Part 1

Chapter 13,999 wordsPublic domain

CAPE-CODDITIES

CAPE CODDITIES

_By_ DENNIS and MARION CHATHAM

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_ HAROLD CUE

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 1920

_FOREWORD_

These essays—thumbnail sketches of Cape Cod—should not be taken as a serious attempt to describe the Cape or to delineate its people. They merely express a perennial enthusiasm for this summer holiday land, to-day the playground of thousands of Americans, three hundred years ago the first “land of the free and home of the brave.”

Acknowledgments are here given to the _Atlantic Monthly_ for permission to include “A By-Product of Conservation” and “Scallops,” to _The Outlook_ for the same courtesy for “A Blue Streak,” and to _The House Beautiful_ for “A Casual Dwelling-Place.”

THE AUTHORS.

_January, 1920._

_CONTENTS_

I. _A Message from the Past_ 1

II. _The Casual Dwelling-Place_ 10

III. _The Ubiquitous Clam_ 27

IV. _A By-Product of Conservation_ 38

V. _Motor Tyrannicus_ 51

VI. _“Change and Rest”—Summer Bargaining_ 69

VII. _A Blue Streak_ 87

VIII. _A Fresh-Water Cape_ 97

IX. _Al Fresco_ 112

X. _Models_ 122

XI. “_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_” 132

XII. _My Cape Farm_ 140

XIII. _Scallops_ 154

_Aftermath_ 166

_CAPE-CODDITIES_

A MESSAGE FROM THE PAST

Is it not strange that people who dwell in the same city block from October to May, enjoying with mutual satisfaction the life which touches them equally, should from May to October show such varying opinions that argument is futile? These people who have wintered so happily together may be placed in three classes—those who claim for the State of Maine the exclusive right to the title of “God’s Own Country,” those who think of the North Shore and Paradise as synonymous, and those other fortunates whose regard for Cape Cod places it second only to heaven itself.

Therefore, it is interesting to read the following passages and to find these same divergent views of the Cape in earliest times.

Captain John Smith in his account of New England in 1614, in a passing reference to Cape Cod, says it “is a headland of high hills of sand overgrown with shrubbie pines, hurts and such trash, but an excellent harbor for all weathers. This cape is made by the maine sea on one side and a great bay on the other, in the form of a sickle. On it doth inhabit the people of Pawmet and in the Bottome of the Bay, the people of Chawum.” Scant praise.

Bartholomew Gosnold, writing to Raleigh in 1602, through the medium of his associate, John Brereton, said, “We stood a while like men ravished at the beautie and delicacie of this sweet soil”; and later, “truly the holsomnese and temperature of this climat doth not only argue this people (Indian) to be answerable to this description, but also of a perfect constitution of body, active, strong, healthful and very wittie.”

Here spoke the original summer visitor and the founder of that colony which dots the coast from Marion to Manomet.

If Gosnold could see the Cape on the present day, he would doubtless show profound disappointment, unless he had chanced to invest in shore property, for the forests teeming with game have disappeared, and no trace of the wit he describes can be detected among the few Indians who still cling to the shores of Mashpee Pond. But the broad waters, the sloping sands, and above all the soft climate which Mr. Brereton tells us did so much for the aborigine, and which now transforms our children into veritable little red men, remain.

Despite the depredations which the Cape has suffered at the hands of both natives and summer residents, its flavor has been maintained, and the very fact that it is largely inhabited serves well in these days of friendly intercourse and indulgent habits; for we all of us must live happily in summer, and to do so means comfort, food, and drink. And so we find each town, however diminutive, possesses its Butcher and Baker and Candlestick-Maker.

The latter, to be sure, is employed by the local electric light plant, and often his trade includes a knowledge of simple plumbing. The Baker more often is both Postmaster and Grocer, while the Butcher may be found to be the Chairman of the Board of Selectmen. But all are true to the type, and that wit which Gosnold so happily mentions may often be detected among these simple people, some of whom are sea captains whose taciturnity has been transformed into a shrewd cynicism coupled not infrequently with a delightful optimism. Rarely will a native Cape-Codder get the worst of a repartee and still more rarely will you find him the first to terminate a conversation. He is as tenacious in conversational competition as he is lax in business aggression. In fact, he would far rather stand on the corner and describe to you, in detail, the amount of work that has been shouldered upon him by So and So and So and So’s wife, than to make the slightest attempt to accomplish any of the sundry duties imposed. And yet he knows, and so do you, if you are at all versed in Cape ways, that he will receive ample financial return for his slightest service.

