Alexandersmap

    Author: nhcarmichael

    • Narraganset Bay to Lake Champlain

      I drove the 310 miles between Newport, Rhode Island and Burlington, Vermont in two legs, with a brief nap at home in between. Heavy rain and a relentless, brilliant lightning display will be what I’ll remember about the first leg, and the mist covered Green Mountains of Vermont surely will be the thing I remember about the second. It occurred to me that this journey 250 years ago would have been very different indeed. Instead of driving up I-93 to I-89, my options would have been to sail south to the Hudson River for an arduous journey upriver, a risky portage to Lake George, and another between Lake George and Lake Champlain or alternatively taking the northern route up to the St Lawrence River over to Lake Champlain. Either proposition was shorter and safer than the overland I did would have been.

      Sometimes we take for granted just how far we’ve come in such a short amount of time. I’ve come to appreciate our collective technological advancement more through reading history and traveling from place to place. Communication has advanced along with the roads, and now I have the ability to talk to anyone in the world in seconds. How awed King George would have been, and what a difference good roads or communications would have made in the wars fought along the shores of Newport and Lake Champlain. That route from there to here seems a lot further given the hindsight of history.

    • Crows Never Forget a Face

      Sunday morning, while writing yesterday’s blog post, I observed a murder of crows, or four of them anyway, fly into the trees in my yard and start communicating with each other in that caw caw way.  Like a biker gang walking into a Friendly’s, the other birds in the vicinity grew very quiet when the crows announced they were crashing the party.

      The crows split up, with one flying behind me to a tall tree in the front of the house.  Two of them remained on a branch on an oak tree deeper into the woods.  And the fourth ran point and flew onto a branch of an oak tree that reached out over the lawn in the backyard.  I saw right away what he was doing.  There was a birds nest on the branch and he bounced over to it, cawing all the time, head bending side to side as he inspected the nest.  The pair of crows in the woods observed and cawed their feedback.  When point crow reached the nest he started pulling it apart and dropping bits of straw down to the ground, digging into the nest looking for chicks or eggs to eat.  After a couple of minutes he determined there was nothing there worth eating and he flew off, with his mates joining him.

      Crows are both fascinating and annoying creatures.  Like [most] humans, they’re highly intelligent and social, and they’re omnivores.  Crows are symbolic of death in mythology, like vultures, but they’re really just opportunistic hunters and gatherers.  You see them all the time bouncing over to roadkill, but they’re smart enough to gauge the speed of the car coming at them and avoid becoming roadkill themselves.  I read that if a crow is killed, other crows will gather around it to determine what killed it, and then like a lynch mob go after the killer.  Crows apparently never forget a face, so if you go out and chase away a murder of crows or throw rocks at them they’ll mark you as a dangerous character.  Given what they do to crow killers I’d say be on your best behavior with them!  With an average lifespan of 7 – 8 years, they have plenty of time to develop a plan to deal with you.

      There are apparently 30 different species of crows out there, ranging from magpies to ravens.  I know that the crows flying about in the woods of New Hampshire are smaller than the crows flying around on Buzzards Bay, but share similar hunting and communication traits.  I can admire crows but still wish that they’d shut up when I’m trying to sleep in when I’m on the Cape.  They aren’t just bigger down there, they’re also louder and early risers.  Maybe they’re trying to tell me something:  Caw! Get up!  Caw!  Life is short!  Caw!  There’s so much you can do with this day.  Thanks for the reminder.  Best get on with it.

    • Honing a Curious Mind

      I’ve been trying to figure out who is singing in the neighborhood for the last six weeks. I make a point of being outdoors whenever possible in the early morning (New Hampshire summers are very short after all). Some singers are obvious, others are more evasively unfamiliar to me. I regret that my education never included identifying birdsong. But as with many things I’ve made it a point of my adult learning path. I’m currently in the 101 level birdsong classes.

      I tried an app that analyzes bird song, but the bluebirds always sing at the same time as this character and tend to confuse the analytics. It keeps think its a mockingbird when I can hear the differences clearly. Eventually I came to the conclusion that this was a Brown Thrasher. In the process of figuring that out I’ve come to learn the songs of another half dozen birds I’ve heard in the background music but never took the time to learn about. I’m far from an expert on any of this, but the path is more vibrant.

      In the last 18 months I’ve learned about or reacquainted myself with local and world history, stoicism, transcendentalism, world religions, the power of habits, physiology, native trees, horticulture, birds, bugs, the environment and other diverse (eclectic?) side paths on the route from here to, well, there. Side paths lead to other side paths and before you know it maybe you’ve accumulated something meaningful in the old brain. You can’t write about what you don’t know about, and this cajoles me from tangential interest to deeper learning about topics. As a side benefit I’ve become better at writing too… you’ll see it eventually.

