WWII Radar Station on Holly Hill

During World War II, probably in 1943, the Corps of Engineers and private contractors built a radar station on Holly Hill between Buttonwood and Holly Roads, 150 feet above sea level. It was called 112-A, site 1A. The SCR 296A was a standard World War II fire control radar utilized by the U.S. Coast Artillery for engaging surface targets. The function of the radar was, during periods of poor visibility, to provide the range and azimuth of the target vessel to the plotting room of the battery. The six inch battery, #204, was located on Fourth Cliff.

Communication was by underground cable. The cable extended down Holly Road to Elm Street, over Ferry Hill, under Ireland Road, to the South River; then under the river to Central Ave. and on up to the Gun Battery. The cable was about 2.5 inches in diameter, containing a number of copper wires wrapped with insulation and steel covering.

My friend Tom once dug up some of the cable in his front yard on Dwight Road. I witnessed a large portion of it dug up under Ireland Road when the town was doing a drainage project. I’m sure plenty more is waiting to be discovered.

The land for the tower was leased from Ernest Dragon of Upland Road and Laura Dwight, possibly of the Doctor Dwight family that lived in a huge mansion at the end of what is now Christmas Tree Lane.

On the site was a concrete building that housed a 2 kw gas generator, and another building that housed a standby generator. A 1000-gallon gasoline tank serviced the generator. A freestanding 114-foot tower that housed the radar antenna was disguised as a water tower. This was located next to a 21'x21' cement block radar transmitter building. A chain link fence with barbed wire on top surrounded the operation.

The SCR 296-A was declared obsolete in January 1946. The tower and equipment were to be disposed of, the buildings to be retained. The barbed wire didn't prevent two young teens from scaling the fence and climbing the ladder to the top of the tower. The view was spectacular!

 

Radar on Holly Hill, disguised as a water tower. 

Photo taken by Larry Bonney. 

SC 241 - The Mysterious Wreck in the Hanover Flats

As long as I can remember, I was mystified by the boat or ship atop the marsh in ''The Hanover Flats,'' between Hen Island and the foot of Fourth Cliff. Sometimes during the summer, at night, my Dad, Mom and I would take a ride to Humarock and up to the cliff. As we passed Hatch’s Boat Yard, the dim shadow of the boat would appear out atop of the marsh, with lights showing thru the windows.

My Dad said it was once a rumrunner -- oh wow, more mystery! Dad told me it was there before he arrived in 1927. Dad worked for Charlie Clark of Clark’s Store in the early '30s and said that the people who lived in the boathouse on the flats would come to the store for groceries during the summer -- but he didn't know their names or where they came from.

During the summer, two or three dories or skiffs would be tied to the rear porch built on the back (stern) of the boat. A large square box-like structure was built in the middle, like living quarters. A line of windows could be seen from Central Ave. There was a tall flagpole near the center. I remember it as being grey natural wood with little paint.

A few of the Humarock kids that had boats would go aboard in the fall or spring, when no one was there, and tell stories about the skeletons seen inside. Not true, but it made even a greater mystery! Oh, how I wanted to go aboard and see for myself. I never did.

There have always seemed to be conflicting stories about the history of the mysterious wreck on the Hanover Flats in the South River, between Humarock and Branch Creek, which is south of Trouants Island. In Edward Rowe Snow’s story about the Submarine Chaser S-241, published in the Patriot Ledger on 12/11/67, he wrote, “First I was informed that the craft was a rum runner which was trapped during prohibition days under heavy gunfire at half tide on Hanover Flats, after which it was abandoned.” I really like that part -- my Dad told me many stories of the rum running days in Humarock.

Snow goes on, “Then I was told it was not a rum runner but a rum chaser which, after a successful career, ended her days on the edge of the North River and went ashore at the Hanover Flats in a gale. This story was objected to by a prominent resident of the area who told me that it was neither a rum runner nor a rum chaser but actually a submarine chaser which had been converted into a rum runner during prohibition and operated in the Marshfield-Scituate area for three years, during which time its owner buried hundreds of cases of liquor at various places on the marsh, two of which I was taken to. Surely enough, it did appear as though something had been placed there at some time.''

Snow continues, “My informant also assured me that there were still scores of bottles which had been hastily pushed into the soft ooze in the area and were still there. As to whether the contents were useable, he did not offer any comment.''

