Worshiping together, too

The Shackfords and Olmsteads had more in common than their livelihoods on and around the sea.

The oldest church in Eastport, founded in either 1798 or 1802, was the Calvinist Baptists, as some in town knew them, or more accurately, Particular Baptists, largely in line with the majority of Baptists today. That group moved into its Washington Street house of worship in 1837. (Today, it’s the Eastport Arts Center.)

The second congregation in town was the Free Will Baptists, organized in 1816 and incorporating with the state in 1820. Darius and Ethel Olmstead along with John and William Shackford and their brothers-in-law John Hinkley and John C. Lincoln were named in the incorporation papers.

Among other things, Free Will Baptists avoided alcohol consumption and, in its Northern stream, opposed slavery. As a rite, it practiced foot-washing. The denomination stemmed from the Dutch Mennoninte-influenced General Baptists in England, unlike the Baptists just down the hill. I am curious to learn how much our Shackfords and Olmsteads hewed to the denomination’s values. The General Baptists, I should point out, were earlier a strong influence on the emerging Quaker movement in Britain. My Quaking Dover book details more.

The Free Will Baptists dedicated their first meetinghouse in town in 1819, a year before the other Baptists had theirs. They were later known as North Christian Church, with the building at Washington and High streets.

Next to organize in town were the Congregationalists, 1819, and Unitarians, 1821. Roman Catholics had a chapel in 1828, early for New England.

The 1820 Census for Eastport has the brothers Darius, Ethell, and Jesse Olmstead as heads of household.

Two years later, Mrs. Darius Olmstead (Elsie Haddon) and Mrs. Ethel Olmstead (Nancy Ann Haddon) were among the charter members of the Eastport Benevolent Female Society, as were Mrs. William Shackford, Mrs. Jacob Shackford, and Mrs. John Shackford.

The Olmsteads and Shackfords obviously shared in an emerging social structure, having arrived in the Passamaquoddy region at the same time.

All of it, of course, has relevance on the house we bought.

So why did I write poetry?

A poetry editor a decade or two ago asked why I write poems, and in response I came up with this:

I’ve been writing poetry and fiction for so long the questions of “how” and even “when” and “where” arise long before any consideration of “why.” That is, the practice quickly turns directly to “just sit down, start keyboarding, and see where it goes.” Even so, my “why” quickly turns to a succession of motivations within an evolving exploration that continued to present itself as poetry. So here are some of my primary Whys along the way:

  • Because it sustains expansive dimensions of language and thinking that have been precluded from my employment as a newspaper (and, briefly, social sciences) editor, where expression is intended to convey a single layer of factual presentation.
  • Because it allows me to pursue wordplay, surrealism, ambiguity, innuendo, absurdities, but especially my own emotions and experiences that are forbidden in objective third-person writing. (Intentionally or otherwise, my literary endeavors have worked as a reaction against and counterweight to the strictures of professional journalism, the way a pianist might balance classical and jazz or country-western performance.)
  • Because it has kept my skills as a headline writer sharp and pliant.
  • Because it collects and distills the seemingly random wanderings of my Aquarian mind and my often-obscured impressions and feelings.
  • Because it reflects the intuition and clarity that arise in my practice of meditation.
  • Because revision, a crucial element of writing poetry, pushes me beyond linear narrative to a more mysterious matrix as I looking between the cracks and broken syntax to admit other voices to appear.
  • Because it allows me mythologies for exploring and celebrating places I’ve lived and people I’ve known along the way. (If I’d taken more photos during all those years, would the drive have been lessened?)
  • Because it immerses me in a long stream of poets, troubadours, singers, storytellers, mystics, prophets, and shamans before me.
  • Because it’s a kind of prayer.
  • Because it keeps me looking at the world around me with an awareness of gratitude and wonder.

Well, that’s what I wrote at the time, and the editor fired back with a round of questions I didn’t have time to answer. Way back then. I have no idea how I would answer now. I do hope it would be less ethereal.

