Trout Grave

The first time I attended a Mashpee town meeting (sitting on my mother’s knee) was at least sixty years ago.  In those days, election and town meeting were taken care of in one day.  That was a time when the total town budget was less than the town’s highest salary today.  But this is not about town politics or budgets, but about chowder.  My best memories of election and town meeting day was the chowder served, a savory blend of quahogs, onions, salt pork, and potatoes, eaten with a handful of crunched up crackers.  There were always cans of Carnation milk on the tables for those who wanted to add it, but I never did.  I loved my briny chowder then, and I still do.

What I don’t care for is the viscous, gloppy, sea clam based offerings in Cape Cod restaurants today.  Somehow the term “creamy’ has been adopted as a desirable attribute of chowder, but that is just flour thickener.  Traditional chowders have sometimes used a little thickener, but often the potatoes provided all the body needed.  Call me old fashioned, but I don’t think you should be able to stand up a spoon in your chowder.  That being said, many of these chowders are tasty, even if of an unlovely texture, particularly if they are made from quahogs.

Chowder is a traditional food of the poorer classes.  A peck of quahogs from the bay, a few potatoes and a large onion from the garden, and a piece of salt pork, some canned milk, and a bag of “common crackers*” from the store would make a tasty and filling meal.  No seasonings, except maybe some pepper and a dot of butter, were necessary.  There are still people making chowder this way, but I fear that their passing, and mine, will deprive future generations of the genuine article.  So, if anyone reads, and heeds my words here today, beg, borrow, or steal a recipe and make some chowdah!

Some things, like love, good times, and chowder, should never change.

* Not so common any more, and expensive.  Here is a 12 oz. bag for $6.59!

If I were to be asked about the happiest times of my life, at least those that I can describe here, it would have to be the late fifties here in Mashpee.  In those days before summer jobs and raging hormones there was a time of freedom not known this side of the Pearly Gates.  School’s out to Labor Day for an eleven year-old was like a ten week, unsupervised summer camp, at least for the boys.  Though the bulk of our time was spent at the Pond, that is, Attaquin Park, Santuit Pond and the surrounding area were a great source of fun.

Algal bloom on Santuit Pond

Santuit Pond was never the first choice for swimming, being shallow with a false bottom, but it was tops for accessibility to fishing.  Yellow perch, white perch, pickerel, and bass could all be caught from the shore, though the bass were much easier to take from a boat.  The fishing there is still top-notch, but I am not a catch and release fisherman, and I am a little leery of eating fish that come out of that water as it is today.

Santuit River at theFarm

Seepage from septic systems and runoff from lawns have encouraged the growth of algal blooms that threaten to destroy Santuit pond.  Even in the winter the water is quite murky, with algae growing on the gravelly bottom in shallow areas.  I discovered this when I decided to get out and see the places I’m talking about.  My first stop actually was the Santuit River, which has its origin at the dam at Trout Grave.

I drove down to the little bridge next to the Horse Farm on Sampson’s Mill Road, where the river forms the town line between Mashpee and Barnstable.  This was the terminus of my trout fishing expeditions that started at the concrete flume on Factory road, where I waded the length of the river between those two points catching 7″-10″ pan sized brookies with worms and wet flies.  The river was never more than chest deep.  It was clean though, unlike today.

It occured to me that this was the same murky water from Santuit Pond that I saw at the fisherman’s landing, flowing down the river and probably being further polluted along the way.  A trip farther down the river to the head of Shoestring Bay was no less disappointing.  There the river widens into an upper estuarine environment that feeds into Popponessett Bay, along with Mashpee River and Quaker Run.  Those are another story.

Santuit River from the Quinaquissett Avenue bridge

I guess it’s impossible to turn the calendar back fifty years, but I have hope that something can be done to improve the situation. Making people aware that the problem actually ranges beyond just the pond and its neighbors, but affects the whole Santuit River to Popponessett Bay corridor, and two towns, may be the start.

You can visit Friends of Santuit Pond for more information.  The Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe’s Natural Resources Department and the Town of Mashpee are also involved.

Lack of regulation of houses close to the pond and their septic systems are partly to blame.

After a period of rebuilding, our friends over at Reelwamps are back up with content.  Expect the usual sometimes humorous, sometimes abrasive, but always informative posts on Tribal politics and personalities.  And, of course, come here for news, culture, nature, and the usual snarky comments from the Greater Santuit Pond area.

Those were the words of Judge Michael Creedon when 15 geriatric former drug users were paraded before him for arraignment. Only two of the prisoners were under forty, and two were over 60.  Though some seemed hardly able to negotiate the steps to the lockup, they were in manacles and leg irons, as if any had the strength or will to attempt escape.

The “major” drug bust that is plastered all over the regional press had two components: first was the arrest of twelve drug dealers, people who peddle poison to the weak, and deserve to be in prison, and the other fifteen, most if not all former addicts who were taken in because they had once called one of the dealers.  We can all cheer for the first, but why the second?

What I hear is: 1) the warrants may have been about to expire.  2) Unpopular DA O’Keefe may need a distraction from his dismal record thus far.  3) The former users were thought to be active users and would begin to “rat out” the dealers as soon as they started “Jonesing,” as they used to say, having withdrawal symptoms.  I think the latter may be the truth, because the agents reportedly offered “puke buckets” to the prisoners, yet none accepted them.