There is no such word as hurry in the bright lexicon of Cape Cod, but I confess it with some trepidation, for my many Cape friends will take violent exception to my statement, true as it is. And yet I do not blame them. I believe it is thoroughly accounted for by the climate; for when I first visit the Cape in the spring or early summer, I always experience a languor which makes the slightest effort seem a task of large proportions. In short, I am lazy and prefer to see some one else do it. This feeling generally passes away with the sheer joy of vacation days, days of freedom and fresh air; but I realize that the climate breeds a lack of ambition, to which I doubtless would succumb were I to live on without interruption amid the Cape-Codders.

And therefore I prefer to think of the Cape as a playground for the initiate, a wonderland for children, and a haven of rest for the tired of all ages, a land where lines and wrinkles quickly disappear under the soothing softness of the tempered climate.

Joseph Lincoln has told us of the people; Thoreau has written of the place; but no one will really know the Cape unless he becomes a part of it.

THE CASUAL DWELLING-PLACE

Is there a reader who has not at one time or another gloated over the terrors, the thrills, and the mysteries which, in fiction, invariably lie hidden in an unoccupied house? When one stops to think of it nearly all the literature of roguery, as so clearly set forth in former days by Wilkie Collins, Gaboriau, down to Conan Doyle and Mary Roberts Rinehart, possesses as its most important stage-setting an untenanted mansion. It may be one of those familiar villas generally located somewhere near Hampstead Heath, a house set apart from its neighbors and surrounded by a hedge; a house with every appearance of having been closed for several years and now showing the first signs of decay; or it may be one of those somber brownstone houses situated in one of the many New York residential streets, where every house so closely resembles its fellows as to court mischief to all who may return late at night; or again, it may be one of those palatial country houses set among lawns and gardens which are invariably described with broad, magnificent porticoes toward which spotless limousines are continually approaching at top speed for no apparent reason. Such a setting is perhaps the commonest, and the time is always just before the family arrive for the season or just after they have left for other equally expensive quarters. Now and then the novelist will modestly cast the fate of his story in the seclusion of a deserted cottage by the sea or a lonely hut among the hills, but rarely does this occur nowadays. The mystery story is as dependent upon luxury of setting as is the modern bachelor upon his creature comforts. And, therefore, if the devotee of fiction chose to apply himself to this theme, he would find that nearly all novelists, great and small, from Dickens to Oppenheim, from Hawthorne to Anna Katharine Green, have utilized the empty house to bring about the climactic point in the weaving of some gruesome tale. So clear are these fictional features that, by the association of ideas, one’s fears and apprehensions are invariably aroused whenever the occasion arises when an unoccupied house or even an untenanted apartment must be entered.

With that unmistakable odor of mustiness comes afresh this uncomfortable sense of trepidation (hardly fear, perhaps), and with it a conviction that rats and mice are hidden spectators, and that the darkness and gloom could well hide crime as well as the thieves themselves. This entire mental state is largely caused by the aforesaid novelists, who I doubt not would have the same hesitancy in opening the door of a darkened chamber or in groping down the cellar stairs of a house long left to disintegration.

In short, reading has trained us all to regard empty houses with suspicion, an absurd state of mind which should be quickly dispelled, for in the case of nine out of every ten, yes, or ninety-nine out of every hundred houses, there is no cause whatever for suspicion.

There is a sunny little house on the shores of Buzzard’s Bay which remains unoccupied except for ten weeks in the summer. Its shutters are closed and fastened long before the oaks have turned to their gorgeous fall colorings or the marigolds and phlox have lost the freshness of their bloom.

The soft, salty breeze, rippling the waters, the dancing rays of the September sun through the swaying pines, give a joyous setting to this cottage by the water, courting as it were an occupant. The hardiest of that overworked class of readers who rely upon mystery stories would find it difficult to conjure up a tragedy for such a spot. The native Cape-Codders, knowing the owners, always glance over toward the cottage as they pass by in the hope of finding a blind open or a light through the trees, to show that some of “ther fam’ly be down for Sunday.” For this is one of the important services which this particular cottage renders to its owners. As the scion of the family (aged ten) once sagely remarked, “We use the cottage more when it’s closed than when it’s open.” And to each and every member of this house its welcome is always the same. The family reach the house after dark on a Saturday night. The lock readily responds to familiar fingers, the door creaks a friendly welcome as the family grope their way through the hall in good-humored rivalry to see which shall be the first to secure the box of matches always kept on the right-hand corner of the mantelpiece in the living-room for this emergency. Then, as the lamps are lighted, the old familiar objects appear precisely as they had been left, perhaps six months before, with a coating of dust, to be sure, but nothing which a few moments and a dustcloth could not remove; for dust in this region is little known. True, the chairs, or at least such of them as possess cushions, are shrouded in covers. The sofa is a bulging conglomeration of cushions, gathered from all hammocks and piazza furniture; but a few deft passes by the fairy godmother of this establishment, and presto, the cushions are distributed and the sofa offers a cozy retreat for the entire party. Otherwise the living-room is livable. A fire ready laid is only waiting for a match and a turn of the hand to open the flue. Such is a cottage by the sea if it has been planned and built as it should be, not alone for summer use, but also for spring and autumn holidays.

