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Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous 2011 & memories from the gutter

July 2, 2011 By gothiccurios 1 Comment

Musicoligists disagree on what was the first musical device. They generally agree that the first musical instrument was the voice. So it’s a simple leap to believe our ancient ancestors figured out whistling, and from there, the flute. The whistle imitated birds, the flute imitated the whistle and thus, music was born.

But it’s always been my theory, without any scientific evidence mind you, that the first musical device was the drum. Consider this …

Our paleolithic ancestors are sitting around the fire, and one of them discovers that he or she can make a sound with their mouth, which will later come to be called melodic. And now this is way before anyone figures out whistling, keep in mind. So they’re humming away, and before long, another ancestor, most certainly a guy, starts making rhythmic noises with his mouth. Kind of like a prehistoric beat box. Which in turn leads another (again a male of the species) to begin drumming rhythmically on his legs. And we all know how irritating that is, unless the primitives in question had some form of libation, in which all of them would soon be beating on their legs. Next thing you know someone picks up a couple of sticks and musical instruments are born.

Woman tended to the wounded on a Revolutionary War battlefield at the Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous — Woman tending to the wounded on a Revolutionary War battlefield at the Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous

What does all this have to do with the 2011 Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous, in Vincennes, IN?

Like most historical reenactments, the participants fall into two camps. The first is those demanding authenticity, most notably in dress. And in this The Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous does pretty darned well, at least among the reenactors. The merchants are a different story, but that’s neither here nor there.

The other camp doesn’t really give a fig for authenticity, as long as it looks right. Or in the case of music, sounds like what people expect period music to sound like. And reenactments aren’t the only victim of this. No less notable a personage than Ken Burns, with his award-winning PBS specials blows it when it comes to musical authenticity.

So at the Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous, let’s face it, the music isn’t authentic (discounting Common Stock, a wonderful pair who I have to believe are as authentic as you’re likely to find). Ironically enough, the guitar might not have been entirely unknown in colonial Vincennes, as the French quite possibly brought it when Vincennes was still trading in furs. But the whole ensemble playing would likely never have happened. And perhaps most inconceivable to many people, the bodhran, or Irish frame drum would never have been played in an ensemble setting. We all would love to believe that the instrument has been accompanying early music for centuries, but it likely dates from no earlier than the 1960s.

Common Stock (Jack Mulgrew and Maddie Bliss), performing at the Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous

Now cast your mind back in time to the Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous, 2001 or therabouts. Your author is playing non-traditional music for non-traditional dancers at the event. It’s hot, and thirsty work. The day’s activities end, and we wander around the encampment and along the river, which is when the site feels most like the 18th century. Darkness falls, and libations are produced. Many libations. At the far end of the encampment, a large fire is drifting sparks up into the sky, in contrast with most of the smaller fires of the reenactors, and we wander to it, where a well-known and unnamed musical act is camping. There are kids being kids, adults being adults, and a ring of people around the fire, which we join. More libations are produced, including a fiery elixer with golden flakes suspended therein, Goldschlager. This bottle and several others are passed around the circle, along with a guitar and songs, and pretty soon, the twentieth century is long gone. I have to believe, based on as much as I can remember, that this was the most authentic experience I’ve had at any reenactment or historic site. Bar none.

I also seem to remember that I slept much of the night in a ditch, which felt pretty authentic as well. A gutter might have been more appropriate but we make do.

‘Twas an evening in October, I’ll confess I wasn’t sober,

I was carting home a load with manly pride,

When my feet began to stutter and I fell into the gutter,

And a pig came up and lay down by my side.

Then I lay there in the gutter and my heart was all a-flutter,

Till a lady, passing by, did chance to say:

“You can tell a man that boozes by the company he chooses,”

Then the pig got up and slowly walked away.”

Clark Van Ness

Of course that was long ago, and certainly not a sanctioned Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous activity. And I’m certain that such a Bacchanalia would no longer be tolerated. The event is wonderful enough without it.

The 2011 Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous was held this past Memorial Day weekend, and I managed to spend most of an afternoon there, before being called back on the road. It’s nice to see a historical reenactment that is so consistently great, especially considering that it’s organized almost entirely with volunteers. So perhaps the music isn’t authentic, it’s still enjoyable. And I still choose to believe that after dark, around some campfire, authenticity still reigns.

Learn more:

Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous main page

Spirit of Vincennes Rendezvous images in History and Haunts

Too good to be true, mayhem on the highway turns into a ghost story from Old Charleston and the legend of Lavina Fisher

January 10, 2011 By gothiccurios 28 Comments

Top: Charleston’s Old Jail, where Lavina Fisher and her husband John were held and executed.

Though she’s been dead for almost 200 years, Charleston is in love Lavina Fisher. Or rather the legend of Lavina Fisher.

According to legend, Lavinia had a way with men, particularly her husband John. John and Lavinia ran the Six Mile House, located as stated, six miles north of Charleston. Travelers heading in and out of Charleston would stop over for refreshments or a room for the evening. Lavinia loved to bring the men into her parlor for tea and conversation. The particularly tasty ones – as Lavinia had a taste for gold – were the rich ones, who got an extra dose for their tea. A lethal one. [Read more…] about Too good to be true, mayhem on the highway turns into a ghost story from Old Charleston and the legend of Lavina Fisher

Living history in America’s most historic attraction: Plimoth Plantation brings the seventeenth century to life

December 29, 2010 By gothiccurios 3 Comments

Of the living history sites I’ve visited, none capture the imagination like Plimoth Plantation. Plimoth Plantation feels real, for aside from the visitors, there are no traces of modern life. There are no signs, no artifacts behind glass cases, no areas roped off. This is truly living history, as the interpreters never leave character, and are busy going about the day to day tasks which would have occupied the time of the earliest settlers of the colony.

Plymouth has undergone many spellings throughout the years, and one of the earliest was Plimoth, hence the peculiar spelling. The idea for the museum was the brainchild of Henry Hornblower II, who began the project in 1947, on the shore of Plymouth Bay where the Mayflower II is now docked, and a part of the exhibit. Since there are no structures dating to the time of the pilgrims, Hornblower settled on the idea of recreating the village a couple miles up the road, on terrain which approximates that of the original site.

View of The Village and Plymouth Bay from the Fort, 1627 English Village, Plimoth Plantation, Plymouth, Massachusetts

Now known as the 1627 English Village, it is the living heart of the complex. You can watch the inhabitants build and repair their homes using techniques from the period, as well as cooking, caring for their livestock, working the crops and relaxing, just as their counterparts would have nearly four hundred years ago. The re-enactors are friendly and approachable, always asking where you hail from, and acting appropriately confused when you reply with a place name which would have been unfamiliar in their day.

Noticing a young couple holding hands, one of the interpreters simply shook his head, and explained how lucky they were not to live here. Such public displays of affection were frowned upon by the governor, he explained, and would likely have resulted in a “striping,” or public lashing. Not to mention the public humiliation.

Another told of his theory on beer, and why one shouldn’t drink water. “You can’t eat earth”, he reasoned. “Instead you plant seeds in the earth, and from the earth springs food”. “Fire will kill you,” he went on, “but you can cook crops which are inedible, and it makes them edible.” He then further explained, “so it is with water. Often it’s not fit to drink, but you add the crops from the earth, and heat it with fire, and from that you get beer, which is wonderful to drink.”

