Memories of Summers Spent in Plainfield
Gazing out of this north facing bedroom window, a young Clara Hudson could look out on her whole domain; apple orchards, tennis courts, the neighbors farm animals, extensive gardens – all the trappings of a childhood spent in rural Plainfield. Miss Hudson spent just about every summer of her long and eventful life in her family’s summer home in Plainfield, Massachusetts – what is now known as the Shaw-Hudson House. Admittedly, these summers were to have a major influence on the rest of her life. She writes with nostalgia of the “Tom Sawyer-like” summers with her brother, Darwin and friends, and takes us back to a much simpler, yet uniquely Plainfield experience – one we will all recognize, even today.
The following are excerpts from The Romances of a Country Doctor, a paper read at the annual meeting of the Northampton Historical Society at the Unitarian Church, Northampton, on October 7, 1947 and Plain Tales from Plainfield or The Way Things Used to Be, 1962, both by Clara Elizabeth Hudson. Ms. Hudson was a granddaughter of Dr. Samuel Shaw and the last surviving relative to live in the Shaw Hudson House.
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Rapid Transit in Plainfield
“George B. lived near the foot of a very long hill down the east road from the main part of Plainfield. The town was made up of a lower village, where were the church, one of the five schools, the Town Hall, the Post Office, a General Store, and some houses; and further east on Main Street, the upper village-a group of buildings at the junction of Main and Central, among which were Mr. H. S. Packard’s house and store, and my Grandfather Shaw’s house and medical office. George B. was unusual in respect to his “vehicular transportation.” On his way to the Post Office and store he used to pass our house seated in a “buggy” without any top, driving a young steer with rope reins. I used to have a picture postal of the outfit with Mr. Packard’s eight-year old daughter, Dorothy (Mrs. Charles Bowker of Williamsburg) driving.
The second example of “rapid transit in Plainfield” was constructed by the son of my friend, Mrs. Anna Tirrell. Both my mother and I had wheeled Frederick around in his go-cart, but after he was old enough to navigate his own transportation I asked him to describe its construction. Fred Tirrell said that his first vehicle was a baby carriage with wire wheels, handles removed, body made of a large wooden box about two feet wide, three feet six inches long. A small box tacked on front represented the motor with an old clock’s works for engine, spring unwinding at high speed, which made a grinding sound. A can, holding water, in the front of the box was the radiator; water leaking through a small hole at the base of the can meant that the radiator was always in need of service. Another can underneath the wagon contained sifted sand which leaked out of a vent to represent steam or exhaust. A broomstick was the steering pole with a wheel at the top and ropes at the base go into the front wheels for steering. An old window screen was the windshield, coffee cans the headlights, a soup can the tail light, with old number plates from our minister’s Stanley Steamer, white with blue or black lettering, dangling at the front and rear. The girls, who were always the victims to be pushed up an down the gravel sidewalk, many times ended up in a tip-over, on purpose, of course, and then, after much persuading, would be helped into the soapbox car for one more risky ride.
Whenever an animal died, like a rabbit, mouse, or canary, we held a funeral using the soapbox car as a hearse, holding a full course funeral with the procession leading to a graveyard beyond our barn. Much weeping took place, as this was necessary to give it the proper effect. The boys took turns being the minister, and the girls were mourners wearing old lace curtains over their faces as veils, carrying buttercups and devil’s paint brush to be placed on the grave after the shoebox casket had been lowered and the dirt replaced. A flat rock from a nearby wall, standing upright and properly chiseled with name and date, brought to a close a job well done, with proper respect given to our small animal friends.
The soapbox car was then put back to facing up and down the sidewalk, many of the neighbors sighing with relief when it was parked back home at the close of day.”
Baseball and Ice Cream
“For some years Plainfield boasted at least one baseball nine. The piece of land on which the boys played and on which they built their 60-foot diamond and bleachers was next to the road from H. S. Packard’s brick store to the Hilltop” cemetery. I remember our boys playing against the Cummington nine and the spectators yelling at two very tall Cummington players, “Get a stepladder !”