In fact, instead of withdrawal symptoms, there was at least one asthma attack, a problem with a man who had just had angioplasty, and diabetic problems.  One man was reported to have left in an ambulance.  And to top it all off, DA O’Keefe didn’t show his face at the brag session, but sent an assistant.

Not only was a man not on the warrant list seriously injured by federal agents who wrongfully kicked in his door, but at least one warrant was served at the wrong address.

I’m all for getting drug dealers off the street, but this is ridiculous.  Mr. O’Keefe, withdraw these charges!

*  *  *

Update: I get it from very reliable sources that the federal agents involved in the big takedown were set up and practicing behind Zachary’s in Mashpee, you know, the nude dance bar.  I wonder if Richard, the establishment’s owner, has any, let’s say, relationship with feds. And, did the feds partake in the entertainment at Zachary’s?

I took this picture in the Coombs family cemetery on Main St. in Mashpee, not far from the Trout Grave. Deacon Isaac Coombs was one of the patriarchs of the Coombs (Hiacoomes, Frye, Mills, etc.) family, and, as you can see by the date of death and his age, he lived a very long time for a man born before the  American Revolution.  You have to wonder.  In 1850,  near the time of his death, the average life expectancy at birth for all males in Massachusetts was only 38 years.

Life was full of snares for any young child, and the cure for most diseases was death, or a constitution strong enough to defeat whatever fever or other ailment came along.  Our Wampanoag ancestors were strong by necessity and by centuries of the rigors of life weeding out the weak and unfit.  Today we have modern medicine.  Few die at birth, and there are vaccines and drugs for just about everything.  Yet we die.

Old people die.  If you make your three-score-and-ten, you are lucky, or smart, and every day is a blessing.  What pierces my soul is the loss of so many young people, whether from accident, sickness, or lifestyle.  Our recent losses of Alice Lopez and Laurie Green  come to mind.  I have lost so many of my contemporaries that I fear that my old age will be spent with strangers rather than friends who may share my recollections.  I have no answers, only questions.

Why did Isaac Coombs live so long?  Was it his Christian faith?  Did he eat a natural and healthy diet?  Did he abstain from Demon Rum?  Or did he just inherit a gene for longevity?  I go to his grave and wonder, but he does not answer.

From the Bristol County Registry of Deeds

Times are tough.  Those of us living on fixed incomes know all too well how things work in a recession.  Sometimes you have to cut back; pasta, rice, beans, and eggs can help.  No movies, steaks, whiskey, porn, cruises, boutique anything–you know the drill–and a sensible approach to spending can save the day. Some people never learn.

Just take a look at this document from the Bristol County Registry of Deeds.  It looks like Cedric Cromwell, chairman of the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Council, defaulted on a loan from Household Finance Corporation, a lender for the desperate.  I guess Ced put up his house in Attleborough as collateral.

Second page, 1/11/2011

One would think, don’t you agree, that Ced, who makes well north of $120,000 a year, not to mention what his wife Cheryl makes, would be able to find a way to stave off this kind of action with the stroke of a pen, especially since he has had almost two years to take care of this?  If this is how he runs his personal affairs, how then does he run our corporate affairs?  Be afraid, be very, very, afraid.  Our ship may be sinking while the band plays on.

Click on images to enlarge.

Mr. Annawon Weeden

Here he is again, Mashpee’s own Annawon Weeden, son of Pat Weeden, quite a beauty queen in her day.  Go on over to Native Entertainment Magazine and vote for him if you want him to be named the “Sexiest Native Male of 2011.”  You have to “like” the page to be able to vote, then go here to cast your vote.  Time is short.

Back when the Tribe was being well-run, we bought a retired Mashpee Police Department detective car at auction from the Town of Mashpee.  Sadly, it no longer serves as a vehicle for taking elders to doctor appointments and such, but is no longer, totaled.  How did this happen?

Well, it seems, from what I hear, that Cheryl Frye Cromwell, Ced’s wife, decided that it should not be used for its intended purpose, but for her own purposes.  The subject of the last Tribal Council meeting’s executive session was to remove Cheryl from the Council for having an accident while improperly using the car.  The move fell one vote shore according to my sources.

What is most disturbing is that I hear that Cheryl was actually covering for her daughter, who actually had possession of the vehicle.  Who’s in charge here?  Did Cedric vote on this matter?  Why didn’t Cheryl let her daughter use her new Lexus?

But I don’t know anybody who went—and enjoyed it.  Really, not even a few words in any of the local papers, nor a picture has appeared.  What gives?

Peter "Gadfly" Kenney

Do you remember this guy?  He was a blogger on the Cape Cod Today site, and played a major role in the turbulent days before and just after the 2009 Tribal election.  Memories tend to be short, but in the coming days, I intend to recall for you exactly what he was up to, and who his co-conspirators were.  You may need a scorecard to be able to follow, but I will try to provide that.

Mister Kenney was a master of dis- and mis-information, as well as the tabloid brand of “journalism.”  Kenney has the nerve to call himself the “Great Gadfly,” the epithet that Plato used to refer to Socrates.  Well, Socrates he is not.  He does not even qualify as a hack journalist, but relies on his “scoop” of the Cape Cod Times in the matter of Glenn Marshall, and his reliance on certain members of the Tribe for  his information.  All the players in this game sold themselves as saving the Tribe from Glenn, but now you may be aware of the pitiful state of the Tribe under the “leadership” of the Cromwell administration.  Not quite what you bargained for, is it.

So stay tuned, this is going to be fun.  And really?  I don’t give a diaper load if you know who I am or not.  You know who YOU are.