The Day I Became A New Englander
Technically I have always been a New Englander. I was born in Newton, Massachusetts. My family soon moved to Alfred, Maine, for three years, and then on to Middletown, Connecticut, where I grew up in the rural southern part of the town next to a dairy farm. We made frequent visits to see my mother’s parents who lived near Cape Cod. Perhaps it was the reliable presence of Yankee magazine as the standard bathroom reader, or the generally more rustic environment; when I look back on it, things seemed to be more New-Englandy at their house. To me as a child, it felt a little bit foreign, though compelling.
My first true awareness of place came not from my home region, but from my occasional visits to New York City, where we had family friends. This contrasted nicely with where I lived. I tuned into the unique force of the city, and while I could feel the contrast to my country home, I still didn’t have any sense that I belonged to a particular type of place.
I progressed through a fairly normal childhood, a few friends, a few hobbies, and I was a decent student. But by the time I was a sophomore at Woodrow Wilson High School in Middletown, I had ceased any attempt at academic work. It was 1966-67. Our culture was in an era of questioning, I was at an age of questioning, and as it eventually came to be known, my parents were entering the final stages of their marriage. They were smart enough to realize that I needed a change of scene, and through a friend we discovered High Mowing School in Wilton, New Hampshire. Though based on the sometimes authoritarian educational pedagogy of Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner, this particular Waldorf school tended to march to a different drummer (notably the vision of it’s founder, Beulah Emmet). In the mid-sixties High Mowing was one of a handful of New England boarding schools that bore the informal designation as a “hippie” school, which essentially meant that guys could grow their hair long and there was no dress code (except for chapel on Sunday evenings). This, superficially, is what drew me to the school.
Once I was in an environment where I was not required to conform to social “norms”, I became less interested in extreme behavior. I came quickly to feel the spirit of the place: an isolated community of 80 or so students, most of whom, like me, were “main-stream challenged’. The original “High Mowing” was a large farm in Wilton which had served as a country home for Mrs. Emmet (she was never Beulah, even to most of the faculty). She started the school in 1942, channeling her “New York society” family resources into supporting the school, which she ran well into her 80’s. Between the old buildings and the surrounding woods and hills, it was very much of a New England haven, and I believe that from day one this spirit was gestating within me.
It was after I’d been there for about a month, perhaps late September or early October, that I decided to take a long walk one Saturday morning. I took a dusty road down the back side of Abbot Hill, breathing in early autumn air, and feeling a sense of refreshment and renewal, in spite of the impending “decay” of summer. I don’t recall if it was my intention or not, but I eventually made my way out to Route 101, and to little white store that sold cider. In those days the cider was unpasteurized, and it was a good sign if there was “stuff” floating around in it. They also sold cheese (cheddar, which was of course cut from a large wheel), and homemade bread. I scored some of each and headed back to my dorm room.
In the weeks prior to my little journey I had left my home and family (permanently, as it turned out), said goodbye to a solid circle of friends, and had embarked on this new adventure. I was on the threshold of change. On this particular day as I sat in solitude in my room, the flavors of bread, cheese and cider converged with my awakening sense of place. It wasn’t quite a ritual, but I believe it was that day that I felt, for the first time, that I was a New Englander. To this day, cider is like holy wine, and when the cool September air suggests that winter is not far away, I am enriched by an excitement. Life is good, and I belong here.
I can't say I recall the
I can't say I recall the moment I became a New Englander. For a long time after moving here with my family I was filled with bitterness and unhappiness. It didn't help that in typical New England fashion, we were not welcome with open arms and a cheerful welcome wagon lady akin to a Stepford wife. For the longest time, we lived in a house referred to as "the McKenna Place" as though we had somehow scored some sacred ground. Hopefully after 30 years living in the same house, my parents have somehow been able to gain rightful ownership of it in accordance to the "townies". It would be nice to hear it referred to now as "the Oberg Place".
I left New Hampshire for a time while I was married. It was okay with me at the time because like all children, I couldn't wait to get as far away as possible from my hometown. But when it came time to decide where to go when I abruptly left my husband, I could think of nowhere I wanted to run but "home", back to the little New England town that I had once felt ailenated by.
I am 40-something years old now and live in a different little New England community, but I still feel a very real sense of being "home" when I go back to New London to visit my folks.
I can think of nowhere else I would want to live but New England. There is nothing like the change in seasons, the real sense of community (even in a bigger community like Concord), and true apple cider on a crisp fall day.
My parents moved to Henniker in 1973 to teach at New England College. They were shunned by the town as outsiders, and by their faculty colleagues because they were chosen by the college president, and the faculty hated the president.
A faculty member accused my father of faking his credentials, a capital crime in academia. My father threatened to sue the man for slander, and invited him to prove the charge or shut up and apoligize in public. He got his apology, and one lifelong enemy. The rest of the faculy came around when they saw what nice people and good teachers my parents were.
My parents became townies in an unusual way. Their woodstove was smouldering inside the walls for several days out of sight behind the brick hearth. They were out of town, but the housesitter felt the bricks getting hotter, and called the fire department a few minutes before the house burned down. Putting it out was still a simple matter for the volunteer fire department.
For some reason, my parents noticed a marked change in the way the townies treated them. The volunteer firemen saved their house from destruction, and somehow that made my parents one of them. It's a piece of New Hampshire psychology I don't understand to this day.
I came to Henniker five years after my parents to recover from a catastrophic illness. I'd been living in Manhattan on my own for nearly 10 years, and what 29-year-old wants to move back with his parents. I was also a Manhattan snob, who thought the world ended when you left the island. I was sure my life was over.
But as Robert Frost said, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
Two years later, I had done a professional job successfully and was writing for the local weekly newspaper, and I had friends. But I kept the promise I made to myself to get out of there as soon as I was able.
I went to graduate school at the University of North Carolina. I came home for Christmas six months later, and everybody -- my friends around town, and the people I had worked with -- treated me like I was home. "When did you get back? What have you been doing? How long are you staying?"
I was 31 years old, and no one had ever treated me like I was home before. Before I left, I had no idea anyone cared that I was there or that I'd left. I did not understand that New Hampahire people accept you after a while, but they don't tell you until you leave and come back. I stayed home,did my graduate work at the UNH Writer's Program, and started writing for newspapers. I've never regretted it.