Opposite were the pasture and beech grove which were the property of my aunts, the Misses Stella and Sarah Shaw. One small boy, when asked to whom the grove belonged, said that it was “Stella’s woods.” To older people my aunts were known as the “Shaw girls” regardless of their age.
For at least a short period two other teams existed, the boys’ second team, consisting of younger boys, and our girls’ team. We girls had our own 45-foot diamond in the Shaw pasture. Our catcher was a girl who could catch anything. She could also swear like a trooper.
The position of pitcher fell to me. Luckily I had a chance to practice almost every day with a boy who vacationed every year nearby. He coached me, especially on how to throw curves. One of the proudest moments of my life was when, in a game against this second team, I threw three successive curves and the boy at bat struck out. Cries of “Fanned out by a girl!” increased his humiliation and my elation.
On warm afternoons an added attraction at the games between Plainfield and other towns was home-made ice cream on sale. This treat was supplied by a man and his wife whose cows undoubtedly produced the cream from which this delicious ice cream was made. Wild or homegrown strawberries may have been the flavor at times. This was before ice cream cones were used, and an assortment of spoons and of dishes of various shapes and sizes were supplied and returned. The price for a generous dish was ten cents.
As this was earlier than the era of telephones, the same couple drove their horse to the houses of prospective customers in order to collect orders for ice cream for delivery on Sundays. When transporting ice cream a “democrat wagon” was used – a vehicle in which the back seat was left out to make room for the ice cream freezers. At one house where boarders stayed they took their spoons and dishes to the porch and were served directly from the freezer.
My family liked ice cream made mostly of boiled custard, and many a time I had the job of pounding into pieces with a big wooden mallet a chunk of ice inside a bran-sack, placing the broken-up ice and some rock salt around the can of custard in the freezer and then turning the crank that revolved the can until the custard was frozen. A coveted reward for this work was the chance to lick the dasher.”
Tree Houses and Tennis Courts
“On the lawn behind our house at Plainfield was the tennis court, at one end of which was a rather large scrawny apple tree with a board seat in the lower branches from which a spare player could watch the game. Somehow my friends and I were never injured climbing up and down.
The doctor whom my family employed during our winters in Astoria told me once that the first time he saw me as a child was a view of my legs coming over his wooden back fence. I was being pursued in a game of cops-and-robbers by a number of neighborhood children. He seemed to think that as I grew up I became quite dignified, and the change amused him. We had another pet game – “Stickilevio” -and our noise must have been a trial to nearby householders.
When summer vacation began and my family migrated from Long Island to Massachusetts, the Plainfield tennis court needed much attention before it was usable. As this was before the day of power mowers, first we had to persuade a neighbor, “Granpa” Winslow, to mow the grass with his scythe. Then repeated cutting with the lawnmower by the prospective players was indicated before we made necessary boundary lines with lime.
One summer an out-of-town boy, in Plainfield for an early and limited vacation, was eager to make the tennis court available as soon as possible. After `Granpa” Winslow had used his scythe, George and I took turns running the lawnmower, with difficulty, the length of the court and back. After several turns each, George, a most unromantic lad, paused, out of breath, and with perspiration running down his face, looking at me with a woebegone expression, said, “This is my idea of married life.”
Apples and Cedar Waxwings
“Around three sides of our vegetable garden in Plainfield were apple trees, and no other apples that I have eaten since have seemed as flavorful as those grown there. They were probably planted by Grandfather Shaw and apparently in logical order, as those which bore the earliest were the ones one came to first. The Snow apple had a red skin and was very white inside. It was delicious eating. Another early-bearing species was the Red Astrakhan. A favorite for baking was the Gravenstein. Among other species were Baldwins. Not only did we enjoy this fruit before we closed the house and left for the winter, but by wrapping choice specimens individually in a sheet of newspaper and leaving them in a covered wooden box on a low platform in the unheated cellar, we found the apples in sound condition, even for baking, on our return in the spring.