      “The discipline of sharing something daily is priceless.” – Seth Godin

    • From Pemaquid to Andover: A Tale of Abenaki Revenge

      On February 22, 1698 a group of Abenaki warriors raided Andover, Massachusetts and killed five people and two more (Haynes and Ladd) in Haverhill.  Raids like this were somewhat common in the Merrimack River Valley at that time, as it was the frontier and friction between settlers encroaching on the lands of Native Americans who had lived there for generations was an unpleasant reality for everyone living in this area.  What was particularly interesting about this raid was who they killed, which leads to why they chose this place for a raid in the first place.

      Two years earlier at Fort William Henry in Pemaquid, Maine, Captain Pasco Chubb commanded a garrison of 60 soldiers who were stationed here, tasked with defending this relatively new stone fort from the French and Abenaki who would prefer to have them elsewhere. This site, on a point of land jutting out into Johns Bay at the mouth of the Pemaquid River, wasn’t particularly strategic, but it represented what was meant to be a permanent foothold on the coast of Maine (then part of Massachusetts) and the northernmost settlement by the English. Fort George, A wooden stockade on this spot hadn’t fared well just a few years earlier, so in reconstructing the fort the British stepped in and built it of stone and armed it with 15-20 cannon. It was completed in 1692 and held by a garrison of 60-90 men.

      There were at least three critical weaknesses with Fort William Henry. First, it was isolated and any reasonable hope for reinforcements was small. Second, the small stone and lime walls were not particularly strong, making them vulnerable to the cannon the French would bring. And third, and an unforgivable mistake given the other vulnerabilities, the supply of drinking water was outside the fort walls! So a siege of any length would prove highly effective as water in the fort was depleted.

      Ongoing tensions with the French and Native American population almost guaranteed that a siege would eventually take place.  And Fort William Henry was indeed besieged on August 14, 1696 by 100 French and 400 Abenaki. Prior to the siege, two Abenaki chiefs named Edgeremet and Abinquid went to meet with Captain Chubb under a white flag to inquire about some fellow Abenaki captured by Chubb’s predecessor and shipped to Boston. The goal was a prisoner exchange with the British.  Chubb and his men raised their guns and shot Edgeremet and two of his sons. Depending on the account you read, Chief Abinquid may have escaped. Either way this act of cowardly violence against Abenaki tribal leaders under a white flag enraged the besiegers. They wouldn’t forget Chubb and the British betrayal.

      The Abenaki wrote a letter that demonstrated their rage and feelings of betrayal.  It would set the table for later violence against settlers:

      “Lord who write at to me, listen and understand what I am about to say, аnd write, to you. Thou wilt easily recognize my words, and why wilt them not recognize them. It is thou (so to express myself) that furnishest them to me. Writing with too much haughtiness, thou obligest me to reply to thee in the same style. Now, then, listen to the truths I am about to tell thee of thyself; of thee, who dost not speak the truth when thou sayeth that I kill thee cruelly. I never exercise any cruelty in killing thee, [a*I kill thee] only with hatchet blows and musket shots. Thy heart must have been еvеr addicted to wickedness and deceit. No other proof is necessary than the acts last autumn at Saco and Pemkuit, taking аnd detaining those who were going to obtain news from thee. Never in the universal world has it been seen, never has it been related of a man being taken prisoner who bears a flag [of truce] and goes to parley on public business. This, however, is what thou hast done; in truth, thou bait spoiled the subject of discussion. Thou hast covered it with blood; as for me, I could never resolve to act in that manner, for therein I have even an extreme horror of thy unparalleled treachery. How then dost thou expect that we would talk. What thou sayest I retort on thyself. There, repent and repair the grave fault thou hast committed; seize those who killed me at Saco, and made me prisoner at Pemkuit. I will do the like by thee. I will bring thee those who killed thee when I shall be able to find them. Fail not to do what I require of thee; of this, I say, who killest me without cause; who takest me prisoner when I am off my guard. – Abenaki letter, written by French missionary brothers Vincent and James Bigot, in response to the treachery at Pemaquid

      The French weren’t as surprised, writing in an account of the events that day that “It is to be hoped that the Abenakis will not place any confidence hereafter in English promises.”  

      The English were disgusted with Chubb for quickly surrendering the fort and fleeing back to Boston.  He was thrown in jail for months when he was set free, and only freed when he wrote a petition to the Court.  In it he wrote the following:

      “And whereas ye petition is a very poore man, having a wife and children to look after with by reason of his confines & poverty are reduced to a meane and necesstous condition, having not wherewith all either to defray his prison necessary charges or to relieve his indigent family…”

      Chubb would indeed be released from jail and return to Andover to be with his wife and child.  It was there that a party of 30 Abenaki warriors led by Chief Escumbuit from Big Island Pond would become reacquainted with Pasco Chubb, killing his wife and child, and paying extra attention on Chubb, shooting him several times to ensure he was dead.  Sweet revenge, perhaps, but with the loss of innocents as well.  Chubb has largely been forgotten in the early colonial history of America, and when his name is mentioned it’s appropriately with distain.