These are the same stories I heard from Seaview and Humarock residents in the '40s. I will have more about buried “hooch” later. Many times I passed the remains of the mysterious wreck to go clamming in the area. The ribs stuck up maybe three feet with some planking still attached. One shaft lay in the middle for years. Not until 1967 did I learn the much more accurate story about the SC 241 from the Edward Rowe Snow article.

A total of 447 SCs were built. The New York Launch and Engine Company at Morris Heights, New York built the SC 241 in 1918. Commissioned April 8 1918, and captained by Ensign Robert L. Mills, she was 110 feet long, beam 14'9'', and draft 5'8'. Her speed was 18 kns, powered by 3three 660 hp gasoline engines, with three props, endurance 1000 nm. Her armament included a 3'' gun, two 30 cal. machine guns and one Y gun.

The origin of the Submarine Chaser (SC) traces back to World War I and the SC-1 class, wooden hulled, “Splinter Fleet.” The SC was designed for off shore patrols and anti-submarine warfare.

The SC 241 left New London, Connecticut, on May 13,1918, after being outfitted with submarine detectors and wireless telephones. She arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia, five days later. On July 11, 1918, in the company of SC 247, she sighted a U-boat on her starboard side in a thick fog. At 3:40 p.m., she sighted a torpedo heading for a freight ship, which managed to avoid the torpedo. Pursuing the U-boat, she was able to get less than 35 yards away and then fired depth charges from the “Y” gun. One charge landed 10 yards in front of the periscope, which immediately disappeared. Five seconds later, a terrific explosion followed.
It is not known whether the U-boat she destroyed was ever identified.

After the war, the SC 241 was struck from the naval registry. She was sold for scrap on May 11, 1921, to the C.P. Comerford Co. of Lowell, Massachusetts, and stripped of guns, engines and all hardware. Sometime later she was sold to a John F. Smith, and towed by a tug to the South River, where she was then anchored. The Smith family painted the interior in various colors. The SC 241 came with a pilot house and a crow’s nest.

A storm in November 1925 caused the SC 241 to break away from her mooring. Blown across the marsh, she became stranded on the Hanover Flats. The Smith family dug a trench in the marsh and settled the sub-chaser into the south side of the flats. The family added a five-room structure, a rear porch, and a landing on the stern, which faced south. The family used the SC 241 as a summer home for many years.

During World War II, the history-making SC 241 was used less, and without care, began to deteriorate. Torched by vandals, she burned to the water line as fire companies watched helplessly from Central Ave. in Humarock. I never heard that anyone was charged with the arson.

Note: Much of this information came from Edward Rowe Snows “Sea and Shore Gleanings, “ published in The Patriot Ledger on 12/11/67. The coordinates are 42* 09' 10. 88'' N x 70* 42' 21. 81'' W. These are very close to the site were the SC 241 once was.

Springtime in Seaview/Dirty Joe

Joe Bradley harvesting hay off Corn Hill Lane.

About this time of the year (April) my Dad would start thinking about gardening. He would drive in the four stakes that marked the plot. On a Sunday morning before noon, he would pile me in his old Chevy and off to Cornhill Lane.

As we approached a turn in the road, he would pull off to the side and stop. We’d get out and go down a cart path to what looked a one-room shack near the edge of the North River Marsh. Across from the shack was a shed that housed a horse. Around both buildings were horse-drawn implements -- a cutter bar, a hay rake, a harrow, and all sorts of wagons in all sorts of condition.

My Dad would knock on the door and in a few seconds a man would appear, dressed in long johns that appeared to have never been washed! This was Dirty Joe -- Joe Bradly. Joe plowed gardens, and did other farm chores, so my Dad would arrange a time to have him plow our garden. As they made plans, I would climb aboard anything that had a seat and imagine I was driving it. Joe would holler over to me, "Sonny, you be careful on that. You might git hurt.'' I would reply, ''OK!” Joe had a different accent than I had heard before.

A week before Memorial Day, 'Dirty Joe' would show up about 7 AM aboard his wagon, with a plow and harrow tied down. The noises would wake me, and I would rush to get dressed and out to watch him unload. He would block the wagon wheels, then unhitch his horse, tie a chain onto the plow, hook it to his horse, and drag it down the ramps.