The little cottage in question is a very ancient affair. A long line of sturdy Cape-Codders dwelt in it, uncomfortably, for generations. It was not until a few years ago that it was entirely renovated, enlarged, and equipped for summer use. Much care and thought were given to its convenience, and it stands to-day as a model for perennial use as a casual habitation. But it has certain drawbacks; as, for instance, plaster. Such a cottage, to secure the maximum comfort with the minimum of expense, should be unplastered, and without a cellar so that the circulation of air will keep the house free from dampness. There should be a kerosene cooking-stove in the kitchen so that the cooking can be done without jeopardizing the water coil or boiler. Furthermore, unless one’s family and friends are experts in the culinary art, the usual stove fire is built regardless of the cost of coal or kindlings, and the fire itself is apt to take a good deal of time in the making, several trials often being necessary before the coals kindle into a respectable glow. The problem of water is perhaps the most troublesome. No house, of course, can be left with the water on during the winter season. These Cape cottages are no exception to the rule, and every pipe is carefully drained and the faucets greased to prevent rust.

To go to the trouble of turning on the water system for an occasional Sunday or holiday was manifestly out of the question, and so the owner of this particular cottage solved the difficulty in true backwoods fashion. A small stone tank, placed in the closet behind the stove, holding not over five gallons of water, was always religiously filled. This served as lubricant for a hand pump at the kitchen sink. One of the first duties in starting in housekeeping was to heat a pail of this water, thaw out the pump, and thus secure the supply which adequately filled the family needs for the day or two of camp life to be enjoyed.

You will ask what of bedding and blankets? They are there at hand. As a matter of fact, the less one puts away the better for each and every article. All blankets hung upon ropes stretched across the attic are dry and ready for use. Upon such occasions as the one noted, the family do without sheets and sleep fully as soundly. The blazing of the fire logs and the warmth of the living-room have given to all a drowsy feeling which defies wakefulness when once the head touches the pillow.

If any one should contemplate making use of his summer house in this fashion, there are certain suggestions which it would be well to follow; points which any yachtsman or camper would never overlook.

First of all, there should be a place for everything and everything should be in place. You can never tell when you will return. Perhaps you may be delayed and not arrive until after dark, chilled and hungry from a long motor ride. At such times a fire ready laid, with a good store of dried wood, is essential to happiness and comfort.

There should always be a list of provisions left at the house so that you may avoid duplication in purchasing supplies. Besides food, there should also be such necessaries as soap, matches, and candles. These should always be left in the boxes to prevent the mice and squirrels from robbing one. A good scheme is to build a zinc-lined cupboard in the pantry in which to keep such perishables.

Kerosene is dangerous to leave about, and it is well to bring this with you for the cook-stove; furthermore, it is hard to remember whether enough has been left at the house for twenty-four hours’ use.

Care should always be taken to leave the small water tank filled unless you plan to secure your supply from a friend or neighbor.

Your pots and pans, cutlery, dishes, and glasses should always be washed and put away in order before leaving, ready for instant use.

A little system will make all the difference in the world in the comfort and enjoyment of such an outing, and will save labor, so that your actual work will be done in much less time and the daylight hours can be given over to the outdoor life which endears the place to each and every member of your family.

Whether it be a canoe, a knockabout, a gun, or a fishing-line, the life outside the cottage will be a reflection of that within and your enjoyment will come from the facility with which you manage the essentials of simple living. And so after you have enjoyed your day in the open, you will return to the cottage and discover that the simple comforts which it offers, while perhaps lacking the luxury of your daily routine at home, will be enjoyed with a relish far beyond that existence in a brick block, amid a mass of bric-à-brac and surrounded by servants. In its place you will devour an unusual amount of food which tastes the better because you have cooked it, and later you will fall asleep with the wind singing in the trees, and the waves lapping the shores. The occasional barking of a dog will arouse no apprehension, and the dread of haunted houses, of mysterious deeds accomplished behind closed shutters, will have vanished until you are safe home again with a “thriller” to pass away the time before it is seasonable to retire.

III

THE UBIQUITOUS CLAM

“They scattered up & down ... by yᵉ waterside, wher they could find ground nuts and clams.” (William Bradford, _History of Plymouth Plantation_, II, 130.)

