Blueberry Chowder: "A Hill to Heaven"

By ROSE WHITNEY SMITH

This book tells the story of how my family came to own the whale's back in the early 1920's. It all started with Rosie's grandmother & her 3 kids renting a place only to find it was a lobster shack when they arrived. The events leading up to the purchase of the whale's back & construction of the first cottage will help you understand life on the Island (especially in the winter) on the island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 17, 2006
• ISBN: 9781477174609

ROSE WHITNEY SMITH

The author of this book was Rose Whitney Smith. She was born to Cornelia Frances Shepherd and Edmund Carter Whitney on June 5, 1879 and was a third generation great granddaughter of the famous inventor Eli Whitney. Rose not only wrote this book, but also wrote short stories, some that were published in the Boston Globe, Boston Herald and the Lexington Minute Man in Lexington, MA. Rose passed away in 1959 before she could have the book published, but she did send it to several publishers for review. Some were very critical, but other publishers loved it and offered her very good suggestions, even telling her it could be made into a movie. Rose met and marred George Smith who also wrote poetry. Together they had three children, Phillip, Sarah and Carole. Phillip was an inventor with Bell Telephone Labs located in Newark, New Jersey. Sarah also wrote poetry and became famous re-inventing the art of making and preserving the lost art of “Apple Head” Dolls, an old Indian tradition. Sarah was on the Good Morning America show on TV giving a demonstration of how to carve and preserve the dolls, besides giving talks and seminars all over the New England area. Her husband, Oliver Hooper, was instrumental in making the small, tiny background furniture, etc. Rose, known as “Gram” or “Grammy” to her grandchildren and would have loved to have known that some of her grandchildren and great grandchildren also became successful writers of short stories, music and poems and carry on the Whitney genes. Peter writes songs and plays music besides being a graphic artist illustrator and Betsy is an artist in her own right. Two of her great grandchildren write poetry and one great great grandchild writes poetry also.

Book preview

BLUEBERRY

CHOWDER

A HILL TO HEAVEN

ROSE WHITNEY SMITH

Copyright © 2005 by ROSE WHITNEY SMITH.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

IN MEMORY OF ROSE WHITNEY SMITH

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1: A NEW HOUSE EVERY SUMMER

CHAPTER 2: A POIGNANT QUESTION

CHAPTER 3: BLIND ADVENTURE

CHAPTER 4: AT HOME IN A LOBSTER SHANTY

CHAPTER 5: LIFE BEGINS WITH BLUEBERRIES

CHAPTER 6: OUR CABIN VISITS THE BEAUTY SHOP

CHAPTER 7: WHEN THE TIDE TURNED

CHAPTER 8: THE FOG SHOWS ITS TEETH

CHAPTER 9: REAL INDIAN PUDDING

CHAPTER 10: A LETTER FROM HOME

CHAPTER 11: THE HILL TO HEAVEN

CHAPTER 12: BUMP ON A ROCK

CHAPTER 13: BRAUN & DYNAMITE

CHAPTER 14: LOWBROW AND PROUD OF IT

CHAPTER 15: UNEXPECTED ANIMAL VISITORS

CHAPTER 16: DAISY’S RED-HEADED HUSBAND

CHAPTER 17: FOX TAILED BATHING BEAUTY

CHAPTER 18: OLD JOHN ED

CHAPTER 19: SHUDDERING SHUTTERS

CHAPTER 20: LARKS AND LARKSPUR

CHAPTER 21: WRECKS ALONG THE COAST

CHAPTER 22: INDIANS AND WHITE MEN

CHAPTER 23: WHAT IT ALL ADDS UP TO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

IN MEMORY OF ROSE

WHITNEY SMITH

Rose Whitney Smith was born to Cornelia Frances Shepard and Edmund Carter Whitney on June 5, 1879 and was a third generation great granddaughter of the famous inventor Eli Whitney. Rose not only wrote this book, but also wrote short stories, some that were published in the Boston Globe, Boston Herald and the Lexington Minute Man newspaper in Lexington, MA.