The harrow was a different story -- it could roll down out of control. He would drag it to the top of the ramp, tie a rope to it, then wrap the rope to a stake up front, give the harrow a tug, and it came rolling down the ramp as he slacked the rope. These tricks amazed this young kid!

By now my Mom would be out with coffee and a muffin for Joe, milk and a muffin for me. I would sit in the wagon seat and Joe would eat off the tailgate. I have no idea what we talked about -- mostly my questions about the wagon stuff, I think.

He would hook up the plow, let it lie on its side, then signal his horse with a “click-click” with his tongue and cheek, and off the horse would go to the plot. Once there, he would lift the plow, point it into the soil, ''click-click” and off the horse would go. It was so amazing to see that soil turn. My Dad would say, ''with just one horse power.''

After Joe finished plowing our garden, he would drag the plow over to the next neighbor to be plowed. At noon Joe would come back to feed and water his horse. I was the water boy. The horse could suck up about half the bucket a time. Remember, I was just a small kid, and dragging a full bucket was a chore. A canvas feed bucket was hooked over the horse’s mouth and he would chomp away.

My Mom would come out with sandwiches and tea for Joe, milk for me – I on the wagon seat and Joe on the tailgate. Joe had a brown bag but never opened it. The bag looked as it had been used a hundred times. My Mom always topped off lunch with dessert -- cookies, brownies, or a piece of pie. Joe would finish off anything left.

Now ''Dirty Joe'' would climb onto the wagon, lie down on a rug, cover himself with a robe, and take a nap. His horse stood by waiting.

Next came the harrow -- down the rows then up, then across until smooth. All for four dollars!

At about 4 PM, Joe would return to his wagon, arrange his implements, and get permission to leave them overnight (I loved that). Then he would take off the harness, put it in the wagon, mount the horse from the wagon, and off to Cornhill Lane from Seaview.

The story I heard is that he came from a well-to-do-family and graduated from Harvard. He had a Boston accent, a quick smile, and a mouthful of gold teeth. He was very polite, very well spoken, and my Mom once said, ''He had a twinkle in his eye!'' He was always dressed in black trousers with suspenders, black jacket, not very white shirt, black shoes and a black hat. Is there anyone out there that remembers 'Dirty Joe?”

by Ray Freden
Originally published in the Marshfield Mariner, May 19, 2010

Holly Hill

When I was young, Holly Hill was a mountain. It was a challenge from all sides. I think my first recollection on this mountain was peering out the windshield of my Dads old Chevy, stopped on top of Upland Road, looking at smoke billowing into the sky somewhere near Boston.

My Dad used Holly Hill as a testing ground for his old Chevy. He would do a tune up on it, then pile me into the old six cylinder, and off to the hill we’d go. Dad would make a left turn on Elm Street then a right on Upland Road. If the old Chevy made it to Dwight Road in third gear, it was a good tune up. If not, he would get his screwdriver out, make an adjustment on the points, and try again. This was an exciting adventure because we seemed to be flying around that hill! Also, we would usually end up at "Stead’s" for a bottle of Ballantine Ale (35 cents), a cigar (15 cents), and a candy bar for me (5 cents). Total, 55 cents. Life was good.

There were only four roads on Holly Hill -- Upland, Dwight, Emery and Holly, with just a handful of houses. There was only one house on Upland Road, at the peak facing north, with a spectacular view of the North River, all the cliffs, and way beyond. The next best viewing point was at the peak of Emery Road, facing north. There were only two houses on the right side, The Chamberlains in the first, and the Stantons at the very top -- a brick house.

At the south end of Emery there were two houses on the left side, both very large and very beautiful. Dwight Road had only one house (brick) at the corner of Holly Road. This part of Holly Road no longer exists, and Holly Road off Dwight did not exist --just a cart path that went to Ferry Street. Most of the homes were on Elm Street, starting from Holly Road to Ferry Street.

Now for a stranger, Holly Road can be confusing. It starts on Elm and dead ends. It used go though to Emery, across to Dwight, then stop. Now it runs south from Dwight, almost to Ferry Street. I spent many trips down this muddy cart path collecting holly with red berries.

by Ray Freden
Originally published in the Marshfield Mariner, March 24, 2010

Pine Island

As I remember Pine Island, looking west from Broad Creek, c. 1946. Sketch by Ray Freden.  