       

    • The Friday Crawl

      Driving south I saw the traffic going northbound. It basically ran for ten or twelve miles, opened up for a short spell, and then clogged again for a few miles. This is one of those moments where I can’t just say good thing I’m not going north. Once I’m done with a lunch meeting I’ll be merging right into that traffic going back to where I came from.

      It’s summer in New England, and the traffic is relentless. Tourists heading to Maine, New Hampshire, or Canada join the normal commuter weekend head-starters. It’s a recipe for frustration if you let it get to you. Today I’ll put on some favorite music and crawl along with the rest of them. No use putting it off any longer, it won’t get better anytime soon. My Friday crawl is about to begin.

    • Life Lessons from Deacon Recompense Smith and Captain Ichabod Hinckley

      I had a chance to visit a distant relative in Connecticut yesterday.  He’s long dead, but had a lot to say nonetheless.  I met a few of his neighbors while looking for him, including a long dead United States Senator and several Revolutionary War veterans.  One of them had a message for all of us.  But first the man I came here to find: Henry Smith, or more formally and for all time on his headstone; Deacon Recompense Henry Smith, who died on March 7, 1804.  Which meant he walked among the giants of the time – the Founding Fathers save for Benjamin Franklin were still alive, and Abraham Lincoln’s entire lifetime took place on Henry Smith’s watch.  The United States of America was finding its stride in those years.  It was an extraordinary time in our country’s history and a fascinating time to be alive.

      Deacon Recompense is a position of distinction.  To be a Deacon is to be a leader in your faith and in the community.  Recompense means to compensate, and in religious terms it usually meant life beyond the grave as a servant of the Lord.  So Henry Smith was a leader and revered as such in his community.  That community is the Stafford and Tolland area, in the northern central part of Connecticut.  Travelers between New York City and Boston by coach would have come through this community then on the Post Road, just as we do now on I-84.

      In general Connecticut is not my cup of tea. Heavy traffic clogs the roads seemingly always, and drivers tend towards the crazy side. But there are lovely places here, and one of them was this place called Skungamaug Cemetery.  This is a quiet place, but the whispers are strong here.  Less than half a mile away is an archeological site where 7000 years ago Native Americans camped, hunted and left time capsules for the future.  They surely walked on the land that is now the cemetery, just as those currently residing there may have in their time, and I did yesterday.  Our time is fleeting, as the stoics would remind us.  And it turns out Deacon Smith and one of his neighbors a few stones away had a little stoic in them.  Each offered advice for me, and man they’d never imagine would be walking over their remains, but perhaps they contemplated someone like me reading their advice.

      “The fate of mortals here behold

      For young must die

      As well as old

      For refuge then

      To Jesus fly

      Forget this world”

      – From the Headstone of Deacon Recompense Smith

      Captain Ichabod Hinckley died in 1807 at the ripe old age of 72 (there must be something in that Skungamaug River water). Ishabod was a veteran of the French and Indian War and served in the 2nd Connecticut Regiment in the Revolutionary War, where he was stationed at Valley Forge and commanded a company of fellow Connecticut men.  He offered his own message, even more stoic than my Great (x 5 or 6) Granddad’s, for those who would heed it. I found Ichabod before I found Henry. Had it been the other way around I’d likely never have met him. Perhaps the two conspired in some way to make that happen, so I’ll share his words here too:

      “Remember Death

      Death is a debt

      To nature due

      Which I have paid

      And so will you”

      – From the Headstone of Ichabod Hinckley

    • Karma’s Gonna Get You

      This morning I was inspecting the grapes, which seem to be thriving this year, when I felt  a familiar stinging sensation on my hand.  Looking down quickly I saw the reason, I’d grabbed the fence right at the spot where a hornet had built a nest in the cavity made by the U-shaped metal top rail.  And there was the hornet flying about still annoyed with me.

      Wasps and hornets offer value to the garden, hunting pests that would otherwise damage your plants.  But they also tend to build nests in places inconvenient to humans trying to live in the same space.  I’ve seen a couple of other hornet nests in the fence but this one was a surprise for me.  Unfortunately it’s right next to the gate to the backyard and a safety concern, so I’ll have to spray this one.  I don’t mind coexisting with hornets but not when they endanger my family and guests.  They aren’t my favorite neighbors but they are a sign of a healthy ecosystem.  In a year when the bee population seems to be lower in my garden, I’ll take any positive I can find.