Costumed Male Pilgrim Interpreter Eating Sausages, 1627 English Village, Plimoth Plantation, Plymouth, Massachusetts

Others will tell of the difficulty of life here, and the losses that the colonists went through in the early years. Many have lost husbands, wives and children. Some left loved ones back in Europe. Some are awaiting the arrival of spouses and children whom you know will never arrive. In short, those interpreting the history are more than tour guides, and more than actors. They bring the history of the plantation, and most importantly, the lives of the people to life. The sights, the sounds and the smell of the place is that of the seventeenth century, and it is rare is it that you can find that here in the twenty-first century.

The layout of the village itself is based on the historical data collected from the archeology and writings of the original settlers. Leydon Street is a dirt track leading up the hill to the fort, which gives a panoramic view of the village below and Massachusetts Bay beyond.

One phrase I heard time and again at Plimoth Plantation. When someone is asked what they did before they came here, it always ends with variations of the same statement. But I’m a farmer now. We’re all farmers here. Which was true. There was no time nor need for finer skills. At Plimoth it was all about survival, which meant getting the crops in the ground, seeing to the harvest, caring for the livestock, and keeping a roof over their heads. There was no need for printers, decorative artisans, merchants. It was all about the day-to-day survival in a harsh and unforgiving wilderness. Sewing was more utilitarian that art, and seemingly was one chore that never ended. The interpreters take part in all these tasks, including caring for the livestock, in a way which brings visitors, particularly young ones into the process. It’s not unusual to see school age children pressed into service to haul wood, hoe or help drive a cow to its pen.

Wampanoag Interpreter and Child in Traditional Native American Dress Cooking Over A Fire. Plimoth Plantation, Plymouth County, Plymouth, Massachusetts

The settlement of Plimoth Plantation would never have survived those first years without the help of the native Americans. The Wamanoag Homesite allows you to see what life is like in a traditional Wampanoah home, watch traditional native Amercan cooking techniques, and learn how a canoe was dug out of a tree. Unlike the English Village, the Wampanoag homesite residents aren’t in character, but are in traditional dress. They are just as willing to interact with visitors, but on a modern day person to person basis, which is a great way to find yourself back in the twentieth century after the English village, as well as learning the story of their people, and the coming of the Europeans from a native American point of view.The stories are far more effective told in a long house, sitting around the fire on a fur rug.

Plimoth Plantation also encompasses the Mayflower II, on the water in Plymouth itself, just down from the infamous rock. Plimoth Plantation worked with the builder, Warwick Charlton, in Devon England to recreate the Mayflower, the ship that brought the pilgrims to the new world. Built in Brixham, England at the at the Upham Shipyard, the ship sailed to the U.S in April of 1957. The Mayflower II is open for tours, and gives the visitor a feel for what life was like in the cramped quarters of the ship on the original 66 day journey.

And of course there’s the gift shop, one of the nicer and most complete that I’ve come across. With a full range of wares, for the kids, adults, native American products, books, cooking and things for the home, it’s easy to spend an hour or more wandering. I recommend the fudge. Rocky Road to be precise.

If you visit Plimoth Plantation, and you really should, beware the month of November. In addition to people naturally having their curiosity piqued around Thanksgiving, it’s also the time of year when school children of the area are studying the Pilgrims and the founding of the Plymouth Colony. Be sure to bring your children repellent, or avoid this month altogether. Inside the homes you’ll find fairly cramped spaces, and Plimoth begs for the opportunity to interact with the re-enactors one-on-one.

Then again, it really doesn’t matter when you go. Even with swarms of children and adults snapping pictures, Plimoth Plantation works. Perhaps it’s the commitment of the people who bring the place to life, to ignoring the twenty-first century, that allows us to as well.

Two Costumed Male Pilgrim Interpreters Tending Livestock, 1627 English Village, Plimoth Plantation, Plymouth, Massachusetts

Learn more:

Plimoth Plantation’s site

Images of Plymouth, Massachusetts from The Wytchery

Haunted Plymouth: The macabre history of Plymouth, Mass., where Pilgrim and native American spirits haunt side by side

Separating fact from fiction about the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving

The Spooner House, Plymouth, Massachusetts: A haunting in America’s hometown

A photo tour of historic and haunted Plymouth, Mass

Historic attractions, shipwrecks and solitude on Cape Cod

November 25, 2010 By gothiccurios 1 Comment

Many things come to mind when you mention Cape Cod – JFK walking the beach at his summer White House at Hyannisport, a getaway for the well-to-do, the arts and alternative lifestyle of Provincetown. But an incredible amount of history has washed up on Cape Cod’s shores.

One of the largest barrier islands in the world and shaped like an arm flexing its bicep, Cape Cod protects much of the Massachusetts coastline from the unforgiving waves of the north Atlantic. Between Chatham and Provincetown, a distance of around fifty miles, over 1,000 wrecks are recorded, leading to its designation as an ocean graveyard.

The Sparrowhawk was the first recorded shipwreck on Cape Cod’s shores, back in,1626. That tale had a happy ending, with all the passengers reaching safety and the ship being repaired, only to sink again before it could be relaunched. Over the next few hundred years, shipwrecks became a form of income for the locals, salvaging the cargo, and sometimes the human cargo which washed ashore. Typically ships would flounder during storms however, and it was seldom that the hapless passengers reached the beaches of Cape Cod. As lifesaving techniques improved, when possible, lifesaving crews took specially equipped boats to ships in distress. When the surf made this impossible, they would attempt to fire a small cannon called a Lyle gun with a line attached to its shell to the ship. Sailors and passengers were then brought to shore in a basket above the waves. It was a dangerous task for those charged with saving lives as well, and their motto was “you have to go, but you don’t have to come back.”

Native Americans also were known to rescue stranded mariners, whose ships piled up on Cape Cod’s shore. The Wampanoag tribe has called Cape Cod home for many years, though they only received official recognition from the U.S. government in 2007. Originally numbering around 7,000 at the time of the pilgrim’s landing in Massachusetts, it was the Wampanoag you might remember, which helped them survive their earliest years on the new continent. The arrival of white people on the Cape had devastating consequences on the native American population, as the tribe was hit hard from Eurasian diseases for which they had no natural immunity.

Provincetown Breakwater, Site of Pilgrim's First Landing. Provincetown, Barnstable County, Cape Cod, Massachusetts — Provincetown Breakwater, Site of Pilgrim’s First Landing. Provincetown, Barnstable County, Cape Cod, Massachusetts

And forget Plymouth Rock. The pilgrims made their first landing on these shores near Provincetown on November 11, 1620. It was there that the Mayflower Compact was drawn up, and a scouting party sent ashore to look for a suitable area for their colony. They encountered Indians near Eastham, and found no spot suitable for habitation, so once again the Mayflower set off, before finally settling on Plymouth.

And it’s believed that the pilgrims weren’t the first Europeans to come ashore on Cape Cod. There is evidence that the Promontory of Vinland mentioned by the Norse voyagers of 985-1025 was Cape Cod. Some believe that in 1006, Leif Ericson and his Vikings started a colony near Dennis. Archeological evidence has been found which might support the theory that it was here that the Norsemen built a form of dry dock to repair their ships. Whether the Vikings reached as far south as Cape Cod will probably never be known for certain however.

Henry Thoreau’s incredibly dry travelogue Cape Cod paints a picture of the area in the years 1849-1857. By then the land had been denuded of trees, and firewood had to be shipped in from Maine. The sand encroached on farm land and ground available for pasture, so much so that farming was abandoned on the Cape by the late nineteenth century, it’s inhabitants concentrating instead on the whaling and fishing industries.