 Pine Island is a small island just off the shore of Seaview, between Warren Ave. and Seaview Ave.
It is about an acre with a horse shoe shape, the opening is on the south side and the high tide will flow into it making the center path impassable.

As I remember it, the south path was a dead end. The north path circled around the north end, turning east then south in front of four camps, all of which faced east toward Humarock. The largest camp was on the north end, its entrance facing south, with a screened-in porch on the east side. There were two more camps on the west leg; one was never finished. Getting to these camps was a chore for owners, campers and hunters.

Looking east from Warren Ave. c. 1955.

 A deeply-rutted dirt cart path (now Warren Ave.) ran from Summer Street along the south side of two cornfields, and through a stone wall, turning north. At that turn was a cold clear spring with a wood cover and a chipped porcelain scoop for taking a drink or filling jugs for the campers. The path turned east to the edge of the marsh. There was a turnout for two cars. A long narrow wood walkway ran from the cart path to the west leg. The walkway was only wide enough for one person, and it was underwater at the high tides. The campers would have to carry everything across that walk, which was usually in need of repair. When the summer folks came for vacation, it took hours to unload gear and get it to the camp.

My first recollection of Pine Island was just before Thanksgiving; I was almost 5. Dad would go to the island to collect bay berries. He would cut them and my job was to carefully put them in a big basket. The island was covered with berries. He would carry the basket back across that rickety walkway; I carried the cutters. The car was parked in the turnout of the cart path.

Then he was off behind the turnout, through the brush, to the red berry bushes, I behind him carrying another basket -- more clipping and very carefully stacking. Off we went with two big baskets on the back seat. A stop at the spring for a drink. Oh, was that water cold.

Dad would make bunches of berries and greens for Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations. A few years later, when I was allowed to go to the island alone, I collected berries and greens, and took over his job. I sold the bunches around the neighborhood and up to the end of Summer Street on my bike.

We once encountered hunters in the end camp. There was a sign over the door -- it read something about being a hunting camp. My dad had a chat with them.
In the summer, two families from Lowell, MA came for most of the summer, to stay in the north camp. There were 5 kids; two were my age.

I would ride my bike down the cart path, over the walkway, around the north path; I would pass the outhouse, stop and lean my bike against the water pump. We were almost always in bathing suits and tee shirts, so off to the swimming hole we would go.

On the east side of Pine Island was a wooden walkway out to a leg of Broad Creek. At the edge of the creek were a dock, a ladder to a lower landing, and a diving board. The walkways and dock were built mostly from driftwood lumber scavenged from the marsh. The camps also were built from mostly salvaged lumber.

At low tide, I would have mud fights with the kids staying on the island. The older kids would grind the mud into us! Every inch was covered in black, slimy mud. Sometimes we would wait until the tide came in enough to wash off. Other times we would lay near the water pump while another pumped. It took a lot of pumping to clean up, & the water became colder the longer it was pumped. The pumped water on the Island was salty and discolored, used only for washing.

At mid to high tide, we would dive or jump from the board or off the railing. Full high tide would cover the dock and walkway, but only ankle deep. It was a challenge to ride my bike out to the dock, and a bigger challenge to ride back through the water.

A dory was tied on the south side of the dock. The two men and two older boys would row out through Broad Creek to the clam flats at low tide, dig clams, then go fishing in the river. They would return as the tide came in, going with the tides. There were plenty of flounder, mackerel, cod and haddock in the mouth of the North and South Rivers.

The men would clean the fish on the dock. I was invited twice for a cookout. This would be the fish fry. I would help with the cooking fire in a stone circle. Plenty of kindling could be found above the high tide line and someone delivered firewood for the campers, by wheelbarrow!

There was a steel cook plate across half of the fireplace. The men filleted the flounder, the women rolled them in cornmeal, and three of us kids kept the fire going. On went the flounder, mackerel and hot dogs. Mmmm was that flounder good! I would have no part of mackerel! The haddock and cod were saved for fish chowder.

A cookout on Pine Island was suppertime for the camp people. The fire pit was either going or smoldering most of the time. (When it rained they would cook on the wood stove in the kitchen; it was unbearably hot.) I was invited the day before, so my Mom had time to make oatmeal cookies.

