Jefferson New Hampshire: Carter’s Tower

Likeness of James Richard Carter, from "The Paper Mill and Wood Pulp News," Volume 44, Front Cover, L. D. Post, 1921

Likeness of James Richard Carter,
from “The Paper Mill and Wood
Pulp News,” Volume 44, Front
Cover, L. D. Post, 1921

In 1897 the White Mountain area of New Hampshire was a popular spot for the well-off to build summer homes. James Richard Carter, a paper company magnate, had constructed an estate called “The Hummocks” in Jackson, New Hampshire, on an abandoned farm formerly owned by the Clapp family. He was familiar with the area, having his friend, E.A. Crawford, living nearby.

After building his home, extensive gardens and a tennis court, he decided to build a rock tower. One source states that Mr. Carter himself nicknamed the tower, “Carter’s Tower of Foolishness.” Continue reading

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Missing People: New Hampshire Sunday Drivers

Sunday Drivers were once all the rage. I'm serious. 

Where do you think that term came from?  Nowadays the term “Sunday Driver” describes just a person ahead of you on the road, who is driving at a rate much slower than you'd like.

About fifty years ago, the term meant something else completely.  Heck everyone was driving slowly then. If you drove fast in New Hampshire, you only did so until you hit that first frost heave, and heard the clunk of your transmission as it hit the asphalt.

It used to be a common occurrence after Sunday lunch for my (and other) parents to stuff the kids into the back seat of the car and head out into the country “to take in the sights.” The younger kids were so short that they really couldn't see out the windows, and the older siblings took the choice outside seats to insure you didn't fall out somehow.

Mom was a certifiable tour guide, providing us with a road by road, building by building, cow-by-cow description of what we might be seeing if we were taller.  About half way through the ride one of my brothers would get bored, and would begin pinching and kicking.  No matter how hard we begged and cajoled, mom wouldn't tie him to the roof of the car.

My dad would sometimes comment about how the area had changed since he was a boy.  Once in a while he'd take a crazy turn, my mom would squeal and we'd be bouncing down some god-forsaken rut.  You'd hear loud scratching sounds as the car plowed through overgrown tree branches and bushes.  When we'd come out on the other side, my mom would protest and get him to promise that he would never do that again.  But of course he would repeat the process the next time.  

By the time you got home from our Sunday Drive, either you were sufficiently bored and ready for a nap, OR your stomach was so upset from all the jostling that you wanted to lie down.  Either way, it was a brilliant way for parents to “naturally sedate” the kids, so they could enjoy the rest of the evening.

The new generation has forsaken the traditional Sunday Drive. Instead of that feeling of togetherness produced by close quarters, each person instead goes their own way. Instead of driving around somewhat aimlessly for hours, electronic devices such as Wii, television, and iPods provide adolescent amusements.

All I can say is “Way to go!”

Janice

P.S.: I'm the little girl pictured above, in my best outfit and bonnet, getting ready for a Sunday drive.

-Youtube: “Sunday Drive”-

Sunday Driver Rock in New Boston NH

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Sleep Sweetly: Manchester New Hampshire’s Connection to Marchiness Margaret (Fuller) Ossoli

In a well-known book entitled, “At Home And Abroad,” by Margaret Fuller Ossoli,

and published in 1856 by her brother Arthur B. Fuller, can be found an intriguing notation. It indicates that that Angelo Eugene Philip Ossoli was first buried in Valley Cemetery in Manchester, New Hampshire. Continue reading

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Nancy (Lewis) Nemec

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Memories of Rocking Horses

I blame Jasia over at Creative Gene, for prodding my memory that I once desperately wanted to be a cowgirl. Then Terry at Hill Country of Monroe County Mississippi, got all maudlin about his “Old Paint.”

That was it.  I cracked.  I went in search of a photograph of myself on my pony. I found it! A black and white snapshot.  I was straddling my rocking horse, dressed in various western clothing accessories and enjoying my traveling music.  I needed nothing more to experience pure bliss.

My “pony” was a blue wooden steed with spots and a red braid.  I'd put a record on the phonograph and would rock for hours.  I rode so long that my “horsie” made grooves in the linoleum floor.  This photograph above shows my sister Kathi playing the DJ while I rode my pony, grinning like a lunatic.

That photo was during my “everything western infatuation” stage.  The Lone Ranger was my favorite television show. I enjoyed wearing anything fringed, feathered or furred.  I knew the lyrics to “Davey Crockett.”

Those were the days when it was believed that playing with toy rifles, pistols, and other weapons would not result in your becoming an axe-murderer or deviant. (My brother Peter is pictured with me above. Thats either a coon-skin cap I'm wearing, or a piece of an old rug).

We often played “Cowboys and Indians.”  Sometimes the cowboys won.  Sometimes the Indians did.  No one told us we were being politically incorrect. (In the photo below my sister Kathi is on the left, and I'm on the right).

If anyone else would like to join in and post a photograph of themselves on any sort of horse (rocking, bouncy, carousel, real), join in!  Send me the link and I'll post it here.

Janice

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