Historic Squirrelfield

Fuck off, Creep

I am thinking of papering my apartment with this

Unfortunately, because it gets dark at noon now (well, 4:30, but still) we only had the chance to hit up one more house before everything shut down (we are planning to come back in the summer, so wait for a part II!)  We decided on the Asa Stebbins house, the only all-brick home built in Deerfield.  Asa Stebbins, who was super handsome (which is probably why he had 13 kids) was a rich dude who wanted to let everyone know he was rich.  He did this by papering his giant house in seriously ugly French wall-paper by Joseph Dufour (depicting the voyages of Captain Cook, per the picture) and by having rooms not papered hand-painted with tacky designs instead.  Well, tacky to us, but super chic and modern in 1799.  He wanted his house to be worldly, like those in Boston, so he could further his stature by hobnobbing with the elite who'd come up from Hartford.  The house was referred to as "the mansion" and I'm sure the folks who were living in shacks were a little miffed, but if they'd invested in cattle breeding like the attractive Mr. Stebbins, maybe they could've had their own ugly wall paper.

We stopped quickly at the museum and bookstore, which smelled like ass (not figuratively), just to see what it had to offer.  Turns out what it had to offer was hilariously pretentious conversation!  Lizzie and I were cutting through one room, where this dude was regaling some lady with tales of his conversations with the ambassador to India, and she rejoined with stories of transcendentalism, and it's magical impact on her.  I meant to let out a soft chuckle to respond to Lizzie's eyeroll, but instead I guffawed like a creep at them.  Luckily, our friends were too self-involved to notice us mocking them.  I am a nerd who likes culture, but this bunch of people were just trying to one up each other with their cultural capital, and it was silly.  We breezed by them again for another quick giggle, until the smell of ass drove us out, and back to the car.

I am sort of like a GPS, only better

Contrary to popular belief (and facts), I am actually really good at navigating.  When I have a map.  And the houses are marked.  And in a straight line.  On one street.  And ending at a tavern.  Unfortunately the tavern was closed.

18th Century arts and crafts

 When we entered the Apprentice's Workshop next to the museum, we had no idea that it would feature hands-on fun.  We were greeted by a lovely woman we called Gladys, who is obviously a retired academic, well-versed in the study of everything.  (She mentioned how we'd just been at the museum.  Did the guard call her to tell her about our walking on the grass?)  We started off in the loom-room, where Gladys showed us the original off-sheep wool, and it's various in-process states, with the final product of the yarn being set up on this loom, at which Lizzie is seated.  I cannot imagine the pain-in-the-assness which setting up a loom would involve, but it turns out Lizzie is pretty good at working it.  There were four pedals, and you'd alternate pedals to create your pattern, passing the shuttle through each time (as you see Lizzie doing, above.)  Gladys told us that the wool being carded and spun in Deerfield was "not what you would wear to the Governor's ball," but rather the rougher stuff you'd use for carpets and blankets.  After Lizzie finished making the carpet, we moved onto the ceramics room, American ceramics also not being what was in demand.  (We were producing mostly stoneware made with salt, which was great for storing things, but not for elegant tableware, etc.)

Gladys asked if I wanted to make my own ceramic piece, and of course I did.  She gave me a little ball of clay, which was NOT THE CONSISTENCY I WAS EXPECTING.  It was super slimy and wet, so when I went to smooth it into a ball it squashed all up over my hands, horrifying Lizzie into not making her own ceramic token.  You could choose from several presses, and I, of course, chose a sexy 1797 Ben Franklin mould.  With my now-greasy hands, I had trouble peeling the clay off the mould, so Gladys helped out, creating my little buddy here on the left, who is hoping I'll go back and make a nice pressing of some French whores.  I used some wet wipes to clean off most of the clay, but it is still stuck in the grooves of my knuckles as I write this out hours later.  Such are the costs of superb artistry.

The third room in this building housed a wood working shop, which was, unfortunately, not guided by the lovely Gladys.  Instead there was a clean cut man who looked like a priest named Brent, who illustrated the use of various planers you'd use to smooth out wood.  I was exhausted just hearing him explain it, and thought of all the tetnus you'd get from the endeavor.  The process was extensive, and you'd need to repeat it for every exposed wood piece in your home, include the entire floor.  Here, the activity was trying out various 18th century tools, the auger being the most popular.  People like boring holes in shit. 

Please do not powder your nose

Powder horns!  These babies, usually made from cow or buffalo horns, were used to carry gunpowder for your 18th century muskets.  The horns were naturally waterproof, and the metal tips were iron-free, meaning no accidental explosions.  People would decorate the horns, leaving an interesting record of the person who used it.  I like this one because it says "EDWARD SHERBURNE" with "his horn" under it, just so we knew it was indeed Edward Sherburne's horn, and not a horn named Edward Sherburne.  It's weird that they included that clarification, because if the horn's name was engraved on it, it would've obviously been "EDWARD SHERHORN."  

The dude on the ceramic bowl has had enough liberty, and by liberty I mean booze, because he is seriously cross eyed.  Below him is a super scary set of door knockers, which will haunt your dreams.

Nice Ash!

