, it was better than having more exploding tires!
After crawling back from under the bridge on Quaker Road I continued on my journey to find a good hiking trail. However my attention was distracted by an adorable little historic cemetery off the road. There was a little driveway of sorts into the cemetery that went to the back but it had no sign up anywhere. I had no idea where I was… I *think* I was at the Ledgeview Cemetery based on a Google search.
Coming in there was a structure I thought was a well preserved crypt but it had an inscription which made me wonder if it wasn’t a tomb of some sort? It was interesting whatever it was.
This cemetery was decently small and nestled in a scenic little spot surrounded by stone walls and forest. Above it on a hill sat a huge farmhouse and a cornfield looking down. To the side, where the road was, there was another farmhouse, this one much older looking, maybe from the late 1700’s. Quaint. Beautiful. The perfect spot to catch one’s breathe. .. or have a Gothic picnic.
Most of the stones were from the early 1800’s with a mix of slate and marble, none of which had aged well in such a humid environment. Still, it had its charm, and weirdly enough there were several modern plots – one reading 2007. I guess there’s space left so why not?
As I was driving around aimlessly looking for a hiking trail I was distracted by a sweet little cemetery on a hill. It had a little brick crypt (fancy!) and even an iron gate reading “1790.” Well, that’s all I needed… I’m in! I parked the car aside the road and grabbed my camera.
This was a well manicured cemetery but it was clearly old and out of use. I didn’t see any stones past the mid 1800’s. The vast majority of them were slate with the usual decals and a few oddities. If you read this blog often you know I have a deep fondness for slate stones but today my attention was drawn to the few marble memorials that were sitting near the gate. One was a little lamb, dedicated to a toddler. It’s always sad seeing these but the marble lambs age so interestingly. This one was completely intact (frequently the lambs loose their heads or ears) and was covered in lichen. Little spooky, nice for an artsy photo, and then I saw the big memorials behind it. One was of an open book, again so covered in lichen it was unreadable, and next to the book on alter was one of the most heart-stopping and unique memorials I have ever seen. It belonged to a boy named Johnnie whose bust I can only assume it was, lying as if asleep, forever immortalized in marble. It evoked a profound sense of grief and sympathy for the loss of a child. I was unable to track down any information on the poor soul but his stone reads:
HERE LIES THE REMAINS OF THE BELOVED CHILD OF J.&.E. HARTNOLL JOHNNIE A. BORN IN DEVONSHIRE ENGLAND MAY 11 1868 DIED IN MASON N.H. JULY 14 1878 AT REST
The other notable stone was on the opposite side of the cemetery and was where the remains of the first president of Harvard college Henry Dunster was laid to rest. There are also a number of revolutionary war soldiers here, mostly fatalities from Bunker Hill. Oddly no one left pennies on their graves. I take it this place is not visited often.
However if you’re into history the Uncle Sam house is less than a mile away. And on this day I decided to close out my day by enjoying the Mason Rail Trail nearby.
It’s funny. It seems I have been all over the place – this blog started when I went to all the lower 48 states, and then Europe, and then decided to explore all corners of New England, but what I haven’t done in all that time is pay any attention whatsoever to the town where I was raised and spent the majority of my life: Rindge NH. And what a perfect time to explore a deserted cemetery so close to home than when we’re all still being super cautious about the corona virus.
So that’s how I ended up in the center of Rindge at the Meetinghouse Cemetery. I parked at the church because I had a foggy recollection that there was a gap in the fence I could walk through at the corner of it. Indeed there is, as well as a proper entrance adjacent to the current town hall just down the street a little ways where the old crypt still stands. Parking at either is easy and doesn’t bother anyone.
I hadn’t visited this place since I was probably 12 or 13 years old and had a friend living nearby. We’d walked the cemetery and played in the town center – once giving the dog officer a hell of a scare as we bounded through the snow in the common on one particularly dark evening. But happy childhood memories aside, this is the heart of the historic parts of Rindge and it’s got a lot of stories to tell. And what a better day to tell them than on a rainy day like this?! The perfect activity for those of you going nuts in quarantine – no one walks through old cemeteries in the rain… well, except for me and a handful of other delightfully weird people.
I have to say I don’t remember this being the most hill-filled graveyard I have ever been too. WHEW! There was no effort whatsoever put into flattening the ground here but I must admit that adds to how dramatic it feels with slate stones dating back to the 1700’s and creepy barren trees on all sides. Still it was super peaceful and welcoming to the photographer in me. (Though people driving by absolutely did notice me there. Probably thought I was the Ghost of the 1970’s with my orange plaid bellbottoms.)
A Little About the Stones…
I’ve learned a few things over the years about these old graveyards and cemeteries. The first is the difference between a cemetery, which is just a generalized burial ground, and a graveyard which is the consecrated ground surrounding a church. The slate stones that were favored in the 1700’s were mostly mass produced in Boston. As such many have the same designs on them. Today I saw mostly Death Heads (a symbol of rebirth and resurrections) and weeping willows. As usual the stones closest to the church were both the oldest and frequently the most wealthy. You can tell by how large they are as they range from little more than a foot tall to five or six feet. People of wealth in those days often were tied to either religious institutions or the military. You can see several Minute Men buried here who usually have metal markers aside their grave.
Was there anyone of particular note residing here? I actually don’t know. I suspect there are a lot of people that were important to the town back in the day but this was a while ago. I didn’t see any stones that dated any younger than 1901. This… is a forgotten place.
Other Things to See Nearby
That being said there are a few other things to see nearby if you’re there anyway. Directly across the street is the ruins of an old foundation that used to be our old town shelter for both abused animals and battered women. This was not unusual as the Humane Society functioned more as peace officers for domestic abuse situations than they did as animal rescuers although they fulfilled both roles. How much of a need did we have for this little building I have no idea but suffice to say if you were in need you’d be kept there…
Not far from the ruined foundation there’s a tiny park dedicated to our veterans. There’s a few benches, a little memorial, some flags. From here you can look over the town common which used to be used as a livestock exchange and open air market. Today it holds a gazebo used for weddings and one of only two antique livestock scales left in New England which we proudly use every year for the great pumpkin weigh-off. So how big can a pumpkin get? apparently over 2,500 pounds… and let me tell you moving these giant orange beasts is a challenge. Worth coming out just to see that!
And so that’s my little town center. Thanks for stopping by to enjoy it with me. Below are five galleries of photos I took, organized by topic.
Gallery One: Super Dramatic Multiple Stone Photos
Gallery Two: Some Individual Stones
Gallery Three: Artsy Close Ups
Gallery Four: Other Things to See
This structure was used to house carriage horses during church services.