Rose met and married George Smith. Together they had three children, Phillip, Sarah and Carol. Phillip was an inventor with Bell Telephone Labs located in Newark, NJ. Sarah wrote poetry and became famous re-inventing the lost art of making and preserving Apple Head dolls, an Old Indian tradition. Sarah was on the Good Morning Show on TV giving a demonstration of how to carve and preserve the dolls, besides giving talks and seminars all over the New England area. Her husband Oliver Hooper, was instrumental in making the small, tiny background furniture and scenes, etc.

Rose, known as Gram or Dimmy to her grandchildren, would have loved to have known that some of her grandchildren and great grandchildren also became successful writers of short stories, music and poems and carry on the Whitney genes. Her grandson Peter writes songs and plays music as well as being a graphic artist and illustrator, and his sister Betsy also plays music and is an artist in her own right.

Carrying on the Whitney genes are Rose’s great granddaughters Wendy, Nancy Jo and Beth. Both Wendy and Beth write poetry and Beth’s oldest son Brandon also carries on the tradition. Nancy Jo does fine detail art and is a sculptress.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank my younger sister Nancy Penley for giving me and my wife a box full of papers and old photos from her attic. She asked if we would be interested in it and of course we said yes. We found a plethora of family information and of course this book.

The pen and ink drawings were done by Clara Hallard Fawcett, a collector of antique dolls and wrote many books of the same. She was a close friend of my Grandmother. Were she alive today she would have been very pleased.

Betsy Goss, my other beloved sister had managed to save and salvage from our Grandmother’s home before it was sold, all the sketches that Clara had drawn. If it had not been for her, these pen and ink sketches surely would have been lost forever.

Thanks go to our wonderful friend and my working companion when I worked as a graphics illustrator, Isabelle Russell, was a proofreader for many years with the Litchfield Gazette in Litchfield, MI. Isabelle was always available when we needed questions answered and a big help.

Thanks also go to Pamela Elser, an English Major. Pam and husband Bruce have two grown sons. She is now presently teaching First Grade. She helped in the sentence structure and punctuation.

Last but not least, to my wife Mary Lee, who worked every day for over three months typing and re-typing this book, going over it more than once checking and re-checking and then again with me. Her individual devotion she gave to putting this book together was no less than phenomenal.

Peter O. Hooper

Grandson of Rose Whitney Smith

PREFACE

This is a true story of Rose’s life after her marriage to her husband George Smith. They were continuously being moved around from house to house because George’s Father, a carpenter and house builder always had a scheme on how to make extra money. The moving around was just too much for Rose especially with their three small children. Her neighbor suggested just getting away for awhile and of course knew just the right place. After talking to her husband about this and with his OK, in 1918 with their three children she boarded the City of Rockland a commercial boat with her husband and Father-In-Law to take them to Sagadahoc Bay, Georgetown Island, Georgetown, Maine to live in a lobster shanty for the summer. Rose was determined to stay until her Father-In-Law gave them a permanent home in Lexington, MA.

It is a witty, sometimes hilarious account of what happens while living on an island in Maine. The people they met and fell in love with and OH! . . . wait until you meet the people. People like Maine George, Aunt Rose, Uncle Henry and Daisy and Allie Hinckley, just to name a few.

Rose, with her children and her husband who only visited on weekends when he could, spent a summer of fun learning the lay of the land as well as getting acquainted with the people of Georgetown, each one unique and loveable.

Because they loved the land and the people so much, the following year they decided to buy a piece of property for a summer camp, when the fun starts all over again, building the camp. Wait until you find out who helps do this. Then comes more fun, such as pouring blueberries into an open kettle of fish chowder by mistake! This was the start of many weeks of summer fun that has continued on to this very day, Rose writes her book using the classic Down Maine language.

CHAPTER 1

A NEW HOUSE EVERY SUMMER

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Lexington Home

I laid my head down on the kitchen table and bawled. On that hot day of June sunshine, 1918, I was the most miserable woman in the world—angry, defeated and sore.