Off I went down Station Street, turned down the Pine Island cart path, over the rickety wooden walkway, up the path to the camp, and gave the cookies to the Mrs. The kids were in the water on red inner tubes I had salvaged from the Seaview Garage. I ran down the walkway to the dock, off the diving board to cannonball the two in the tubes. The two older kids had left for the city, and good riddance! Now there were two of us 14 1/2 yrs. plus two younger, so we took over the tubes. We stayed in the water until we were blue.

Back to the camp, stashed the tubes under the porch and put wood on the fire pit to warm up. It was nearing their suppertime -- they ate much earlier than I was used to, but this was a cookout to me.

Much of the perishables were kept in a wood lined hole filled with water, with a cover with a large stone on top. Out came sodas and hot dogs. The dogs were all linked together and stayed that way on the cook plate over the fire pit. I remember how hot dogs always had to be cut on two sides to cook properly. These folks didn't do this. They also put ketchup on their dogs -- yuck, mustard only! We filled ourselves with dogs and orange soda and oatmeal cookies.

Just before dusk, out came the midges -- they would cover you in a short time and we would have to pump water on our arm and legs to wash them off before we went inside. Inside, we, the kids, would play checkers on the porch, with a kerosene lamp on the table. The adults would play cards in the kitchen with one of those Coleman gas lanterns I so much wanted.

Summer came to an end. The folks from Lowell left. Fall came. The hunters arrived, hung their decoys on the side of their camp, and collected marsh grass to build a blind out near the dock. So many times I would hear their guns banging away early in the morning and again in the late afternoon. I thought to myself, ”Who would want to eat a wild duck?” It wasn't until years later I found out how good a black duck is!

The next summer, only one family came to the island, with younger kids, so my visits were short. I found hanging out in Humarock with my summer friends was a lot more fun, jumping off the old bridge as well as the new one, the 1952 one.

Now I only went to Pine Island to collect berries in the fall. The camps were no longer used and began to fall apart rapidly. One late evening, I was driving home and there was quite a to do down Warren Ave. -- police and fire engines with flashing lights down the end of the Pine Island cart path. I suspected the worst -- the camps. I was told the next day that vandals had torched some of the camps! The others left standing were later torched.

I never went back to the island to witness the loss. I never saw my island friends again. My recent visits have been through the eyes of Google Earth. I have now witnessed Pine Island, after people!

Pine Island looking east, without people. Photo by Tony Lambert.

by Ray Freden
Originally published in the Marshfield Mariner, January 13 through March 3, 2010

Truck Farmers in Marshfield

Burlap bags of corn being unloaded.

In the 1940s Seaview had its share of truck farmers. These farmers were growing crops from the beginning of Seaview's settlement, but I only remember the 1940s & 50s.

I was always told they were "truck farmers." Most took their goods to the Boston market. Some research has informed me that "truck" was used to mean garden vegetables intended for sale in the market (1785). Now I have found out I was misinformed! They were "market gardeners!” I'm just going to call them what I had always been told, truck farmers and because I like TRUCKS!

But now, before trucks, wagons? Wagon farmers? I'll take you a little out of Seaview to Pine Street, North Marshfield. I was working for Franklin Hatch making furniture (1956- 1962). Elmer and Burton Fish lived next to Frank's shop and worked for F. Decker Hatch, Franklin's dad. Decker was a farmer and sawmill operator. On rainy or too-cold-to-work days, Burt would wander over to the shop and would tell me stories of his adventures. Most cannot be told here.

Decker grew crops all over Marshfield. Burt was the designated driver of goods to Boston by horse and wagon thru the early 1900s. It took Burt 10 to 12 hours one way, depending on weather. He would leave at 4 a.m. and arrive from 3p.m. and on. All were dirt roads, in poor shape, in North Marshfield, North Pembroke, Hanover and Hingham. He told me that Weymouth and Quincy roads were very busy.

Burt would stay over in the Essex Hotel and enjoyed what city living offered. Burt was a bachelor. He would quip, "Damn good thing the horse knew his way back home." Decker finally bought a Model A Ford truck in the early 30s. Burt could then make a round trip to Boston in a 12-hour day.

Saturday afternoons were special because after Dad finished his work around the yard or tearing apart the old railroad station, he would be off to Stead’s for a quart of Ballantine Ale and a cigar. I could tag along with a return bottle to exchange for a candy bar, .30 for quart of ale, .05 deposit, .15 for a cigar and 1 candy bar plus .05 exchanged for last weeks bottle! Total expense: 50 cents. High rollers, huh?

