“Fast the tide is running in, and the wintry mists come down, like a curtain sheer and thin, blowing twixt the sea and town”
– Into the Wind, Richard Warren Hatch, 1929
Although our road trip is short, it is significant.
As the sun slowly falls from the sky, peeking through the pines of North Marshfield’s Two-Mile Farm, we head northeast. Traveling down Union Street, we make our way past the historic Red House, old millponds, and the Hatch Mill restoration project, which, with the gradual melting of the winter’s snow, has burst back to life.
Richard Warren Hatch would be proud, as the Hatch Mill, built in 1759, is the only water-powered mill on the North River that still stands today. During the 17th and 18th centuries, the Hatch Mill played such a pivotal role in the North River’s robust shipbuilding industry that the North River became known as, “the river that launched a thousand ships.”
Looking out the truck window for a brief moment, I recall a hike at Two-Mile Farm, and stopping to sit down on a nearby wooden bench. I remember letting out a deep breath, and taking time to observe the thick dense fog slowly lifting off of the North River. At the time, it was hard to imagine such a peaceful place was once a bustling river of commerce.
As my father comments on a local landmark, I snap out of my trance. Daffodils and tulips are poking through snow and dot both sides of historic Union Street. I watch as cattle graze in the fields and I am instantly inspired by how much work goes into such a small yield. But, I soon realize it is not pursued for yield—it is one’s passion, an individual’s livelihood and a dedication to the craft, something we take for granted here in New England (thank you, Little family).
I glance over at the open field and new kiosk installed by the Recreation Trails Committee at the John Little trail, adjacent to the Little’s farm and hope, with dusk approaching, we might catch sight of a deer or a few wild turkeys. In just a few short weeks these farms and farmers’ markets will come to life, bustling with tourists and townsfolk trying to get their hands on some fresh fruit and vegetables. The North River will turn from quiet solitude to full of boats, kayaks, fishermen, and youngsters looking for a cool, refreshing dip on a hot summer day.
My family and I are on our way to the Satuit Tavern in Scituate, in hopes for fresh seafood and some cheer to brighten our spirits. As is typical in New England, it is warm for a few days in March, and then we get a few inches of snow and the temperatures drop. As we reach the downtown area, I ponder the lights in Scituate Harbor and gaze into the shops and restaurants on Front Street.
As we pull into the parking lot, a sense of joy fills me and I race to the door. Once inside, we realize the Satuit is filled with jolly souls. Everyone has a pint—some people have two. Old and young sharing stories about their lives.
I study their faces and emotions and I draw parallels with the John Adams biography I am reading and come to the conclusion that nothing has changed: Over 200 years later we still have the inevitable need to foster and cultivate human relationships and yearn for the simplest of human interactions. We are a unique community and in some regard there is a vague sense of family and collective struggle—I like it here, I like it a lot. I order the broiled fisherman’s platter, a clam chowder and a pint. As a family out to eat, we discuss the past, the future, and the present while trying not to let go of the experience.
As we finish our meal, I place my utensils down and sit back in my chair and let out a deep breath. I look out the window and see the Old Scituate Lighthouse blinking in the distance. I want to freeze time and take in this moment and sear it into my brain. Everyone is happy.
As we pack up to leave, I am disappointed. Friends, locals, and staff all greet us and wish us warmth and safety on our trek home. I look around and rub my hands together and look at all the boats at the neighboring yacht club.
A true New Englander is walking his dog, coozie in hand. We pass Widows Walk Golf Club and the Scituate Conservation Park—lush green in summer, but eerie in the winter. We pass a few local taverns and the parking lots are filled—looks like we weren’t the only ones with such a great idea. We finally arrive at home, rip off our hats and gloves and place them next to a recently lit fire, our cheeks red. Winston, our English Setter happily wags his tail upon our arrival. I make some hot chocolate with a splash of Bailey’s, a proper nightcap.
As I fall asleep, I reflect on the day and realize how truly lucky I am to live in such a beautiful place and can call New England my home. It is a privilege to share in the rich history, community preservation, and be able to take part in local tradition.
We may be far from the times of discussing a revolution by the hearth, or be uneasy in our company as we could be among Tory spies, but the human spirit is far from changed and any conversation or experience with a New Englander, I can assure you, will not be insignificant.
