I spent most of one night recently on the banks of the mighty Connecticut River, terrorizing fish from my secret shoreline hideaway. Despite my solitary seclusion, I did not feel completely at ease. There are things on the river that are dangerous, both seen and unseen.
The woods along the river's banks have always been a haven for the homeless. Even as children fishing on these shores we were warned by our elders to avoid the "stewbums" who populated the woods in warm weather. In my childhood those people were mostly harmless souls, ruined by fate and drink. But today there's a tougher breed of riverbank dweller to be avoided, addicted to substances much stronger than alcohol and desperate enough to do whatever they have to do to get what they need. They'll kill you for twenty bucks, but it's nothing personal.
The same elders who warned us away from the homeless also warned us about the entities that haunt the river. They are said to be the spirits of Indians, the ghosts of Native Americans from long extinct tribes like the Norwottucks, the Agawams and the Chicopees.
Those tribes are said to be extinct in part because of Lord Jeffrey Amherst, a man who while pretending to be charitable is alleged to have given the Indians blankets that were purposely infected with smallpox. Many of the Indians died horribly from the disease's hideously disfiguring fever, while the few that survived fled the area and were assimilated into other tribes. That was supposed to have been the end of the Indians in the Pioneer Valley, except for those ghostly Indian spirits who remained behind to frighten lonely fishermen as their only revenge.
My Uncle Steve creeped me out once when I was a boy with a story he told me. He said that one time he saw, through the early dawn mist, an Indian approaching, naked but for a loin cloth, moccasins and a feather in his hair. My Uncle realized this was a ghost that was prowling along the shore, and headed in his direction. My Uncle bravely jumped forward to confront the supernatural being but suddenly it vanished, leaving behind only moccasin prints in the wet sand near the shore. My Uncle ran to go get his friend who was fishing a little downriver, but when they returned to the spot the footprints were gone.
A man I remember only as Mr. Paige, who lived across from the World Famous Thomas M. Balliet Elementary School where I attended in Springfield, once told an even creepier story to me and my friends. He told us that he had been alone fishing along the shore, again at dawn, when slowly he had the disquieting sense that something was wrong. The birds, which had been chirping loudly to greet the day, had suddenly and inexplicably gone silent. In the eerie quiet, he was startled to spot at a considerable distance from him a long-haired Indian male standing at the edge of the woods, wrapped the length of his body in a plain brown blanket. Mr. Paige nervously called out to it, but received only silence in reply.
Then all of a sudden he heard a rustling sound from behind him! He spun around to confront whatever was there, and yet he saw nothing but the dark woods. Turning his gaze back towards the apparition, he could see the Indian even more clearly than before, particularly the expression on the being's face. It was totally blank of any emotion aside from the overwhelming impression the Indian gave that it was staring directly at him. Then he nervously realized that the reason he could observe these new details was because the figure, although still simply standing there wrapped in its blanket, was unmistakably closer to him than it had been before he looked away.
Once again he heard that strange rustling sound from the woods behind him, only this time even louder than before! Yet turning once again toward the source of the noise he still saw nothing. Then apprehensively turning his gaze back towards the spirit, he observed once again that unchanging pose, that inscrutable countenance, and the eyes that burned into his soul.
And it was closer. Much closer.
Mr. Paige said that at that point he had to accept the fact that he was dealing with a powerful poltergeist, an entity that was not alive, and yet not dead, but what he simply described as "undead." Such spirits do not physically harm their victims but attempt only to drive them insane. Paige said that he bolted toward his small canoe, leapt onboard and paddled frantically away. He refused to look behind him until he was well down the river. When he finally did so he saw no sign of the spirit. That was when he noticed for the first time that his clothes were totally drenched in sweat.
Shame on those men for telling a boy such stories, and I haven't even mentioned the non-fishing related tale, The Legend of the Ludlow Witch.
The first time I heard about the Ludlow Witch was around the campfire at Boy Scout camp. I was never much of a Boy Scout, the organization seemed too religious oriented and militaristic in style for a free spirit like me. But I did like to go camping, so whenever news reached me through the boyhood grapevine (more efficient in its own way than the Associated Press) that the Boy Scouts were preparing for their annual camping trips, I would hurry over to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Church and join.
I took absolutely no interest in their merit badges, paper drives or assorted good deeds, and never participated in them. I joined the scouts strictly to go camping, fishing, swimming and to goof off with my buddies far from the dull hot mean streets of Springfield. When the camping trips ended for the summer, I'd quit the scouts until the next year.