My Dad's favorite treat on a weekend afternoon.

 A quart of ale, 30 cents plus 5 cent deposit.

My favorite candy bar, a 5 cent bottle return.

On the way down, Dad would turn left on Elm Street and the next house on the left was the stately home of Victor Belanger, a beautiful home with a huge barn, another smaller barn, and many outbuildings. As we traveled further, we came to Ferry Hill Road. Mr. Belanger's land continued and included another large barn now known as the YWCA. A small pond and a boathouse were nearby. All of this to Little’s Creek was known as "Belangerville." From his home to the red barn (YWCA), was cultivated. There was a field of corn and fields of winter squash, maybe more. I'm not sure who cared for the fields -- it wasn't Mr. Belanger. He was a dapper of a man that did his business in Boston, and a gentleman farmer.

There were three fields of corn on the east side of Summer Street at a cart path to Pine Island, now known as Warren Ave. Before the war, Manuel DaLuz cared for these for Mrs. George Taylor, who owned large garden plots on both sides of Summer Street. Manuel was drafted into the Army and was gone long enough for those fields to grow into weeds and brush. Farmland was becoming valuable after the war. In 1946 the first new home in Seaview was built in that cornfield at 146 Summer Street and Warren Ave. by a Mr. Sherman. Keep in mind, houses were not numbered in Seaview in the 40s.

Gathering corn.

We continue up Summer Street and turn left on Pleasant Street under the railroad bridge, passing Gino Rugani's Sterling trucks. Gino was the largest general contractor in Marshfield. At the top of the hill, the street turned sharp right, shortly on the left was the Salvetti farm. Fields of tomatoes ran from the street up the hill and past their farmhouse and barn. Peter Salvetti was a mason by trade and also farmed his land to sell to the market, a truck farmer. His son Sergio still farms a plot of land atop the hill. Peter's son, Aldo, is also farming a small plot atop the hill behind the homestead. Aldo is my longest friend, from maybe 1938 or 9.

Across from the Salvetti farm were more fields of tomatoes. Next came another field of tomatoes up the hill to the Cervellis. Mr. Frank Cervelli was the largest tomato grower around. There were large fields past Eames Way, full of tomato plants strung on strings to a wire supported by posts on each end, as well as spaced every so many feet to support the weight of those large toms. Mr. Cervelli had a large processing operation off Pleasant Street. Crates of toms would arrive to be culled, washed, polished and packed for the Boston market. His truck would be stacked to the top of the boards, tied and covered with a canvas, ready for an early trip to the Boston market. I could never get enough of those big juicy sweet toms.

The largest-scale truck farmer in Seaview during the 40s and 50s was James Gonsalves, "Jimmy," from Moraine Street. He rented the fields from a Miss Donovan of 101 Summer Street and possibly a Mrs. Lucy Taylor of 119 Summer Street. There were more than 10 acres surrounded by wonderful stone walls known so well here in New England.

These walls were to keep livestock in -- or out -- also to mark owners’ boundaries. Where could all those stones, rocks and boulders have come from? And how to get them there! Imagine a boulder of 200 pounds or more sunken and in the way of the plow. You had to dig around it so as to wrap a chain, then have your team of horses or oxen pull it out! Then what? Pry bar it onto a skid or scoop and haul it to the wall area, then pry it off and into position. The next time you look at a stone wall, think how you would feel at the end of that days work!

Jimmy would rotate his crops within three fields; the largest bordered the railroad tracks then toward Summer Street. The next two were just behind the Donovan farm and the Taylor farm. These usually contained winter squash and sometimes corn. At harvest time, the workers would place wooden bushel boxes in a line, then cut the butternut squash and place them in another line, to be picked up later and placed into the boxes. A flatbed truck would come along and two men would load the boxes aboard, tie them down and cover with a green canvas. When the blue hubbard squash were harvested, they were just stacked into the truck up to the top board without a cover, then off to market.

In the large field, the corn harvest was done by pickers walking down a row, filling a sack then dragging it to the edge of the field where the tops of the sack were sewn tight then loaded onto the truck until full. The large field was often used for cabbage and sometimes lettuce, but most often for cauliflower. This harvest was the most complex to me. Just after the heads formed, workers would tie the outer leaves of the cauliflower with an elastic band so the heads would blanch and form uniformly. I had always thought they did this to keep the worms out! They kept the worms away by filling a sack with DDT then walking down the rows giving the sack a slight shake over the plant!

