The Island

Once upon a time Erastus Everson owned a large tract along the north shore of the Green Harbor River in Marshfield. Legend has it (and as you will discover, there are many family legends) that this was awarded to him for his Civil War efforts. Supposedly, land grants were a common way to reward deserving soldiers. So this tract also included a 2 acre island in the river, which got passed down through the generations – eventually to my mother. For a large, young family with no money – this chunk of sumac, poison ivy and bramble covered, mosquito, tick and sand-flea infested, mud surrounded sand flat was a God-send. This was our family summer retreat – complete with a two room/one porch cottage and an outhouse (that’s it – no bridge, no fresh water, no toilet, no electricity) and all of the adventure that the older, braver siblings and Dad could invent.

The ride from Hanson was about 1/2 hour. Packing to go, especially the first time of the year, was a feat in itself trying to squeeze supplies into the station wagon. Once they even forgot to squeeze ME in – although a mile up Rt 27 when my mother took the head count and came up one short, they turned around and got me. Getting from land to the Island was its own adventure. First the boat would come off of the roof racks and slide down the tops of the sumac and ragosa rose bushes on the side of the dike. Dad would put two kids and the lawn mower, gas can, and whatever else would fit and start rowing. The rest of the family would start dragging all the other supplies down to waters edge. The first passage would unload and send the boat back with one of us kids taking over the designated rower duties. Dad would take the plywood off the windows and the other child would start mowing – new sumac and briar sprouts were always attempting to reclaim the lawn area. Out of two acres, there was maybe a 30ft x 30ft lawn in front of the 20ft x 20ft cottage (not counting the 4ft x 20ft screened front porch). Especially on the year’s first trip (but somewhat on each) we would pray that the local hoodlums hadn’t inflicted too much damage between visits. After a couple more crossings, Mom with one or two youngsters would circle the car around to park it at the power line transfer station off Allan Street, fill up jugs of drinking water at the Halperns house (I have no idea how we knew these people?) and walk down the muddy path which led to the Dexter’s hunting shanty and rivers edge beyond the back end of the island. After a little gossip with the Dexter’s (Mom) and playing in the Duck Blind (us kids), the boat would arrive and off we would go - eagerly hoping that all of those who got to go first, had at least finished unpacking everything so we could get right into playing.

Chores consisted of mowing, chopping down sumacs, making dead sumac piles off the back side of the island (which looked like enormous beaver dens and were tricky but fun to walk out on top of and bounce on – today’s moonwalks are for wimps), clearing longer and wider paths to each end of the island, digging new outhouse holes, picking blackberries, catching fish for chowder, etc…

Outdoor games included boat races around the island, river whiffleball (the dock was home plate, the bases were boats and rafts and you had to swim around the bases), Dinosaur (where the bravest of brave would hide somewhere down the back path, in the thicket and be a dinosaur, and the considerably less brave would timidly try to find him – once Wes’ friend had to volunteer to be a WOUNDED Dinosaur), and our favorite (thank you dad who invented and/or taught us all of the greatest games) HEADHUNTER! Bearing a striking resemblance to hide-&-seek or kick-the-can, a headhunter (or two) would count to 30 and then try to capture all the other natives. They would get put into his giant cooking pot (the hammock) until they were ready to eat (or were freed by another native who could sneak in and set them loose). This was played in full regalia – no shoes, no shirts (girls over ten were allowed tops), spears that looked suspiciously like brooms or rakes, and yelling (always an abundance of yelling – there was not a single other dwelling in site).

Evening games consisted mostly of Hearts (I can still remember Laurie’s tantrum after we all ganged up on her and caused her first ever loss at Hearts), Bug-Your-Neighbor (a double-deck card game that later evolved into Uno) and board games. Lighting was by hurricane lamps, there was a gas cook stove (we would tow a large propane tank across the river – I could never figure out why that big metal cylinder would float), and a bear keg full of water for washing dishes. The outhouse was a two-holer, complete with a star & moon carved into the upper Dutch door, 10 yards down a side path (you always tried to make sure your last trip was before dark). Sing-alongs were nightly events and we were often visited by relatives and family friends. There was a special car-horn code to be beeped from atop the dyke when somebody came to visit. There would be a mad scramble to see who would get to the boat first (provided they were strong enough and reliable enough rowers) and have the honor of rowing across to pick up Grammy or the Tobins or Doyles or Howlands. On weekend nights, we would sit on the roof to better hear the bands that played at “The Webster House” restaurant. With us, everything could turn into a competition – swimming, rowing, mowing, Hearts, tag, sumac pile jumping, or who could get the furthest through the briar bushes to a place that no human had ever tread before (despite the fact that at one time the place had been thoroughly cleared for sheep grazing).

Early on when the Dike opening allowed the tide in, we would see who could row the furthest into the current, or who could jump in from the highest on the dike (only feasible at high tide), who could catch the most sea worms, eels, horseshoe crabs, flounder, who could shine an apple the brightest, who could cut the longest unbroken apple peel strand (jack-knives were once a common possession for a young child) or who could peel the largest unbroken patch of skin off of dad’s blistered sunburned back. Day trips varied from rowing far upstream, going swimming at Brant Rock Beach (thinking back, this probably also doubled as bath-time), buying fudge and salt water taffy at Estes’ Candy kitchen, or my favorite – on Sunday morning going with Dad to the donut shop in Ocean Bluff.

Sleeping quarters were three bunk beds in the back room for the kids, a daybed/couch in the front room/kitchen for parents, and two cots on the porch for visitors. I loved it when I got to sleep on the porch – more precisely, waking up there in the morning sunshine, cool ocean breeze, chirping birds, and the distant occasional hum of cars on the dyke road. Then dad built the Bunk House – an 8ft wide x 12ft deep x 4ft tall screen house with sleeping bags – down the back path, almost out of site from the cottage. With overhanging fruitless grape vines, bushes and sumac branches scraping at the roof this was not a place for the faint of heart to sleep (especially if it was windy or rainy) – but filled with siblings and cousins, even sleeping was an adventure! ===================================

The installation of tide gates in the dike pretty much ruined the river. The cottage long ago was burned down by vandals, but used to be right in the center of the island (the front was towards the dyke, the back was towards the power lines/upstream).
Maybe someday soon, the river will be restored to some of its former glory, which might just make it a destination for future descendants to enjoy.

This is my sister Laurie’s recent work towards reclaiming the river as a tidal basin / estuary habitat / salt marsh. Of particular interest are the affidavits near the bottom of the page, where various family members recall some island memories back to the 1940’s.

http://web.whrsd.org/faculty/bianchi_laurie/River%20Project/2004Research/2004Investigation.htm

here is a cool rotating 360 degree view from on top of the dike. It's hard to tell there is an island in the river from this, but even many current locals are unaware of it as well
http://www.marshfield.net/cgi-bin/pano1.pl?image=pano-gh139.jpg