By the end of the nineteenth century, tourism was coming to life on the Cape. Today it’s a major form of income for the locals, with much of the island’s commerce being shut down after the summer months. Which for me is the time to visit Cape Cod.

In late October and early November, you can feel the winter blowing in from the Atlantic winds, which while I was there never seemed to lie down, The colors were changing, far later than most of the rest of the northeast, and the sunsets were truly spectacular. You have the beaches to yourself, bed and breakfasts are off-season and you can get a sense of what Cape Cod was like before it became gentrified. Colonial era houses and buildings, as well as residences built for sea captains dot the landscape, and there are fewer roads which scream New England like Route 6A, which skirts serpent-like along the coast. It’s there in the solitude that the ghosts of Cape Cod speak to the traveller, of a time long gone but still out there. Below the sands and below the waves.

Read a travelogue of the Barnstable Village Haunted History Tour

Spend the night with a Cape Cod ghost at the Beechwood Inn in Barnstable

Sesuit Harbor Beach Sunset, East Dennis, Barnstable County, Cape Cod, MA

Ancient America comes alive at Angel Mounds State Historic Site

October 13, 2010 By gothiccurios

I’ve always been a fan of crackpot science. There’s something about the unknown and the unknowable that spurs the imagination. I love ley lines, standing stones, the pyramids – be them in Egypt or Central America. I’m frequently asked if I believe in UFOs, to which I always answer yes. After all, there are certainly flying objects that are unidentified. Just what they are I can’t say, otherwise they wouldn’t be unidentified now would they? I’ve made my pilgrimage to Avebury, Glastonbury and even used to brew beer that always included a dash of water from Joseph of Arimathea’s holy well, which might very well have the grail resting at the bottom.

https://www.gothichorrorstories.com/ohio-river-valley/native-americans/angel-mounds/ancient-america-comes-alive-at-angel-mounds-state-historic-site/It was about the time that I discovered John Michell’s New View Over Atlantis, that I learned that some of the greatest mysteries of prehistory existed right under my very nose. Back then you did your research in a library, and the extent of your knowledge depended on what books your library had on hand, or that you could persuade the librarian to order for you. It was there I discovered the moundbuilders of North America, and particularly Cahokia, near St. Louis, and Angel Mounds, closer to home in Evansville, Indiana.

I have no memory of the name of the book I found in the library that brought the moundbuilders to light for me, only that it dated from the first part of the nineteenth century, when the theories for who built these mounds ranged from noble savages, to the lost tribes of Israel, to the same European tribes who had built Stonehenge (who had of course also had contact with those who built the great pyramids), to extra-terrestrials. As I recall, the book in question had put forth a theory quite popular at the time, that it was a northward migration of the same peoples who built the pyramids of Central America.

Central Mound (Mound A). Angel Mounds State Historic Site, Evansville, Vanderburgh County, Indiana

There’s something magical about walking the grounds of Angel Mounds. Covering over 100 acres, the complex was begun around 1000 CE, and thrived for almost 500 years before mysteriously fading away about the same time Columbus came skipping across the water. There’s a distinct lack of things ancient in this country, and to stand in the midst of an abandoned city a thousand years old is a heady experience. It was almost a hundred years after the discovery of sites like this that the world culture was used to describe the people who built them. But what an amazing culture it must have been, in the middle of the wilderness, to sustain a large enough population to have the free time to build these huge mounds.

The Central Mound at Angel is 644 feet long, over 400 feet wide, and climbs in two levels, with a third conical mound standing in the southeast corner. Angel was a chiefdom, and it’s thought that it was from the top of this conical mound that the chief would address his people. The Temple Mound, which once had a reconstruction of the temple built to the Native American’s sun god at the top, lies on the same axis as the Central Mound. It is believed that the structure that originally stood on top of this mound held the bones of the ancestors of the chief, as well as sacred statues and other ceremonial items. A beautifully carved statue of a deity was found buried in the top of the mound, thought to have been done ceremonially at the end of Angel Mound’s occupation.

The interpretative center at Angel Mounds contains a wealth of information about the settlement, including life-size dioramas and a reconstruction of part of the village. There are other reconstructions scattered around the site, including a section of the wall which once encompassed three sides of the 100 acre site. Yet most of Angel Mounds remains blessedly undeveloped. The trees are kept cleared, the grass short enough to allow you to see the shape of even the smallest of the mounds. In short, it’s a blank natural canvas which lets the mind do its magic.

The exploration of the mounds of North American began when Thomas Jefferson decided to excavate one on his property. Even Benjamin Franklin got in on the act of trying to figure out who built them and why. For a long time, many people believed that there was a golden age on this continent, when advanced civilizations built these amazing cities. The same theories used to be tossed about in Britain over sites like Stonehenge and Avebury. I’ve always believed that it’s a natural inclination to want to believe in golden ages, in part because there’s a certain romance to be found in their decline and disappearance, as you find in the myths about Atlantis, or the realities of the antebellum plantations in the south. Even golden ages of the imagination had their real-life horrors, from the slavery of the old south, to the human sacrifices at Cahokia and Angel.

And yet the magic lives on in these sites. The keys to truly understanding the moundbuilders, and their cities like Angel Mounds, Cahokia Mounds and Kincaid Mounds in southern Illinois, might never be found. Then again, perhaps all it takes is seeing the landscape at the right angle, in the right light, and like Alfred Watkins discovering ley lines stretching across the English countryside, it might all come into focus. The focus might be cracked like an old teacup, but for me, the key to history isn’t just in the facts. It’s also in the imagination, which drives us to look deeper for answers.

Older Mound, c. 500 A.D. Angel Mounds State Historic Site, Evansville, Vanderburgh County, Indiana

Stepping back in time and into the muck at Cache River State Natural Area

October 6, 2010 By gothiccurios Leave a Comment

Tucked away in the southern tip of Illinois you can find places which don’t seem to belong there. When you think of Illinois – aside from Chicago, or references to Abraham Lincoln, you tend to think of acres of flat land covered in corn, wheat and soybeans. What you might not think of are sheer bluffs, canyons, waterfalls and in the case of the Cache River State Natural area, cypress and tupelo tree swamps.

Formed in the remains of of a floodplain created long ago by glacial runoff coursing through the Ohio River, the wetlands that make up this area are fed by the Cache River and its tributaries. Boasting trees which were saplings when Vikings plundered Europe, as well as much younger trees which date to the time of Christopher Columbus, Cache River State Natural Area gives you a chance to immerse yourself in an area little disturbed by human contact.

My companion had been there before, and suggested the Todd Fink-Heron Pond Trail. The gravel trail which wind through the area, as well as wide and stable boardwalks which take you out over the water itself allow you to experience features of the planet which otherwise would be pretty much off limits. The 1.5 mile trail is labelled easy, which is true, though in July when we visited, the heat was pretty intense. You can’t count on much of a breeze, and the bugs are pretty much what you’d expect in a swamp.

The bottomland forests of the area surround Heron Pond, and a boardwalk extends out to the center. The shallow water is home to towering cypress trees, rising high above the duckweed which covers the surface of the pond. It’s easy to spot signs of life in the green duckweed, including trails left by snakes swimming along its surface. The curious bird-like sound heard frequently is actually the sound of tree frogs, which live in the cypress. What you see while standing on the boardwalk and looking out is a sight relatively unchanged for a thousand years or more.