Sometimes a Dover connection wasn’t quite what I expected

One of the things about the history of my far end of Maine is seeing how much of it springs from Dover, New Hampshire.

Neighboring Pembroke, for instance, was founded by Hatevil Nutter Leighton, a descendant of both a Dover Quaker family and one of the faith’s fiercest oppressors.

Daniel Hill, the first permanent resident of Calais (1779), came there from Jonesboro, though he had been a pioneer settler of Machias in 1763, along with a J. Hill – his half-brother Japhet.

Knowing that the Hills were a prominent extended family in the Dover Quaker Meeting, I became curious and found confirmation in the fact that Daniel is thought to have been born in Kittery, Maine – on the other side of the Piscataqua River from Dover – around 1734. Close enough. Dover Friends had a neighborhood Meeting on the Eliot/Kittery town line.

But in his case, forget any Quaker influence. That was at least two generations earlier in his line, which did gravitate in and around Dover.

Daniel fought in the French & Indian War and again in the American Revolution. He was rumored to be a skilled Indian fighter. There’s even a controversy over whether he was a Rebel or a Loyalist, considering that he apparently lived for a time on the Canadian side of the border. His father, though, died in Nova Scotia in 1782, befitting a Loyalist position.

Loyalists? You’ll hear more about them later here. Please stay tuned.

When it comes to daily bread, the French set a standard

Among the things we truly miss living on our remote corner of Maine is a first-class bakery, the kind that can turn out genuine baguettes and croissants.

Previous posts here at the Barn have touched on these distinctively French delights, but today the attention turns to matters of what makes something as basic as bread so marvelous.

Consider.

  1. While the roots of the baguette go back at least to the 18th century, the distinctive Parisian staple didn’t even go by that name until August 1920, when the department of the Seine regulated the product, declaring that the loaf had to have a minimum weight of 2¾ ounces and a maximum length of 16 inches and not cost more than .35 francs, making it affordable for nearly everyone.
  2. Today’s baguette has a diameter of roughly two to 2½ inches, a length of about 26 inches, but that can range up to 39 inches long, and a weight of 8¾ ounces. I’m sure the price has been adjusted over the years, even before the euro.
  3. The word itself means wand, baton, or stick. Well, from baguette to baton does make a bit of sense.
  4. French bakers were already using highly refined Hungarian high-milled flour, a compact Austrian yeast, and Viennese steam oven baking. Later ovens heated to more than 390 °F use steam injection to allow the crust to expand before setting. Vive la difference.
  5. Long loaves were already part of French culture. Some of them reached to six-feet long, resembling crow bars, in the eyes of some. Pity the poor maids trying to convey them to their master’s homes.
  6. The airy, chewy, crunchy-crust elongated bread loaves are made of basically flour, water, common salt, and yeast, perhaps with a few tweaks. We’re back to the importance of really good flour and yeast. As for the water and salt?
  7. By French law, a baguette is defined principally by its dough, not its shape. No wonder so many imitators on this side of the ocean disappoint.
  8. Sometime around 1920 (the accounts vary), bakers were legally prevented from working before 4 a.m., making it impossible to make traditional round loaves in time for customers’ breakfasts, as the Wikipedia account goes. (The bakers were also banned from working after 10 p.m.) Switching from the round loaf to the previously less-common, slender shape of the baguette solved the problem, especially since the bakers could no longer work later than 10 at night.
  9. When it comes to consumption, Algeria leads the world, with 49 million baguette loaves a day, compared to France at a mere 30 million.
  10. As far as history goes, we can revisit the classic quip of let the public eat cake when they’re out of French bread, even of the pre-baguette variety. Was Queen Antoinette out of her head? In my humble opinion, cake definitely finishes in second place.

