We decided on a southern route instead, away from the strongest foliage, to the South Shore of Massachusetts. It was close enough to be within the comfort zone, and I had a good route of oddities mapped out for it. That’s also why we watched Witchery-or-whatever-it’s-called last night. That film site would be the endpoint on the map
This morning, though, Lindsey couldn’t take the misery of late-stage pregnancy on the road for any distance. She pushed me out the door to do the route by myself, while she and the kids enjoyed a more laid-back Saturday.
An hour and a half later I was on the Scituate shore, the ocean waves striking the beach like they were pissed at it, the thin horizontal line of an old lighthouse in the distance. My fears around the accessibility of the Witchery site were confirmed. It’s at the tip of a peninsula, most of the length of which is private. Judging by Google maps, it looks like maybe it’s subdivided into various properties connected by three quarters of a mile of road. On the ground, that area was blocked by a gate and some Private Property signage.
The gate was open, though, and I thought about using my New Hampshire license plates as an excuse for getting lost “looking for my AirBnB rental.” Although it would have been fun to talk about David Hasselhoff with a dumbfounded beach estate owner. Just wasn’t my day for trespassing, though, especially on a private beach community. Private beach people can get vicious.
A few minutes away, I found the grave of the author who popularized the phrase "Friday the 13th," Thomas Lawson. I’ve written about his tower before but had never visited his grave. It was as peaceful a plot as I’ve seen in a while and set in a quaint cemetery surrounded by a rock fence by a white church in a residential area. Way more welcoming than a private beach.
The house he lived in, which was built in 1637, still survives. It claims the honor of “oldest surviving timber-frame house in North America.” For some reason, I expected a private home, but it’s a house museum, one you have to join a tour to see. Which I would have, especially since Wikipedia told me, “There is evidence that some residents practiced folk magic in the house, including placing hex marks and various objects in the house to ward off witches and other evil spirits.” But my timing was such that it would be a 45-minute wait for a 50-minute tour.
After that, it was on to the ruins of Brook Farm, a mid-19th century utopian community that once boasted Nathaniel Hawthorne as a resident. Only one building remains, boarded up and awaiting some future restoration. While I was there, I met and had a nice chat a writer from Florida who was checking out sites for a manuscript she had just finished based on the area. I also met a woman who lived across the street and worked at the adjacent cemetery who warned me not to stick my head inside because it was full of pigeon poop and pigeon poop is poisonous.