Bald Cypress Tree more than 1,000 years with a base circumference more than 40 feet. Todd Fink-Heron Pond Trail, Cache River Natural Wildlife Area, Belknap, Illinois — Bald Cypress Tree more than 1,000 years with a base circumference more than 40 feet. Todd Fink-Heron Pond Trail, Cache RIver Natural Wildlife Area, Belknap, Illinois

It’s a miracle that its survived to this day. In the nineteenth century, only a few sturdy settlers occupied the area, trying to make a go of it harvesting lumber. With the advances in technology however, the wetlands were cleared quite rapidly. It was only when concerned citizens stepped in to stop the harvest, that about 15,000 acres were saved. Almost a quarter of a million acres of wetland were lost.

There are about a hundred species of endangered wildlife which finds a home in the Cache River State Natural area. Bald eagles, red-tailed hawks, great horned owls, barred owls, great blue herons, great egrets, little blue herons, green herons, least bitterns, wood ducks, mallards, snow geese, sora rails, woodcock, quail, mourning doves, red-headed woodpeckers, pileated woodpeckers, prothonotary warblers, black vultures and turkey vultures are among the birds often spotted. White-tailed deer, squirrels, raccoons, beavers, gray foxes, red foxes, opossums, skunks, mink and the occasional bobcat are among the mammals of the area. And a plethora of reptiles inhabit the wetlands, including ird-voiced tree frogs, southern leopard frogs, spring peepers, western chorus frogs, bullfrogs, American toads, cottonmouths, copperheads and timber rattlesnakes. So it’s best to keep your eyes peeled, as those last three are rather venomous snakes.

In addition to hiking, it’s possible to take canoe tours, ranging from three to six miles. There’s also a bike trail which winds through the area. And for fishermen (and fisherwomen), the catch could range from Channel catfish, crappie, bass to bluegill. Authentic swamp fish might also end up on your hook, the bowfin, needlenose gar, grass pickerel and yellow bullhead catfish for example. Two state-endangered fish which live only in forest swamps are the pygmy sunfish and cypress minnows.

We were content to hike the easiest of the trails, and sit on the boardwalk in the middle of Heron Pond and watch the filtered sunlight dancing on the duckweed, changing the color from a bright emerald to a rich green, and listen to the tree frogs high above us. There are few places where you can lose the sound of humanity, and here the only human sounds were the occasional far off sound of a truck out on the highway. My companion said once, that it was a place that felt like we shouldn’t be there. And she was right. It was humans which almost destroyed the Cache River wetlands for all time. But it’s also humans which have managed to preserve at least a part of it, and given us access to areas we could never otherwise reach.

As a reminder, when we got back to the truck, my friend noticed her ankles were swarming with deer ticks. These carriers of Lyme disease are a reminder that even though we might go someplace, we might not be designed to survive in those places for long. Leave no tracks, and wear boots!

If you go:

For more info:
http://dnr.state.il.us/lands/landmgt/parks/r5/cachervr.htm

Directions

To reach Cache River State Natural Area headquarters from the North, take I-57 south to I-24, go east toward Nashville, get off at exit #14 (Vienna), turn right at the stop sign onto US Rt 45, go south on Rt 45 through Vienna, 7 miles, turn right on the Belknap road for 4 miles to the stop sign in Belknap, turn right at the stop sign on Main Street and go 2,000 feet and turn right onto Sunflower Lane (past the Belknap Methodist Church) and go north 1 mile to the park office. The park office is located in the white metal pole building.

To reach the Henry Barkhausen Wetlands from Vienna, IL, go West 5 miles on Route 146 from the intersection of Route 146 & US Route 45, turn left or South on Route 37, then 9 miles to Wetlands Center entrance – follow signs.

While groups of 25 or more are welcome and encouraged to use the park’s facilities, they are required to register in advance with the site office to avoid crowding or scheduling conflicts.
At least one responsible adult must accompany each group of 15 minors.
Pets must be kept on leashes at all times.
Actions by nature can result in closed roads and other facilities. Please call ahead to the park office before you make your trip.
We hope you enjoy your stay. Remember, take only memories, leave only footprints.
For more information on tourism in Illinois, call the Illinois Department of Commerce and Community Affairs’ Bureau of Tourism at 1-800-2Connect.
Telecommunication Device for Deaf and Hearing Impaired Natural Resources Information (217) 782-9175 for TDD only Relay Number 800-526-0844.

Hoppy Rebstock, the heartbeat in the tombstone and the joys of school picnics

September 30, 2010 By gothiccurios 7 Comments

“I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no? They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

From the Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe

__________________________________

Burrell’s Woods lies on the outskirts of Carmi, Illinois, a small collection of wooded hills, creeks, picnic shelters and playground equipment. Today it’s been modernized, the road is better paved, there’s a campground and a small lake, complete with fountain. But growing up in the late sixties, it still had a bit of wild about it.

As you near the turnoff you pass Maple Ridge Cemetery. A rolling field of tombstones, with the oldest dating from the 19th century, it’s a field of the dead that immediately captures the imagination.

The most striking of the tombstones there is of one William Rebstock, also known as Hoppy. Hoppy was born July 11, 1878, and died November 12, 1952. As his headstone says, “here lies a man who lived and died for his country, relatives and friends.” Not much was known about Stumpy by those of us growing up back then. It was rumored that his nickname, Hoppy, came from a wooden leg. Others said he was born with one leg shorter than the other. It was also said that the life-size, realistic statue of Hoppy that sits atop the marble pedestal had to be sent back to the carver, as he had fixed Hoppy’s mangled leg, and his family insisted that it be deformed as it had been in life.

It was said that once a year or so, Hoppy came down from his pedestal and walked around the neighborhood. This was a story further reinforced one day when people driving by Maple Ridge noticed that Hoppy wasn’t up there. Further investigation found Hoppy at Burrell’s Woods. Of course the old-timers in our community, and the police as well, put his disappearance down to some local kids. But lifting a life-sized concrete statue from a pedestal four foot tall is a mean feat, even for the hardiest of corn-fed, midwestern youth. So those of us who were inclined to look for the supernatural whenever possible, had our doubts.

William Hoppy Rebstock, Maple Ridge Cemetery, Carmi, White County, Illinois

Each year Jefferson Elementary School, which I attended piled all the students and most of teachers into busses and hauled us out to Burrell’s Woods, for the Spring Picnic. In today’s law-suit prone world, we’d never have had the freedom we had then. We hit the trails, waded through the creeks, did battle with water moccasins, and generally ran wild for the afternoon. Eventually we found ourselves taking the dare of the older students, and headed up to the cemetery on top of the hill.

It wasn’t a large cemetery by any standards, no more than a dozen tombstones. Most of them were ancient, weather-beaten and illegible. But in the center stood one, much larger and somewhat newer. It was rumored that if you pressed your ear next to the stone and held it there, you would hear the heartbeat of the tenant below, who had been buried alive.

And each year a couple of brave kids would press their ear against it and shout “I hear it, I hear it,” though none of us ever believed them. It was only when one of our ranks would react with shock and horror, that the truth of it hit home, and we all fled back down the hill, oblivious to the taunts and laughter of the older boys who stayed back at the tombstone, waiting for the next group of kids who would inevitably come up to take their turn.

I never seemed to get my chance. Eventually the routine would get old and the older boys would come down the hill, and the younger ones would never go up there alone. And then it was time to pack the troop of muddy and exhausted kids back into the busses for the ride home.