 This building right here is the Flynt Center of Early New England Life.  Its special exhibitions include the Helen Geier Flynt Textile Gallery, a wood and furniture gallery, an "attic" with all sorts of artifacts from 18th and 19th century Deerfield life, and a powder horn collection.  First things first.

So as you can see in the lower right hand corner of the first picture, there is a big lawn in front of the museum.  Instead of walking along the path, which would've taken twice as long, I goaded Lizzie into following me and cutting across the lawn.  I jokingly talked about how Danielle, whom you'll recall from real life or from the Vegas post, never walks over grass--she always uses the walking paths.  Anyway, we went into the museum, first into the wood and furniture gallery, which is set off from the main lobby.  We were admiring the tea tables, and this fabulous tapestry of a sawmill that looks like it's vomiting up planks (BLLEEAAURRGGHHHH) when a museum supervisor came into the room, and started trailing us.  Is it because we walked on the grass?  Did he know we were ruffians?  We milled about (HA HA) commenting, maturely, as we do on things like "crotch grain wood" (crotch wood is the wood below the "y" of the trunk, which is supposed to have a lot of figured grain.  Thanks, internet!) and how unattractive the portraits of the early settlers were, etc, etc., mostly for the benefit of our shadow.  Having had our fill of wood (!) we went over to the textiles gallery, which is also in a separate space.  We waited patiently for the museum employee to follow us, and he did, about a minute later.  He was

 trying so hard to make it seem like he wasn't tailing us, and it was really sad/endearing.  I almost feel bad that we didn't give him any reason to yell at us, because I bet he loves doing that.  Despite my desire to put on this fabulous French-court dress, I refrained, fearing that the panniers (the big baskets on the hips) would catch on the door frame, hindering my escape.  The clothing, for the most part, was exceedingly tiny, which makes sense when you are literally working your ass off.

Lizzie and I then went up to the attic, and sadly, since everything upstairs was in glass cases, our friend stayed behind.  Please note that as we were leaving the building, a large group of older women went in the textile gallery and WERE NOT FOLLOWED by the guard.  Old ladies are forever stealing shit and putting it in their purses.  Those gals probably treated the gallery like the muffin bar at the Old Country buffet--grab those shoes, roll 'em up in a napkin and shove 'em in your pocket, Effie! It's part of the entrance fee!

A smurf in time saves nine

Lizzie is standing in front of the smurf-blue Wells-Thorn house, which is a interior furnishings time machine, illustrating changes from 1725ish to 1850ish, if you are into that sort of thing.  I, on the other hand, was obsessed with the disgusting, desiccating pumpkins in the second picture, illustrating changes in freshness from October 2012 to December 2012.  What?  Why?  How?  Seriously--get a wheelbarrow and dump those bastards in the woods and let the bunnies and squirrels get drunk of the fermented fruit.  Why is it rotting on your stairs and front lawn?  Why?  No, seriously--get rid of them, it's really bothering me. 

Is that a sugarloaf in your pocket, or...

 Hi!  Your friends here at States of Snark decided it was high time for another adventure, and so Lizzie and I took a trip to a place few folks from Eastern Mass dare to go--WEST OF WORCESTER!  Lizzie wisely chose Deerfield as our destination, and wouldn't you know it, we saw both deer, and fields!  It took us about two hours to get out to Deerfield, so our first stop was the restrooms.  YAY!

Deerfield is about 30 minutes north of Springfield, and was originally home to the Pocumtuck nation.  The English settlers came in 1673, forcibly expelling the native people who hadn't already been

killed by the Mohawk people.  The Pocumtuck sought help from the French up in Canada, and as you can imagine, things only got better for everyone involved.  During Queen Anne's war (1704), Deerfield was razed by a French/Native American contingent, with 56 people being killed, and 112 being (forcibly) marched up to Canada (in February).  The colonists who survived the march were eventually ransomed by the communities surrounding Deerfield, but not everyone bothered making the return trip home.  Eventually, the frontier was pushed north (though many Bostonians would still consider Deerfield the frontier) and the little town prospered, and in the late 19th century, the townspeople preserved the historic downtown, to attract annoying visitors such as Lizzie and myself. The downtown is about a mile stretch, with lots of 18th- and 19th century houses lining the way, many of which are, or house museums.

After availing ourselves of the restrooms, (politely, unlike the horses who just crapped in the road like animals or something) we went to the visitors' center, where a series of gingerbread houses led us to an old-school cooking demonstration, conducted by a lady who looked like she was from the late 19th century.  She was making cookies, and showed us her biscuit cooker, which was a little metal box you'd put in front of the fire to burn your hands bake said cookies, as well as her cooking supplies: a sugar loaf  after which the mountain is named (though the mountain is far less delicious) and the various spices she was using that had to be ground by hand with a deadly looking grater. My cookies would've been 100% knuckle skin.  She showed us a fruit cake she had made, which was missing some pieces, and said "this is for special occasions" before putting it back.  Apparently Lizzie and I are not a "special occasion," though I would beg to differ.  Having sat through the demonstration with no cookies to show for it, and unable to pocket a sugar loaf, Lizzie and I struck off to learn all of the things.