When harvest time came, hundreds of wooden bushel boxes were stacked in the northeast corner, along with a few tables and stools or chairs with broken off backs. The cauliflower plants were cut from their rootstock, tossed into a horse-drawn wagon then brought over to the corner where the cutters, usually ladies, chopped off the tops. They would hold the plant by the stalk, then slice the leaves off as close to the head as possible, a very precision task! As they sat around, going about business, they would chat in their native Cape Verdean, and sometimes English, always laughing. When the trimmed heads piled up, they would stuff a box with waste leaves then place the heads up, until the box was full -- I think five or six heads -- then cover it with leaves. The boxes were stacked along the edge of the field, awaiting the truck. The smells were awesome (I don't think I ever used that word in the 40s.) Fresh cut cauliflower, new pine boxes and the smell of the pines just across the tracks.

The boxes were made from boxboards from the Hatch Mill on Union Street and fabricated by someone unknown to me. However, many came from the Gib West Box Mill in Pembroke. Part of the building is still there, as well as the Hatch Mill.

A 1918 Wilcox Motor Truck and team of oxen loaded with empty wooden boxes
ready to pickup cauliflower off Summer St. in Seaview, c. 1920.

Jimmy’s truck would arrive late in the afternoon, to be loaded by the crew. Off came the stake side and back, then the loading began. Two men on the truck stacking, with the ladies passing up the boxes until they were to the top rail. The boxes were then covered over with a canvas to keep out the sun and dirt.

There were always culls left to rot, so I would help myself. This applied to corn, squash, cabbage and lettuce. I just mentioned the smells -- have you ever smelled a pile of rotten cauliflower? That smell would linger over Seaview for weeks!

I can't remember when Jimmy stopped truck farming in Seaview -- maybe in the late 50s. However Manuel kept on with it.

Another truck Farmer was Manuel DaLuz. I first remember Manuel living in a barn on the corner of Summer Street and Warren Ave. Manuel cared for and farmed the land of Mrs. Lucy Taylor of 119 Summer Street. Mrs. Taylor owned land on both sides of Summer Street back to the railroad tracks and fields along Warren Ave. to Pine Island.

Before the war, as I remember, the fields along Warren Ave. were full of corn. Manuel was drafted into the Army and the fields went unattended. After the war, a lot was sold to a Mr. Sherman and a beautiful home was built at 146 Summer Street, the first new home in Seaview for a very long time. Manuel returned from the war and now lived in Mrs. Taylor's home. The barn was moved back on Warren Ave. and turned into a home.

Manuel's '46 Ford truck.

 Manuel bought and sold junk as well as farming the land west of Summer Street. He had a stand in front of the high privet hedge and sold veggies and strawberries. I still can see his old truck stacked full, headed up Summer Street to the Boston Market.

If Manuel ever thought he was having a bad strawberry crop, it wasn't because of the robins or weather, it was because of the two young teenage birds camping out near the strawberry patch. My summer friend would arrive after school was out and we would look forward to our camp outs, sometimes in my yard and other times in his. One afternoon we planed a camp out for that night. We got permission from our parents, got our gear together -- tent, ground cloth, sleeping bags, lantern, comics, flashlight, drinks and snacks; oh yea, a jar with a cover full of holes. We set the tent up in a grove of locus trees at his house. We now killed time in the early evening playing ball, swapping comics and catching fireflies for use as a night light in the tent. Yes, it worked! Our plan for later was to raid Manuel's strawberry patch not far away.

Around 10 o'clock we quietly and quickly ran across the meadow hunched down to the cart path (about where Pinehurst Drive is today), over the stone wall and on to the huge patch of big red juicy berries. We stayed on the outside row so as not to crawl over and crush any berries. Now the trick was to feel a berry and slightly push your thumbnail into it to test it's ripeness. Then pluck the big juicy ripe ones and munch 'em down, one after another, and another, and . . . Another trick was to bury the bitten-off stem with the other thumb -- we didn't want to leave any evidence of leftovers from the night time raiders!