Then one Sunday, my family attended a picnic at Burrell’s Woods. For some reason, I was the only kid there, and I tried my best to stay occupied. But the creek was up, and with my mother there I was forbidden to get in the water. My thoughts kept turning to the hill with the cemetery on top, and the beating heart of the man who was buried there.

Eventually I could stand it no longer. Hanging out with adults who were getting loaded on beer and playing pinochle wasn’t my idea of a good time, so I started up the hill.

It’s a steep climb, and even if you’re in shape, as most nine year olds were at the time, you find yourself winded, your heart pounding in your ears. My palms were sweating as I approached the stone, and I knelt tentatively beside it. The sun had been bearing down, I was hot, sweaty and the first brush of the cool stone took me by surprise and I jumped back. Then I slowly pressed my ear flat against the marble.

Initially, all I could hear was my own breathing, and then faintly I heard it. It was the beating of a heart, quiet yes, but getting louder all the time, and beating faster, faster and my eyes widened with terror and I ran from the place, back down the hill and into the sanctuary of the adults gathered under the picnic shelter.

Eventually we younger kids became the older kids at the picnic, and we were let in on the secret. As the younger kids pressed their ear against the stone, one of the older kids would beat out the heartbeat with the heel of their hand on the opposite side. And for most of us, that was the end of the story.

But for me, the story didn’t end there. When I went there alone, there was no one else to beat out the cadence on the other side. And yes, I know, that the heartbeat I heard was probably my own. But I didn’t believe it then, and it was years before I dared go up there alone once again. Even today, when I find myself at Burrell’s Woods on a hot summer day, I’ll find myself in the cemetery, and feel the chills spread over me, as I press my ear against it the stone and wait.

Historical attractions in Gotham City: A gin-soaked stroll through New York City’s Manhattan Island

July 28, 2010 By gothiccurios Leave a Comment

For nearly eight years, I lived only an hour’s train ride to New York City. Yet I seldom visited there, and developed a true love/hate relationship with the place. The names associated with the place now don’t ring with the same sweet tones as the ones that came before them. There are no Gershwins, Cohens, Mailers – Dorothy Parker isn’t spilling her wit all over and under the tables of the Algonquin Hotel – even Woody Allen is increasingly abandoning the place for new inspiration.

There’s no doubt in my mind that New York is the most egotistical town in the world. Whereas Paris might consider itself the center of the art world, Milan might consider itself the center of the fashion world, New York skips the modifier and is the only city I know that calls itself the center of the world. Come to think of it, New York would try to lay claims to both those titles as well.

About a year or so ago I read a fascinating book, The Island At the Center of the World, by Russell Shorto on the founding of the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam, and how it shaped the history of what would eventually become known as New York. It turns out that American qualities such as religious freedom and tolerance of ethnic groups other than your own got their start in this country in the original Dutch colony. As well as more tawdry aspects of society such as getting loaded on strong drink and falling into the company of women of ill-repute. While their English brethren at the time living north in Massachusetts were practicing a strict, puritan form of government, the Dutch colony was allowing people to live according to their conscience, or lack thereof, and a fairly lax set of laws.

Keep this in mind the next time Christmas rolls around and people are harping about how Christmas is losing its importance and how the pilgrims who came to this country to worship as they saw fit would be appalled. Those same Christians did not tolerate any deviance from their laws, and the celebration of Christmas was outright banned. That we celebrate Christmas in this country today is a relic of the Dutch colony, whose concept of religious tolerance lives on. This is doubly curious when you consider that Holland was the country the pilgrims sailed from in order to found a new nation based on religious freedom. In other words, that Christmas exists in this country today is because of that heathen bastion now known as New York City.

Anyway, this article isn’t about religious freedom and tolerance, it’s about New York City, and where to see the history of the place, as well as historical attractions there today. It’s not as easy as you think. The original Dutch colony is almost completely gone. In fact, there are more signs of the Viking period in Dublin than there are of the Dutch in New York. When the Dutch occupied Manhattan, there were over 21 fresh water ponds and 66 miles of streams. There was a sandy beach at the southern tip of the island, and the landscape was one of gently rolling hills. The growth of Manhattan has obliterated the very landscape that the Dutch settlers found. There are the occasional discoveries of a piece of road, the foundation of a house or well, and nearly all of it is then covered over with new construction. The best place to see New Netherlands is by looking at a map, where the street layout of lower Manhattan is much the same.

George Washington in Front of Federal Hall

The colonial period doesn’t fare much better. Even the balcony where George Washington was sworn in as our first president, outside the building where the Bill of Rights was enacted, is now remembered by a single stone tucked away in a museum. In New York, history usually plays second fiddle to real estate values.

Walking the streets of Manhattan today isn’t much different than walking the streets of any major city. You have the same chain stores – the high costs of doing business there has pushed out all but the largest retailers. There are restaurants of course, as New Yorkers increasingly define themselves by choices of eateries, few of which reflect any ethnic origins native to a particular neighborhood. The city is still a melting pot of course, but the people you see walking the streets are more than likely living elsewhere in the city or beyond, or tourists, as the cost of living has grown beyond the reach of most mere mortals.

So where do you find history in New York? Look up. Once your gaze rises above the first or second floor, the architectural history of the city comes alive. Get off the train at Penn Station and make your way to the Flatiron Building and head down Broadway for some of the best historical architecture the city has to offer. Pass the temple to one man’s retail dreams, the Woolworth Building – as intricate as a child’s dollhouse, past the looming bulk of the Municipal Building complex and wander the archetypical canyons of the financial district in lower Manhattan. Swing by Saint Mark’s Church of the Bowery, a remnant of the days when this land was owned by New Amsterdam’s last governor, Peter Stuyvesant, and the Stuyvesant-Fish house nearby which he had built as a wedding present for his daughter. Say hello to Alexander Hamilton in his final resting place outside of Trinity Church, a structure itself hoary with history. Dine at Delmonico’s which fed such figures as Mark Twain, or at Fraunces Tavern where Washington said goodbye to his officers at the end of the revolution. Or choose any of the outdoor restaurants on Stone Street which has a fairly medieval air, and get casually fed and watered before staggering your way back up the island.

Head up Fifth Avenue and see what used to be the center of the shopping world. Look up at the Empire State Building’s shorter, Art Deco sister the Chrysler Building for a peek at what skyscrapers could be when people actually gave a damn about such things as aesthetics. Stroll into the Plaza in the footstep of the stars of long ago and hold your head high as they kick your ass back out on the pavement. Stroll along Central Park West where notables still live in buildings that might as well be temples. As for Central Park itself – eh, it’s a park. It’s trees and grass and sure, it’s notable for being in the midst of one of the largest cities on earth, but in the end, it’s a park. It’s a living space for those who live here, who’ll you see in expensive recreational uniforms, or just sitting dazed knowing they’re supposed to get sun, but not entirely sure what they should do when the sunshine hits them. And of course a place for buskers to sell their wares and incredibly high priced bottles of water and soft drinks to tourists. It’s a simulation of nature, and for me, I prefer the real thing.

In short, history is still in abundance, but you have to know where to look. And you have to realize it’s not going to be coherent, nor even make sense in the modern sprawl of the city.

Perhaps New York City is best experienced in small doses. Get there in the afternoon and wander the streets into the night. Try seeing it from the top of a tour bus and avoid the lower stories altogether. See it bleary eyed from drink when emotions might be more likely to take over, and the people might seem a bit less irritating. Yes, the fabled rude New Yorker. There are certainly as many assholes per square foot in NYC as Paris. But just as I found most Parisians to be quite charming, the true New Yorker is really quite friendly as well, eager to chat or to help you find your way.