Consider this a footnote or two

I have several pairs of identical thick wool socks – all gifted, by the way – that I’ve worn the majority of the time since moving Way Downeast, summer or winter. You can say I’m quite fond of them and their cushiony effect. But then, the other day, one pair finally wore out – under the heel in one and a toe in the other.

Emotionally? Oh well, it’s about time. Or, I definitely got my mileage out of them. Or, in response, I could elaborate on my belief in having multiple pairs of identical socks so that if one gives out, you’ll ultimately have a new match when one in another set gives way.

Instead, I was left facing a situation where that didn’t exactly fit my model. Or, what is that people say about if the shoe fits?

A surprise dimension opened

Courthouse records go only so far in piecing together a story like this. But the names I had found did give me enough to start turning to online genealogies, Find-a-Grave posts, and related histories to augment the investigation, often including the exasperating process of eliminating possibilities before chancing upon nuggets.

A conventional telling I found repeated contained this: “Captain John Shackford died at his home in Eastport, Maine, on Christmas day, 1840, having attained the eighty-seventh year of his age, and his widow obtained a pension from the U.S. government by reason of his service in the American revolution.”

Christmas, by the way, was not observed in Massachusetts, and likely not Maine at the time, even now that it was an independent state. As many journals of the time noted, “It was an ordinary day.”

The quick mention of his widow slid by almost unnoticed. It seemed to be an error, no, considering that Esther had died a decade earlier?

My big “ah-hah!” moment came in coming across a free ebook copy of the 1888 Eastport and Passamaquoddy, a Compilation of Historical and Biographical Sketches compiled by William Henry Kilby. Of special interest was in the 506-page book was a chapter, “Captain John Shackford and His Family,” by his grandson Samuel Shackford, living in Chicago. I’ve already referred to it, but the most crucial part for me was this: “After his decease, his second wife, who was widow Elise Olmstead, obtained a pension from the United States government for his services in the Revolution.” The crucial points were that Captain John had married a second time, something not obvious elsewhere, and even better, I now had a name to focus on.

As I soon found, her name was Elsie, though it also appears as Elise, Elsa, and Eliza. She was the widow of Darius Olmstead.

~*~

The September 27, 1831, Eastport Sentinel reported the marriage of Elsie and John Shackford senior, with the Reverend Bonds officiating. In the Sentinel, her name was Mrs. Elsa, widow of the late Darius Olmstead.

Captain John would have been 77 or 78. Elsie, around 52.

She was born around 1779 in Chatham, England, to James Haddon and a presently unknown wife. He then then brought the family to Saint John, New Brunswick.

Elsie’s first husband, Darius Olmstead, was a merchant, “copartners in trade under the firm D&E Olmstead, with his brother Ethel. Between 1822 and 1825 they purchased sections of Central Wharf in Eastport from James Olmstead.

Darius died July 13, 1825, age 48.

He descended from a well-known and prolific colonial family in Connecticut., one that becomes difficult to follow in its many repetitions of Darius and Ethel across generations and geography.

In the instance at hand, Darius was born in 1776 to Aaron and Hannah Peat Olmstead.

His brother Ethel married Nancy Ann Haddon, presumably Elsie’s sister.

While Olmsteads appeared in historic roles during the American Revolution, Aaron was of the Loyalist faction and relocated to Saint John, New Brunswick, at the end of that war.

Partisan alliances aside, the border between the United States and Canada was loosely enforced. In 1798, Aaron drowned in the harbor at Eastport.

Among the children born to Darius and Elsie Haddon Olmstead was son Ethel (a name also spelled Ethal and Ethell in the records). He was born in 1814 in Eastport. Another son was named Darius.

In 1826, Eliza Olmstead, widow, and Ann Olmstead, wife of Ethel, sold a property on Key Street that Darius had purchased from John Shackford in 1810.

With the widow’s remarriage, her son Ethel, around age 16, would have become Captain John Shackford senior’s stepson.

I have nothing more on his brother.

All of it, of course, has relevance on the house we bought.