About 15 minutes into our raid, we were scared to hell with the arrival of my dog, Lucky. Yep he came bouncing up behind us, tail a-wagging and a little happy whining. OH S---!!! You see, Lucky was an English setter, mostly white, and stood out like a neon sign! Not very good for us! Now with both of us on our hands & knees, Lucky thought we were playing with him and started barking! We had to get the hell out of there, so, we scrambled on our hands and knees and Lucky ran with us, barking and nipping our ankles. We got to the stone wall and cart path then full speed across the meadow and into the tent, dog and all. My friend was laughing like hell but I saw no humor in our past few minutes! I was shaking: who might have seen us? Who heard Lucky barking?

Needless to say, we didn't sleep that night, waiting for the Berry Police or even Manuel. WE never again raided Manuel's strawberry patch. My Dad didn't know that I asked Mom to keep Lucky in the porch that night, and he let him out when he went to bed. Lucky never touched a strawberry and was the only happy camper that night!

Hiding from the Berry Police.

by Ray Freden
Originally published in the Marshfield Mariner, June 10 through July 29, 2009

More About Keene's Pond

When I was a teen, on a cold weekend, kids and adults would gather on Keene’s Pond to play hockey or just to skate. Franklin O'Donnell had a cart with an attached cabinet, the doors and shelves of which were stocked with candy bars, cheese crackers, Devil Dogs, Whoopie Pies and other stuff, all frozen. Frankie would haul his cart onto the ice to peddle his wares. A 5-cent Milky Way was 10 cents -- everything was marked up 5 or 10 cents over Sted’s prices. Stedmans, the store on the corner of Ferry Street and Sea Street, was also known as the Seaview Package Store.

Some nights, folks would come back to skate. Many times a bonfire would be made and we would cook marshmallows and sometimes hot dogs. The stick you would cook with was never long enough, and you would nearly cook your legs!

Ice blocks were sold by the pound.
Mom would display the pounds she wanted
at the top, in the porch door window.

“Dirty Russ” Williamson delivered ice to the neighborhood for Horace Keene. Russ stopped his truck on Station Street, under the overhang of a big maple tree (long gone). He would honk, then holler, "Ruthie, how much ice ya want?" Mom would have a sign in the porch window with the amount above. I never understood why Russ had to ask -- maybe Russ couldn't read or see? Anyway, Mom would holler back the amount, Russ would uncover a block then stab lines across with an ice pick. A small block would fall off. Then he would grab it with tongs and toss it into the scale, trim it, and put on his leather apron, which hung down front and back. Russ grabbed the block with tongs, lugged it into the back hall, then fitted it into the icebox. How did he know what size to cut a 50# block? There was always a chip of ice left near the tailgate that I helped myself to, standing barefoot in a pool of ice water that drained from the ice truck (summertime only).

A block of ice headed to our icebox.

In 1945, Horace Keene was no longer cutting ice. I think My Dad bought ice in Greenbush and hauled a block home, set onto the front bumper of his Chevy. Within a short time we got a refrigerator.

The icebox.

Horace Keene's helpers cutting ice. looking W.   Courtesy of H.C. Keene's grandson Tony Lambert.

 '' H. C. Keene'' Sea View Mass. icepick.
Courtesy of H. C. Keene's grandson, Tony Lambert.

Horace Keene's Ice House looking NE. Courtesy of H.C. Keene's grandson Tony Lambert.

Horace Keene's ice house under construction. looking SE.

As the years went by, I watched Keene's ice house, on Church Street, become a derelict -- first sagging, then a wall crumbling, and one day in the mid-to-late 50s, it came tumbling down upon itself, spewing sawdust out its walls in big heaps all around. It remained a heap of rubble for a few more years. A house has been built forward of where the icehouse stood.

I never knew who owned Keene's Pond. I suspect it was named for its abutter, Keene, on the south side, however there were other abutters on the east, north and west. The late Seaview historian, Philip Randall, told me that the pond was also called Little's Pond, Randall's Pond and maybe Seaview Pond. I wonder what folks call it now.

Just another remembrance: In the spring, after ice-out, Charles “Simmy" Simmons and Fred Hall, members of the Marshfield Rod & Gun Club, would replace the NO FISHING sign on the pond, about 50 feet out from Summer Street. It seems the pond was privately owned, and the R&C stocked it with rainbow trout. I never did catch one of those babies! And the sign and post usually helped cook marshmallows!

by Ray Freden
Originally published in the Marshfield Mariner, March 25, 2009