On many nights on those campouts we would participate in what may well be the oldest continuous communal activity in human history. I'm talking of course about sitting around a campfire telling stories. Besides being the most ancient, it may also be the most human of activities. An anthropologist once defined human beings as "story-telling animals."
Many of the tales told around the crackling flames were creepy ones. The scary story is believed to be the oldest of all the literary forms. The ancient cave drawings of the Stone Age show stick figures being attacked by monsters. Psychologists have theorized that the scary story persists because it fulfills a deeply essential socialization need, which is the necessity of acquiring courage. Being frightened in the safe environment of an imaginary tale, and learning to handle that abstract fear, is practice for how to handle fearful emotions in real life.
In everyone's life will come moments of physical and psychological danger. As Ayn Rand once said, "Courage is not a mere virtue, it is a purely practical necessity."
Once upon a time, in Eastern Massachusetts during the colonial era, a terrible hysteria broke out in which several innocent people were tortured and killed as witches. One of the accused, a harmless, nature worshipping Pagan who came under suspicion as a non-Christian, escaped the Boston area and resettled in the tiny town of Ludlow in Western Massachusetts. The tolerant citizens of Ludlow left the Pagan woman alone, which was easy to do since she bothered no one and kept to herself. However one day a small child went missing and could not be located. A panic arose that focused on the superstition of witches stealing children for use in their supposedly unspeakable rituals and recipes for stews.
Panic soon led to hysteria in which a mob marched on the Pagan's home and set it afire. Fleeing the inferno she was chased screaming through the streets, until finally arriving at the area where the bridge now stands connecting Ludlow with Indian Orchard. In a last desperate attempt to escape the bloodthirsty mob, she threw herself into the river. But instead of escaping she hit her head on some rocks and drowned. Her body was never recovered.
The next day the missing child showed up alive, he had simply gotten lost in the woods. The people of Ludlow realized too late that the Pagan woman had been completely innocent all along. But the soul of the Pagan demanded vengeance. If she was driven to her death by false accusations of attacking children, then she would show them through supernatural means what real danger to their young could be! Therefore it is said that forever after she has haunted our Valley, looking for wayward children that she can snatch away to some mysterious realm where they are never seen again, each time causing the community to grieve in guilt over how their false accusations had now come true.
Of course I don't believe that any of those stories really happened, but I'll admit it's easier to say that now, sitting in my well lighted den surrounded by modern luxuries, than it has been on some nights alone on the Connecticut River. I'd be a liar if I said I haven't occasionally heard things that sounded strange, or thought for a moment that I saw something that was more than just a shadow. But I simply remind myself that logic dictates that it is really nothing. Of course. Really.
There is a great scene from the movie The Shining where the character played by Scatman Cruthers is telling a small boy (who is about to be left in a hotel full of ghosts) what he believes ghosts actually are. Scatman says that they are the traces of things that once happened, sort of like when you burn toast. You may throw the burnt toast in the garbage, and put the toaster away, but the smell will linger in the air as evidence of what happened for a long time afterward. He told the boy that ghosts are like that, leftover traces of what happened.
The Indians of the Pioneer Valley are gone, and it was a terrible thing that happened to them, thanks to Lord Amherst's killer blankies. I know there is no such thing as ghosts, but sometimes one's sense of justice makes it seem as though there ought to be.
For more information on the infamous Lord Amherst click here.
Hellraiser Howie
Boston media legend Howie Carr was at the Holyoke Mall signing books, as seen here with blogger Bill Dusty.
I've read Howie's The Brothers Bulger and recommend it highly. In fact there is much about the mentality of the Bulger Brothers that is very similiar to the mindset of Valley political machines such as in Springfield, where Howie's guide to political conduct definitely applies:
1) Nothing is on the level
2) Everything is a deal
3) No deal is too small
In Springfield I would've added this rule - the bigger the scoundrel, the higher the honors.
Hamp Today
The Green Bean in downtown Northampton is becoming the essential Sunday morning hotspot for Hamp hipsters to meet to discuss the night before.
I've seen this painter all over downtown Hamp, even on arctic cold days, painting Northampton landmarks.
I'd say he stroked the historic Calvin pretty damn good.
(click photo to enlarge)
Today's Video
Recently at The Elevens in downtown Northampton they had a Wes Anderson night which was described thusly:
A tribute to the soundtracks from Wes Anderson's films. (The Darjeeling Limited (2007), The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), The Royal Tenenbaums (2001), Rushmore (1998), Bottle Rocket (1996) - Each performer will play at least one song from one of the movies and probably a song of their own.
Here Henning Ohlenbusch displays his whistling skills.
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