Surprising as it may seem, the clam, at least under his own name, does not appear in the Encyclopædia Britannica. And yet the clam is proverbial, metaphorical, and substantial, so substantial, in fact, that individuals of uncertain digestion have been rendered distinctly unhappy after a hearty encounter. But what is more surprising to the average person, and especially to the novice in clamming, is where all the clams come from for the unending clam-bakes, clam-chowders, and the various concoctions necessitating a generous supply of these silent shellfish. A journey to the beach at low tide (for all clammers know from the reference to that animal’s joyous spirit at high water that clamming is useless at that period) generally fails to accomplish more than a very lame back, muddy feet, and a paltry dozen or more specimens of the clam family, generally of immature age. The profusion of empty shells scattered about encourage the clammer into the belief that here, at least, is a favorable locality for his first efforts, and he grasps his fork and bends low, thrusting the implement into the black ooze with keen anticipation that the mud will disclose a whole family of clams, ready at hand for capture; but, instead, he is rewarded by finding a number of white shells, seemingly clams, but in reality merely their shells held closely together by mud and sand, the skeletons of former bivalves whose souls have fled to other worlds and whose bodies have long since disappeared the way of all flesh. And so he seeks another spot, and the same process is repeated. Each time he is conscious of an increasing stiffening of the back, recalling former twinges of lumbago, and after an hour or so the tide forces him to retreat, and he returns dejectedly to partake of a thin clam-broth, upon the top of which, as a consolation prize, his wife has tactfully placed a little whipped cream.

And yet the clam is ubiquitous, once you know him, and the clammer, himself, has been immortalized by Mr. William J. Hopkins in several delightful stories with which certain readers are familiar. The enthusiast soon learns their favorite haunts and on favorable tides he gathers these bivalves by the pailful. For chowders and for bait alike he digs, constructs a wire cage in which to keep his precious clams from day to day, and week to week, and thus they become, as it were, almost a part of his summer _entourage_.

The clam is a numerous family (_Mya arenaria_, were one to become scientific). The ordinary mud clam which inhabits the tidewater harbors of our coasts; the quahog, whose young, termed “little necks,” are served, uncooked, as appetizers; and the sea clam, are very familiar in appearance and habits; but all varieties are secured in different ways and in varying localities, and therein lies an added charm to the pastime of clam-digging.

There is a certain portion of the coast line in a very attractive section of Cape Cod, which shall be nameless, where all varieties of these mollusks abound, and it is difficult at times to decide which variety to pursue. The ordinary mud clam is generally sought on the especially low tides so kindly afforded by the moon at stated intervals. It is then that the tide line resembles miniature trenches—first-line defenses, if you will—so many and so persistent are the pursuers, who look for all the world as if they were digging themselves in in anticipation of a machine-gun attack.

The quahog is more secure, for he lives in No Man’s Land, beyond the trenches and just under the surface of the mud. If one is walking up a salty, muddy creek—and surprising as the fact may seem, one often does follow this watery by-path—the foot will continue to disclose these big fellows. In the course of an hour of this method of locomotion, a full pail of quahogs may be secured without further discomfort than a pair of wet legs and two very muddy feet. The fishermen, however, regard such efforts as time lost. They manipulate two long-handled rakes bound together at the bottom, and with this implement a sort of hand-dredging process is performed which apparently yields better results. But it is only the native fisherman, with his knowledge of tides and currents, of sandy or muddy bottoms, of channels and shoals, who can successfully locate the choice spots where these quahogs lie hidden beneath water, seaweed, and mud.

The sea clam is as immaculately clean as his harbor cousin is muddy. He is likewise found just beneath the surface of the water, buried in firm white sand over which the white-crested breakers foam on the beach. These clams are not greatly valued as food. They are gamy and tough in comparison to their brethren and a sharp contrast in appearance, with their delicate, smooth shell of an exquisite _café au lait_ color, and it is for this reason, perhaps, that only the most enthusiastic of clammers or fishermen after bait know of their whereabouts.

Along the beaches where thousands of Americans may be seen in impressionistic attire, disporting themselves by bobbing up and down in the waves, one could easily secure a pailful of these fascinating creatures by wading out and groping in the sands. No more exhilarating pleasure can be secured from surf bathing than in this pastime, which calls for agility in dodging the breakers as they roll in. While you are in the act of dislodging a fine fat specimen, your pail grasped in one hand, the other embedded in the sand seeking your prey, your body is swept first in, then out, by the waves. In order to regain your balance you lose your hold, just escape being toppled over by the next wave rushing toward its finish on the sands, and miss the clam; and so the process begins all over again.

The “little necks” have their own places of abode close to the surface of the mud in sequestered inlets. Now and again the plebeian clammer will come across a stray family of little fellows while in quest of the common variety, but as a pastime digging for “little necks” has but little zest.