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Friday the 4th of July, a beautiful day. As usual, I mounted the old flag my father-in-law had for decades, which adorned his summer place in Maine every Fourth. Bill was a veteran of World War II, in the merchant marine as a crewman on oil tankers heading for England, a pretty dangerous job. My father also served, in the navy as a 1st Lieutenant. What those two gentlemen would have thought about what’s going on in our country today I can well imagine.
My wife and I had plans to travel north to Strawbery Banke in the South End of Portsmouth, to attend a ceremony where about a hundred individuals were to be sworn in as citizens of the United States, most of them from Mexico and South America. Aside from congratulating as many of these people as possible, I was also curious whether ICE agents might be lurking around, dressed in black, faces covered, with a fleet of unmarked SUVs nearby to cart away friends and/or relatives who might have come as well to this festive occasion, but who might possibly be illegals. I said to my wife, if that happens, I’m going to get arrested, and she agreed to join me.
As is usual with holiday plans, things got screwed up, and we were late. Friends of ours had arrived on time, and they showed us photographs, posing with a husband and wife who were now US citizens. Their country of origin? Pakistan.
Strawbery Banke had free admission on Friday, so we toured the grounds and its many stunning historic houses. It reminded me, of course, of Newburyport, and the fate both these cities avoided in the 1960s and ’70s, when urban renewal projects threatened to bulldoze entire neighborhoods and replace them with a few tons of concrete and asphalt. In Newburyport’s case, a big box store (Zayres, remember them?) was to be the centerpiece of the city’s “renaissance.”
Portsmouth was saved by the resolution of a single woman, Dorothy Vaughn, the city librarian, who focused on the restoration of one house, the Chase Mansion. She badgered every politician in town, held fundraisers, did whatever she could to wake people up, because they needed waking up. Strawbery Banke, all 24 restored houses on 10 acres, was the splendid result. Same thing here in Newburyport: three or four citizens from the old Yankee crust of the Historical Society, along with architect Jonathan Woodman, convinced Byron Matthews, of Greek heritage and 5-term mayor of Newburyport, that federally-funded redevelopment was a double-edged sword. If you weren’t a careful steward, disaster could be the result. Check out Government Center in Boston if you want a real-life lesson. That could have happened here.
We ate a picnic lunch with other friends at Fort McClary, which overlooks the mouth of Portsmouth Harbor. What a stunning vista. One of our meal mates is an antiques appraiser, and she recounted how she was investigating the value of two portraits from the early 1800s, done by an itinerant artist whose name has long been forgotten. In the old days, men like these often took up residence in small town taverns and advertised their services to the locals. Our friend, searching for clues, said the reverse side of canvases or boards often revealed surprising leads, which reminded me once again of Newburyport.
We live in an 1806 Federalist on Fruit Street. When we were younger and more limber, we’d often crawl out on our roof with the kids to watch fireworks on the 4th (when they had them). Fruit runs directly off High Street, and High Street gets its name precisely because it sits on a ridge overlooking downtown. The view from our roof in daylight encompasses the entirety of the Merrimack as it widens and disgorges into the Atlantic at the northern end of Plum Island. Some view, I have to say, and one enjoyed by someone else on a June day in 1833.
While laying out insulation in our attic early on in the stewardship of our house, I discovered a message written in chalk on the reverse side of a planking board, rather like my friend finding something of note on the back of a painting. It was fairly legible and certainly interesting. It reads as follows:
June 2, 1833. The ship Potomac was this day towed over the bar by the steamboat Hancock. It was the first vessel ever towed over by a steamboat. Wind southerly and very light.
This little nugget of history can be visually recreated in a booklet published in 1990 called Through the Lens: Early Newburyport Photographers & Photographs, 1839-1900, an effort spearheaded by the late Chris Snow, an antiquarian of considerable local repute. A photo in it dates to 1897 and was intended to capture surf off Plum Island. In the background you can see a ship reminiscent of the Potomac being hauled by a tug much like the Hancock. If you look closely, you can see the tow line. Pretty evocative, I must say. The lesson is, if you own an old house, take a look at the odd corner now and then, attic or basement, to see if there’s anything to discover. In fact, I found a second, more ornate inscription, in black ink: “Miss Ann Wilde, June 2, 1825.”
Instead of watching the nightly news at 6:30, we had a drink out in the garden. The thought of Donald Trump, surrounded by sycophants, signing his big beautiful bill – described by Senator Angus King as the most disgusting piece of legislation he’d ever seen – was too much to bear. We analyzed our day, begun so promisingly up in Portsmouth, seeing history firsthand, both in the past and yet in the present too, with a naturalization ceremony marred by ominous overtones. We had a second drink, then dinner, then up to bed.
Had to get ready for tomorrow, when we were going to stand out, with probably 100 other patriots, on the Route 1A overpass on High Street, with our signs and flags. Wake up, America, remember what the Fourth was all about!
James Charles Roy
Newburyport resident
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