So it’s late in the night, my last trip there, days before fleeing the east coast and New York for good and I had been walking the streets for hours, my pockets full of cash that was a going away present from the office where I worked, feeling like an emigrant in reverse, fleeing west from the city instead of eastward across the ocean. I always felt like an emigrant here, fleeing my home and poverty for a chance at a better life in the promised land. I was looking to say goodbye to the Chrysler Building when a man came stumbling onto the sidewalk in front of me, mussed-up hair and dressed in his P.J.’s, cursing each step he took, as though he was sent out by a shrew wife on some trivial errand. And yet when stopped by some tourists who had lost their way, he was as friendly and courteous as anyone I’ve met anyplace. I dined in the building which inspired Edgar Allan Poe’s The Cask of Amontillado, and spent more on it than I would a week’s worth of groceries. A black man outside of Penn Station bummed a cigarette from me and in exchange we walked down Broadway and smoked his marijuana. Waiting for the train I fell in with a group of strangers, ranging in age from 21 to 71 in a small bar and drank toast after toast, as I prepared to leave a place I could never feel a part of, but would certainly never forget. I lived in the shadow of that city for almost eight years, and never felt a part of it. But for a few hours, I was a New Yorker. I missed that train and the next, and as the little group who met as strangers and parted as friends drifted apart and I found myself slouched in a seat on the Long Island Railroad, an old song by the Pogues drifting through my fractured mind …

In Manhattan’s desert twilight
In the death of afternoon
We stepped hand in hand on Broadway
Like the first man on the moon

And “The Blackbird” broke the silence
As you whistled it so sweet
And in Brendan Behan’s footsteps
I danced up and down the street

Then we said goodnight to Broadway
Giving it our best regards
Tipped our hats to Mister Cohan
Dear old Times Square’s favorite bard

Then we raised a glass to JFK
And a dozen more besides
When I got back to my empty room
I suppose I must have cried

Lyrics from Thousands are Sailing, by Philip Chevron, recorded by the Pogues.
Listen

A Contrarian’s View of History: The Myth of Independence

July 4, 2010 By gothiccurios Leave a Comment

Who do we thank for our independence? Surely not the British for granting us self-rule under duress. Taxation without representation? We paid among the lowest taxes in the British empire, despite the disproportionately high costs of defending our safety. Jefferson, Addams, Franklin and the rest who signed the declaration? Curious that in this day of tea parties and general unrest that we would honor a group of men who in essence declared a war without giving representation to the people they were dragging into it (Had the actions of the Continental Congress – a cherry-picked group of mostly well-heeled, politically connected members of the wealthier classes – been under the scrutiny of the 24 hour news cycle, we surely never would have declared our independence). The soldiers? A ragtag group of citizen soldiers, described by the greatest military power of its day as terrorists (and in many cases, rightly so). An army which generally had its butt kicked up and down the east coast of this continent, which only managed to stay afloat by retreat and avoiding the fight. How about the French, a country which we in this country quite often regard as cowards, but let’s face it, handed us the victory at Yorktown on a silver platter (For the record, the French lost over 2,000,000 people in both world wars, out of a population of about 40,000,000. The U.S. lost a little over half a million out of over 130,000,000. The percentage of the French population who supported the Germans in WWII was far lower than the percentage of colonists who supported the British in the revolution). We couldn’t have done it without the Frogs. The media? How about Paul Revere’s famous print of the Boston Massacre – a deliberate distortion of the facts that would have made Fox News proud. The God of our founding fathers? Take Thomas Paine – “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Believed that observation of nature, free-thinking and reason alone could prove the existence of a supreme being, without faith nor organized religion (or try these on for size … “The United States is in no sense founded upon the Christian doctrine,” – George Washington, “It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no god. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg. I do not find in orthodox Christianity one redeeming feature,” Thomas Jefferson and finally honest Abe Lincoln “The Bible is not my book, and Christianity is not my religion. I could never give assent to the long, complicated statements of Christian dogma”). George Washington, the father of our country, a second-rate soldier prior to the revolution who made his fortune marrying a rich widow whom he never showed an excess of warmth and love, a slave-owner and member of the ruling elite, who derived his power from being a successful businessman. His great dream was to assume the trappings of an English gentleman

We’ve created a mythology about the founding of our nation (as all nations do), which when leaned upon heavily, collapses like a deck of cards and threatens to take us all along with it. There was no single ideal, no single truth, no single motive that we can point to and say “that’s what this country declared our independence to preserve). No single ideal is more American than any other, at least in reference to our birth.

In truth we owe a debt of gratitude to all of the above and countless others, not for what we wish they could have been, but for what they were. To understand the founding of our country, and the miracle that it truly was, requires seeing the people behind the myths. Human beings with all their faults, foibles, idealism and intelligence. They rose to the occasion and in many cases, far surpassed what would in most circumstances have been expected of them. The Declaration of Independence wasn’t signed as part of a grand, inspired by God plan for manifest destiny, nor did it grant us independence. They didn’t sign on to forge a new nation, but to protect their own states’ and private citizens’ rights first. Doubtless they knew that a new nation of sorts would be forged, but the details were to be hammered out years later, and fought about still to this day. It was a step along the way, a milestone in what we were to become. What we do with our independence – now as much as then – is still up to us.

South Carolina’s Low Country: A Jimmy Buffet lifestyle meets the old South

June 18, 2010 By gothiccurios 4 Comments

People call it the lowcountry, or low country, and it’s made up of the coastal lands south of Charleston, South Carolina, including Beaufort, Colleton, Hampton and Jasper counties. Some include Charleston, some don’t. Some include Myrtle Beach. But all seem to agree that it’s as much a state of mind as a geographic area.

I just spent a week in the lowcountry, in a house on Edisto Beach, where I’m assured by the travel literature that I’ve had the real island living experience.

Lowcountry refers to the fact that much of the land is at sea level. In short, much of the time you’re in a swamp, or to put it euphemistically, a coastal wetland. There’s beauty in the lowlands. A subtle beauty perhaps – wild, earthy and damp. Shooting photos along side Store Creek, I found myself growing increasingly creeped out when I remembered that I was less than a hundred yards away from a tourist attraction called the Serpentarium. The point was drilled home a day or two later when I noticed a freshly squashed rattlesnake on the highway.

The first evening there we were treated to a dramatic thunderstorm, complete with torrential rains. The dunes lay between my screened-in porch and the beach, spanned by a boardwalk. Usually this is to protect the dunes. But these dunes aren’t covered with dune grass. Instead you have your own private swamp between you and the beach, and after the storm, the frogs started. Eventually I had to call someone to let them hear the chorus, which eventually got so loud we literally had to go inside to escape the sound. The next night, and all subsequent nights they were gone.

I’m not a beach person. I prefer my beaches strewn with stones and boulders rather than sand. But I can adapt to warm water. Don’t get me wrong, Edisto Beach is certainly a nice place to spend a week or two. But at times it feels more like a plantation lifestyle, rather than a Jimmy Buffet song.

There are former plantations a plenty on Edisto Island, but most are in private hands, and the only view you’ll likely get is of an avenue of oaks behind wrought iron gates. Edisto island was settled during the early days of our country, first by the Spanish, then by the English. Commerce thrived with the production of sea island cotton, considered the king of all cottons, and untold wealth poured into the area up to the Civil War. Or the War Between the States, the Confederate War, or whatever your politics lead you to call it.