Phillip, my first born was six. Sally was four and my youngest daughter Carol would be eleven months in July. I had a perfectly good husband, who was in excellent health, our state of finances was fair and the day was beautiful. Nevertheless, I was completely sunk, and I thought at the time Granddad Smith was to blame.

Granddad asked us to move again for the fifth time. He wanted our house, and now he had it. How many more times, I asked myself, must we move from one of Granddad’s houses into another half-finished one so he might rent ours? It seemed a process that must go on and on and on…

As I rested my head on my arms the memory of our first home came back to me with sick longing. It had consisted of four large rooms in the Grand’s one hundred and fifty year old homestead in Lexington, Massachusetts. A beautiful old brick ended colonial structure that had been built in 1850 with an additional older part of the house built in 1680 attached to the main home. There were over 20 rooms in all. My kitchen led from Gram’s and had two windows facing a side lawn with a glass door through which I could step out onto the grass. I loved that first kitchen. Now, even in my misery, I could smell the heavenly odor of the lavender and white lilacs nodding at me through the small-paned windows, and could see the lilies-of-the-valley and violets crowding together and adding their sweetness to the air. I could hear the chirping of myriad birds that gathered to nest and later to feed on the berries of the old mulberry tree by the stone wall.

I had no white enamel stove like those that modern brides expect and usually possess. Mine was only a little old black iron affair, Quinn’s Best was its name, but no modern range ever turned out lighter cakes or flakier pies. I kept Quinn polished like patent leather, and his nickel trimmings shone like the sun.

Our living room opened from our kitchen and faced the main road with a sloping lawn between. A wide white wainscoting set off the rich scarlet of the wall paper we had had such fun selecting. Gram said it was elegant and it was. Against the walls stood a few old family antiques refinished with this particular background in mind. The deep window sills held my collection of flowering plants, begonias, geraniums and my special pet, Patient Lucy. I recalled the pink wall paper with its narrow white satin stripes in our bedroom and its sister guest room in pale blue and buttercup yellow.

A happy autumn and winter passed in our own cozy quarters. One day in late spring, Gram, a short plump woman in her late fifties with small feet of which she was inordinately proud, trotted in with a plate of cream of tarter biscuits, a china jug of clover honey and a smile on her round red-cheeked face. We sat right down before my fireplace and ate every biscuit. As we ate, the glass eyes of the old owl andirons glittered and blinked from the reflection of the fire behind them, and Gram’s brown eyes twinkled too.

Rose, she said pleasantly, I’d like to use these four rooms for summer boarders just through July and August. There are some nice rooms you could use in the guest house and you can have dinner in the homestead every night.

There was a pause during which, as I recall, the owls seemed to be winking and blinking at me alone. I should have taken the clue. Then Gram went on, Won’t it be easier for you, Rose, with a baby coming, not to have to cook meals in hot weather? Think of the money you’ll save that you can put into baby things.

I was certain Gram meant well, so I said Yes. The trouble was that when September came, the boarders, both of them elderly, loved my rooms so much they decided to stay on. October came and went. The red and gold leaves of the maples began to fall. Squirrels raced madly about, gathering and storing nuts from our walnut tree, and I wasn’t there to watch them.

Then one cool morning when I was becoming restless and resentful, he came to see me. Granddad was a head taller than Gram and his one hundred forty odd pounds were twenty less than those that padded Gram’s roly-poly figure. That day his usual expression of melancholy was missing. On the contrary, he appeared quite chipper as Gram described it when he was about to get his own way. I said to myself hopefully, Perhaps the elderly boarders are leaving and we can go back to our precious rooms. I waited for Granddad to speak. I thought he never would loosen up. He twirled his hat, cleared his throat and slanted alert glances in my direction. I sat with hands folded, still waiting. Then it came.

Well Rosie, how would you like me to build you a little cottage all your own on the site of the old cider mill? Nelson Haynes and I could whip it up before you could say Jack Robinson.