      That said, I view this entire incident as karma, as last night I finally got around to destroying a nest of yellow jackets in my grill.  They built a nest the size of a Nerf football right behind the propane tank.  That would qualify as unacceptable risk for me and anyone else that uses the grill or opens the cabinet door for the grill brush.  Nope, they had to go.  And karma came in the form of a sting this morning.  As I type this the sting still throbs a bit to remind me that it’s best to look carefully before grabbing hold of anything.  Another lesson from the garden…

    • Jonathan Haynes and a Trip Cut Short

      On February 22, 1698, Jonathan Haynes and Samuel Ladd were returning home from a day collecting cut hay when they were surrounded by a party of Abenaki warriors. Hopelessly outnumbered, they asked for quarter but none would be given for the older men. Both would be killed that day, and one each of their sons captured. One of Haynes’ other sons escaped on a horse. This all happened in what is now Haverhill, Massachusetts near the West Gate Market Plaza.  Today there’s very little evidence of the events of that day, save for a mention on a monument erected by descendants two hundred years later. Those descendants, happily alive at the time, are long gone now too.

      Jonathan Haynes lived a short walk from where Hannah Duston was kidnapped less than a year before.  In fact, Jonathan Haynes had been kidnapped two years before along with four of his children.  Two came back to Haverhill with their father, two lived out their lives in Canada.  This time Jonathan paid the price for living on the edge of the frontier.  The warriors who killed Haynes and Ladd had come from a raid in Andover (likely present-day North Andover) where they had killed five settlers, including Pasco Chubb, his wife and daughter.  Chubb is a story for another day, but it seems that the Abenaki were out for revenge and went to his home in winter to kill him.  Haynes and Ladd were simply unlucky to be on the path that the Abenaki warriors were taking back to what is now Concord.

      There’s a rich history in this region, full of stories like this one that are largely lost to the past. The relentless terror for people living with the threat of raids must have been unbearable at times.  Today there are only whispers.  Evidence of the once powerful Abenaki is almost impossible to find.  But sometimes you find clues to the lives of the original settlers if you simply pay attention.  The Duston Garrison still stands less than two miles away.  And thousands of people drive by the small burial ground where Haynes and his descendants are buried.  Most of the oldest gravestones are illegible as time wears away the engravings on the stone.  The burial ground, like the garrison, is one of the few places in this corner of Haverhill that hasn’t changed all that much in 320 years.  It still marks time as it has since that day so long ago when a trip home was unexpectedly and tragically cut short.

    • The Loon Comeback Story

      Early this morning I was reading in the backyard when I heard something I’ve never heard in twenty years of living in this place; the distinct call of a loon as it flew over the house.  In my lifetime loons have always been rare, and usually you’d find them up on the relatively quiet northern lakes.  The first time I heard a loon was on First Connecticut Lake up in Pittsburgh, New Hampshire.  I was 23 at the time; far too old to be hearing a loon for the first time.  Interestingly enough that was the same weekend I first saw a moose in the wild (thanks Pittsburgh).  But it remained a rare experience if you weren’t up in the Lakes Region or north.

      Loons, like hawks and eagles, are the canaries in the coal mine for our ecosystem.  When DDT and other pesticides worked their way up through the food chain it killed more than just bugs.  One research article talked about massive loon die-offs in the mid-1960’s related to pesticides and human interference on Lake Michigan.  This was repeated all around the country as attempts to knock out the mosquito population and pests that eat food crops created unintended consequences.  With the ban of the worst of these pesticides and intelligent management of the rest, wildlife started making a comeback.  As the world struggles with the questions of climate change and plastic in the environment, perhaps looking back on the 40-year rebound of the loon population would be a good example of what positive, long-term change looks like.

      The loons have made a comeback.  The population has tripled in the last 40 years from about 100 in 1974 to over 300 last year.  As the population increases nesting pairs move into new lakes and ponds in Southern New Hampshire, making the once rare sound of a loon song increasingly common again.  That loon flying over my house could have been heading to any of the half dozen large lakes nearby, or perhaps one of the many smaller ponds and that flow into the Spicket River.  But wherever it was heading, it was a signal that things are slowly improving for the loons, and for the rest of us as well.

    • Tigers and Time Travel

      This is the time of year when the orange time machines announce they’re back. Along old stone walls, foundations of farmhouses and in places random today but logical once upon a time. The tiger lilies are back.

      The land whispers to us of those who came before us. Tiger lilies were planted generations ago, divided and planted again at the next generation’s homes, and so on. Tiger lilies came out of China in the middle of the 18th century, made their way to England in the early 19th century and then to the United States. Tiger lilies are entirely edible, from the bulbs that supposedly taste like potatoes to the flowers. But most people plant them as ornamentals.

      Tiger lilies are a common sight in New England’s summer. On a 3 1/2 mile walk around the block I passed maybe a hundred of them. Time machines of orange and green, whispering the names of generations of people long gone who brought them to this place.