Store Creek Next to Edisto Island Serpentarium, Edisto Island, Charleston County, South Carolina

This wealth was made possible with slave labor, and there’s no getting around that. By most reports, slavery in the low country was less abhorrent than in other places, not only because of a system which gave the slave more free time to live their life, but perhaps a bit more respect as well. But there were atrocities too.

And the low country is certainly haunted. There are enough legends and stories to keep a ghost-hunter busy for some time.

The war slowed commerce, and the boll weevil finished the cotton trade. Farming now consists of vegetables, fruits and tourists.

Edisto Beach is certainly one of the less touristy spots a person could visit. There are only a few gift shops in town, a scattering of restaurants and most refreshingly, very few tourist traps. There is also only one grocery store in town, and one liquor store. If you come for a visit, it’s best to come prepared, or be prepared to pay.

Trinity Episcopal Church, c. 1881, Edisto Island, Charleston County, South Carolina

You come onto the island down SC 174, and there’s no getting away from the fact that you’re in the deep south. Alongside the highway you find farm stands – fruit, boiled peanuts, sweet corn and a variety of sea creatures ready to boil. There are also churches dotting the landscape, at times less than a mile apart.

There’s no escaping the poverty. Many of the houses lining the highway are little more than shacks, with blacks sitting on the porches, trying to avoid the heat. One out of five residents on Edisto island under the age of 18 are below the poverty line, and over one in three over the age of 65. The median household income for the island is just under 26,000. But once you hit Edisto Beach, it jumps to $54,400. The percentage of blacks, which is at 40% on the whole island, drops to below 3% in Edisto Beach.

In short, as someone told me down there, they just haven’t gotten the hang of desegregation. Instead of working the plantations, now blacks work the Piggly Wiggly.

The lowcountry gullah culture of the African-Americans has preserved more of their African heritage than anyplace else in the United States. In fact, it’s one of the biggest tourist attractions to the area. Unfortunately, there seems to be less interest in the individual as there is in the culture. In the 140 page South Carolina Low Country Tourist Guide, there are no black families enjoying the beach and sites. Only living history demonstrators and performers.

But hey! It’s the old south, and if this kind of thing bothers you, you’re in the wrong place. As Lynyrd Skynyrd pointed out to Neil Young, who took Alabama to task for the treatment of blacks in Alabama, “southern man don’t need him around, anyhow.” The politics are nuanced and well beyond me, and besides, I was on vacation.

Sitting at home now, a few days later, scratching my chigger and mosquito bites, as well as poison ivy and other assorted bites and rashes, I find myself missing the place. But I just can’t put my finger on why.

On Edisto Beach, bottle-nosed dolphins swim just off -shore, sometimes in twos and threes. The sunsets are majestic, the light dancing over the wetlands magical. And gnarled oaks hung heavily with Spanish moss is about as magical as you can get. There’s history for those who look for it, but once again, it’s a subtle history. An abandoned plantation here, a ruined church there. A minor battle or skirmish from the revolution or War Between the States. Subtle enough that you get a feeling of discovery when you come across them, and all draped in that magical moss.

Then there’s Beaufort. Instantly recognizable for anyone who saw Forrest Gump, it’s an example of the southern tendency to remember and live with its past. If you were to suddenly materialize in New York City, Chicago, London – any number of increasingly faceless cities – you’d have a hard time knowing where you were. But find yourself in Beaufort, or it’s larger sister, Charleston, and you’ll instantly know you’re in the south. The architecture stuns the senses with grandeur and intricate details. Civic buildings, shops and houses aren’t pulled down as frequently for new projects. Instead, new businesses go into old structures. In places, whole towns seems like one interconnected historical attraction. It’s not living history, the people there are surrounded by history every day.

And then there’s the landscape. The wetlands, the oaks dripping with Spanish moss, as well as the baking heat, all come together to give the area a sense of identity. One that can’t be altered by architectural styles, history or politics.

Maybe that’s the key to island living. Life and change moves slowly, and some things never change. Like a pile of shrimp at the end of the day, rum drinks with fruit juices and the sun sinking into the sea, wondering where the time goes.

Newbury Massachusetts and the Pierce Tomb: Dancing with the dead on Old Burial Hill

May 21, 2010 By gothiccurios 3 Comments

The Pierce Tomb, Newburyport, Essex County, Massachusetts.

I love the dead before they’re cold,
Their blueing flesh for me to hold.
Cadaver eyes upon me see nothing.
I love the dead before they rise,
No farewells, no goodbyes.
I never even knew your now-rotting face.
While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave.
I have other uses for you, Darling.

Alice Cooper wrote that, and most people will generally agree that it’s rather twisted. But in truth, Alice turned out to be a pretty normal guy, more or less, and the song is fictional. The mysteries of the dead, the decay of the corpse, has long been a source for gruesome fiction.

The following story, however,Â is quite true.

The final resting place of a certain Pierce family can be found on the slopes of Old Burial Hill in Newburyport, Massachusetts. The tomb is imposing – ornamental but still disciplined, as fitting a respectable New England family. Inside, if the records are correct, you’ll find a drowning victim, a Civil War veteran and his family – three of which died of tuberculosis. Many of us wander graveyards in the day, and during the night as well, and Old Burial Hill is a great one for wandering. There’s nothing strange about that. Well, perhaps a little strange, but a little strange is to be commended.

But who among us would actually make our way inside the tomb at night? Have drinking bouts with the corpses? Don the dead one’s clothing?

The Pierce Crypt has suffered such indignities and more, and on several occasions. In truth, nobody seems to know exactly how many break-ins have occurred, but it’s thought to be five or more.

The first was in 1925, when teenage boys slipped inside, dangling on ropes lowered from above, unwrapped the corpses from their winding sheets, then poked the corpses, now nearly mummified, with sticks. They then propped the bodies so that they appeared to be attending a candle-lit seance. For the finale of the adventure, they put on the clothes of the rotting corpses and paraded around Frog Pond, which lies below Old Burial Hill.

Old Burial Hill, Newburyport, Massachusetts with Frog Pond below.

Curiously named Frog Pond, was formed during the last ice age, when a large chunk of ice embedded itself into the Massachusetts earth. As the ice melted, a deep pond was formed. There are rumors of brick tunnels beneath the pond, running to the sea, which were used possibly for the Underground Railroad during the Civil War, and possibly for smuggling. It is also reputed to be haunted.

But I digress.

The oddly attired teens attracted the attention of the local constables, confessed everything, the clothes were returned to their deceased owners, who were then once more neatly packed away, the tomb sealed and everything forgotten. There is no record what was done with the vandals.

Then in 1985, the tomb became a party house for a group of ten teens, part of a loose club. The tomb was broken into, corpses were once more unpacked and made honorary members of the club. Alcohol was poured down the throats of the decomposed corpses. Stories of more, unspeakable acts popped up as well, and the local police turned to the newspaper for assistance. A story was printed, revealing the fact that some of the occupants had died of tuberculosis, and whoever had been in contact with them should be tested immediately.

Which worked of course, as quite often vandals are – well, stupid.

In 2005, it happened again. This time, allegedly a single perp who was already doing community service broke into the tomb, severed the head and part of the collar bone off one skeleton with a rock, plopped the head on his shoulder and went back outside to freak out his coworkers. Which seemed to work, as they all fled with the possible exception of one, who took a snapshot of the fellow with the mummified skull on his shoulder. He then cavorted around the graveyard with the skull and bones. The photo found its way into the hands of the police, the peculiar fellow was arrested, pled guilty and got two and a half years in the big house.