A little house all my own, I thought, with a pretty nursery for baby Phillip. I was certain it would be a Phillip due to arrive in April. I’d have blue walls and pink grass and lambs and kittens prancing around on its surface. Granddad mistook my silence for consent and gleefully mounting his hobby, galloped away.

You see Granddad’s hobby was planning and building houses. Not only was it his biggest joy in life, but it was his idea of providing economic independence for himself and Gram in their old age. He figured that after he had erected six houses scattered about on the farm, he could retire from the summer/boarder business. He had already completed two, and I could see that he was aching for an excuse to start another. Well, the upshot of the matter was that the elderly couple remained in our rooms through that winter and early spring, and we remained in the Guest House until the new house was ready.

As I sat in the kitchen of the Ell at the old homestead mulling over my present misery, I thought back to the morning we moved into our cottage on the site of the old cider mill. It was the day before Phillip, my first child was born. Every piece of furniture was in place. My husband George had seen to that. It was like stepping into a pleasant dream from a disturbing nightmare. The April sun flooded the six rooms and was reflected on the bright new tin ware in the small kitchen. I hung white ruffled curtains in the bedroom and arranged my rose-sprigged china in the corner cupboard. Then I decided the occasion called for a special celebration which would take the form of an extra nice steak dinner. I can taste that T-bone now, thick, hot and rare. I baked huge mealy potatoes, made a green salad and for tops, a monstrous strawberry shortcake. What cared I for doctor’s orders not to overeat?

Shortcake! Have you ever tasted the old-fashioned biscuit variety? You split the hot biscuits, drench them with butter, heap oodles of crushed sweetened strawberries on top and in between. Then to make of it something super, you smother the whole affair with whipped cream. That was the way I served it that night. And I ate! I ate until, as a State-of-Mainer would say, I liked to bust, speaking figuratively and literally! For when I arose from the supper table I was assisted in undignified haste to my bedroom where for several hours, great activity reined, until at noon the following morning, a husky eight and a half pound boy arrived. I shall always believe Phillip’s lusty and

Reviews for Blueberry Chowder

[9cee9 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Loved this book! Written by a desperate young mother of three, needing a place of refuge for herself and family, this is the true story of how Rose Smith moved to Georgetown, Maine and fell in love with island life. Smith completely and beautifully captures the soul of this community. I know, because this is my town. Rose, a female companion, and her small children moved to a small (8x10) lobster shack in the early 1900s while waiting for a house to be built in Lexington, MA by her husband and father-in-law. When she arrived, she was startled by the beauty of the island, the warm welcome she received, and the variety of coastal characters. A common reaction even today."I had seen many a beautiful color sketches of the Maine coast. But here before my eyes lay such a painting come to life, the vivid beauty of it made a catch in my throat. Nothing was static. Everything vibrated and scintillated with color. The heaps of rocks lining the shores, black-veined with tourmaline and streaked with transparent quartz, glittered with mica and leanng over them or peeking through narrow crevasses, firs and balsams flaunted their green freshness. The shimmering waters of the bay reflected the blue of the sky and as the tide crept in, each tiniest wave wore a cap of white lace."Studded with humorous anecdotes and unique characters, this is a heart-warming account of how the newcomers were accepted and indoctrinated into a new and challenging lifestyle. They were quick to learn that weather shifted quickly, conveniences were few, the tide was all-important, and days were absorbed in the "business of living". Recipes included are a hoot! For example, to make a pot of coffee, you would fill the pot with cold water and dump in a cup of coffee grounds. Then, boil it till done. Sprinkle a bit of cold water in to "settle" it and you're good to go. Next time you wanted coffee, you would add more water and coffee to the same pot - repeat. When the coffee grounds took up significantly more room than the water, you were allowed to dump the mess and start over - BUT - never, NEVER wash the pot!Ultimately Rose and her family spent 30+ summers in Georgetown, every year drawn to the beauty and serenity of the island as well as well-loved friends. The younger generations grew and learned values in this unique environment that served them well in later life. In Smith's words " The days were either golden or silver, golden when the sun shone; silver when the fog rolled in and every tip of green dripped crystal beads." Not much has changed in 100 years.