Small apples in good condition were often used to make home- canned applesauce. When the vinegar supply ran low, some of the apples, accompanied by the empty vinegar keg, were sent to the cider mill. On its return the filled keg, which resembled very small barrel, was taken “down cellar” and laid on supports on its side so that the vinegar could be drawn from the spigot at the end. The last time that the liquid product came from the mill, there was illness in the family and no one remembered the delicious sweet cider in the Cellar. Nor were we tempted later to indulge in hard Cider, for by the time the family health improved sufficiently for us to be apple conscious, the cider had turned to vinegar.
One year our Red Astrakhan tree bore another crop along with the apples. A pair of cedar waxwings built a nest in its low branches. When four nestlings were hatched and the parents were searching for food, I fetched a straight wooden chair and mounted it. By drawing the branch down just a bit I could look into the nest. Four open beaks confronted me, expecting food. So I went in quest of worms, which were eagerly eaten by the hungry fledglings. Often I took a little bird in my hand and showed to friends standing below the yellow on its tail and the red sealing-wax spot on its wings. One evening when I went out to say good-night to the fledglings, I found the nest empty. The following morning I was near the apple trees at the other side of the garden. Suddenly I heard four little chirps. Looking up, I saw on a branch, sitting side by side, my waxwing friends. I feel sure that they recognized and were talking to me. I rushed into the house to ask my mother to share this unusual sight. On my return they were gone and I never saw them again.
During following years the possibility of my handling the baby birds without causing the parents to desert their offspring has been challenged repeatedly. The Arcadia Wildlife Sanctuary in Easthampton, however, assures me that as long as the birds are not frightened the parent birds will not desert.“
The “Teetrin'” Bridge
“During my summers at Plainfield we often enjoyed picnic at an interesting and secluded spot for outdoor pleasure was on pie-shaped wedge of land in the village of Swift River, Massachusetts; it was skirted by two rivers which united at this point. It was owned by Dr. and Mrs. Talboy of California, who some years before had visited our state. As they were driving along the Berkshire Trail they noticed the little stream which ambled along the side of the road in the same direction as they were going.
After they passed Swift River’s small settlement of houses they were puzzled by the stream’s flowing in the opposite direction. Seeking an explanation they knocked on the door of an old house, the sole inhabitant of which proved to be an old man. He explained that two streams united at a place not visible from the road and disappeared behind a pie-shaped wedge of land which he owned, access to which was across a small suspension bridge went on to say that as long as he had been a bachelor he had lived in a cabin on this point of land.
The old man, now a widower, wished to sell his house and all his land including the bridge. He had been brought into court on complaint of his neighbors, for selling hard cider. He didn’t “love them anymore,” and he wanted to move away. The Talboys bought the entire property.
When they inspected their new demesne, they discovered that one of their prized exhibits was a rough signboard on the little suspension bridge. In an attempt to keep neighbors’ children from jumping up and down on the none-too-steady crossing, the former owner had made a sign with the waning, “No dam teetrin’ on this bridge.”
One day the Talboys found their sign gone. They learned that a man in a limousine had stopped to examine the bridge. After he and his family bad inspected it the chauffeur was told to pry off the sign and they took it away with them.
Later the,”teetrin’ ” bridge itself disappeared, swept away by high water, I have been told.“
Flies
“In my childhood one of the annoyances during the summer months in the country was the presence of flies. Though we had no farm animals to attract them, neighbors had cows and horses, and houses were not so well screened then as in later days. We had various devices to snare flies: paper coils, covered with a sweet sticky substance, suspended from the ceiling; squares of poisoned paper, slightly moistened, in a saucer; also sheets of sticky flypaper, in which, occasionally, the kitten became entrapped as well as the flies. Traps, nearly as large as a quart measure, of fine wire mesh lured them via a syrupy and poisonous entrance at the bottom into a wire prison. On the outside of screen doors was hung a bunch of shredded strips of newspaper. When the screen door was opened, the paper brush would flick away the flies waiting on the outside to enter.
Attracted to the kitchen by the savory odor of food after each meal, these pests required a more active method to get rid of them. Shades were drawn to darken the windows. All doors were closed but one which was left ajar. Armed with a kitchen apron to flap at the flies on the ceiling, one started in the comer of the kitchen farthest from the slightly open door and gradually flapped the flies to the strip of light and ultimately out of doors.”