The door to the tomb is now thoroughly bricked up.

The Pierce Tomb is said to be haunted, and it’s certainly conceivable, at least by those who spend a lot of time watching horror films, that the dead called to these seemingly witless young men. But more likely, people just sometimes do bizarre acts for no apparent reason. You’ve got to admit though, it is odd that one tomb would attract so much bizarre attention, over a span of 80 years at that.

Anyway, the Pierce Tomb is quiet. For now.

Gothic Travel Guide: Newburyport is a gorgeous village, great for a stroll in the day or night. Old Burial Hill is an amazing cemetery to wander as well. Of course it’s large enough to sneak in without being spotted, as this article proves. Below the hill lies Frog Pond, also thought to be haunted. There are no big scares here, just a sense of morbid curiosity perhaps, as well as historical interest. Still it’s worth a look and a walk, if nothing else than to study tombstones. Certainly enough for a three crypt rating.

Click to learn more about Gothic Travel ratings and what they mean

To read a travelogue on Newbury and Newburyport, Massachusetts and their historic attractions and early American history from The History Trekker, click here

Newbury and Newburyport, Massachusetts: Early American history and historical attractions from the colonial era in an enchanted New England landscape

May 21, 2010 By gothiccurios 2 Comments

Top: Spencer-Peirce-Little Farm, circa 1695, Newbury, Essex county, Massachusetts.Newbury reminds me of the west of Ireland. You come into Newbury via a roundabout. Head one direction and you’re going back in time to Newbury’s early American roots, to Newbury itself. Take off in the other and you end up in Newburyport, a town full of subtle historic attractions in a resort-type atmosphere. Or as I was told by a resident, if you’re looking for the historic attractions, just go up and down Massachusetts 1A – it’s all there.

Like Ireland, Newbury’s history blends in with the landscape. A modern day house, relatively speaking for New England, may sit next to a First Period home. The land is still farmed, small farms with stone walls. There’s enough of the past intact to slip in and out of the 21st century just by driving down the highway.

There’s very little left of the first settlement in Newbury, just a stone marker near the banks of the Parker River, where young Nicholas Noyes leapt ashore in 1634 with about a 100 pilgrims from Wiltshire, England. The original name for the river was Quascacunquen, which was an Native American term for waterfall. The falls are still there, where the river is bridged by Central street. If you head south from the bridge, you’ll find a charming, quintessential New England countryside. Head north and you’re following the path of settlement from the town’s founding

Newbury suffered the same fate of many of the early American colonial settlements. It’s roots were farming, fishing and hunting, and except for spells of industry, those roots have held throughout the centuries. Today, fishing and hunting are done recreationally, and indeed, Newbury has been a popular tourist destination since Victorian times. It’s just that it finds it hard to compete with its more glamorous neighbor, Newburyport.

As you come up Route 1, a keen eye will catch the First Burying Ground of the Settlers on the left hand side of the road. Founded in 1635, you’ll come across the names of the earliest settlers of Newbury. Graveyard travelers will find much to like about this one – some great carvings, winged effigies and other symbols, even stones to mark graves when no head stones were available. The Burying Ground was restored in 1929, and you’ll notice several stones with extremely old dates that look rather, well new actually. It’s not great conservation, they’re restorations.

Next up on the right is the Dole Little House, circa 1750, one of a handful of historical attractions administered by Historic New England. Just past that is the road the leads to the Spencer-Peirce-Little Farm, which has been a working farm since 1635, with the house dating from about 1690. The house is built of local stones, with a porch and gables of bricks, and is the only 17th century stone house to survive in New England with the outer walls intact.

Dole Little House, circa 1715, Newbury, Essex County, Massachusetts

Further down Massachusetts 1 is the Upper Green, where the colonial militia trained starting in 1646, and scattered around it are a number of early American homes. The John Atkinson House, a first period house circa 1664-1665, has a connection to the Salem Witch hunts of 1690. According to the testimony of Sarah Atkinson, Susannah Martin visited the house during a storm some years previously, and having had to walk so far in such bad weather, she was surprised to see her bone dry and her feet mud free. The unfortunate Susannah was hung based on Sarah’s and others’ testimony.

A short distance later finds the First Parish Church of Newbury, dating from 1869, which is the third structure to bear the name, and is one of the oldest congregations in America. Then-president Gerald Ford wrote in 1984, “The values and traditions brought to Newbury by its first settlers and handed down through the decades have withstood the test of time. They are the same qualities that have made our nation great and hopefully, with the help of the citizens of today, these gifts will be treasured and protected by the generations of tomorrow.”

Life was tough for the earliest churchgoers in Newbury. The Reverend Glen Tilley Morse wrote in his Events of the Early History, “There was no heat in the first Meeting House which was probably a rude structure built of logs with cracks and crevices filled with clay to keep out the cold…. The congregation had to sit during sermons that were two hours long. They could not doze, for they would be rudely awakened by having a fox’s tail on a long rod brushed against their faces. They would be punished if they disturbed the meeting by moving about or causing any commotion and fined if they missed a meeting or service. Parishioners attended the meetings at the perils of their lives. They were in danger of attacks from Indians and wild beasts on their way to and from worship.’

In addition, armed guards were posted at the doors during services to protect against Indian attacks.

Across the road is the First Parish Burying Ground, another venerable old cemetery. Further up the road is the Coffin House, dating from 1678.

And then it’s into Newburyport. One thing you’ll notice as you travel High street from the spot where the original settlers landed, up to Newburyport, things get tidier. By the time you reach the Upper Green, houses are restored a bit better, a bit more often. But in comparison to that even, Newburyport sparkles.

As the name implies, Newburyport is on the Atlantic Ocean, and I didn’t have a chance to get down to the water, or even more than a cursory walk around the historic area. So I can’t tell you other than what I’ve seen and heard about the town’s reputation as a beautiful resort. But based on what I saw of the rest of the town, I think that’s a fair assumption.

You ever set aside a few hours for a day trip, and just before you have to leave, you find yourself in one of the most beautiful places you’ve ever been? Newburyport is like that. I got out of the car to take a photo, and found myself drawn down the street, then around the corner and I had the distinct feeling I could have gone on and on for another day or so.

Old Gaol, c. 1823, Bartlet Mall, Newbury, Essex County, Massachusetts — Superior Courthouse, c. 1805, Bartlet Mall, Newbury, Essex County, Massachusetts

Instead I found myself parked next to Bartlet Mall, the site of the Superior Courthouse (pronounced Mal, as in rhyming with pal for you newcomers), and the curiously named Frog Pond. According to legends, which according to the newspaper isn’t legend but fact, there are tunnels which run beneath the pond down to the ocean, used either by the Underground Railroad in the Civil War, or were used by bootleggers. Or both. Both the Gaol and Frog Pond are reportedly haunted. And hovering over Frog Pond is the Old Burying Ground, which in addition to holding countless curious headstones, is also home to the Pierce Mausoleum, site of some of the strangest graveyard desecrations to take place in this country.

By then the sun was hanging low and I still had Concord to go, and then home to New York later that night, and it was with a heavy heart I left Newbury and Newburytown. It was there I came to the realization which is probably apparent to anyone who lives in New England, but was quite unexpected to me. If you’re looking for early American history, historical attractions, or just like to feel the past wash over you, you could spend a lifetime in New England and never see it all.

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