Colonial Coffee

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

Pewter Coffee Pot

It was a dark and stormy afternoon…and my foggy brain craved some coffee before starting this blog post. I knew my mind could use a hefty dose of caffeine to get the wheels of creativity turning.

It was just yesterday, when I was measuring the rich brown grounds into my French press, that a thought occurred to me. When exactly did coffee come to America? I knew that tea had been the most popular beverage in the colonies up until the Tea Party in Boston—a rebellion that sent cases of tea leaves floating in the murky harbor. But what about coffee?

The answer may surprise you as much as it did me. Coffee, tea, and chocolate all arrived in the American colonies at about the same time in the late 17th century.

Coffee originated in the Arab countries but live plants were transported to greenhouses in Holland in 1616. From there, the Dutch began to grow this popular bean in India and Java (now called Indonesia). Within a few years, the Dutch were the main suppliers of coffee to Europe.

According to the International Coffee Organization, the first European coffeehouse opened in Venice in 1683. It was called Caffe Florian in Piazza San Marco and it is still open for business today! And Lloyd’s of London—the largest insurance market in the world? It also started out as a coffee house.

Metal and China Coffee Pots

Now, the Holland connection brings up another interesting tidbit from my research. A mortar and pestle for “braying” coffee beans into powder was brought over on the Mayflower in 1620 by William and Susanna White (two of the passengers). The emigrants onboard the Mayflower had resided in Holland for a time before leaving for the New World. Thus, the first coffee may have arrived with the first colonists arriving at Plymouth, although there was no record of the beans actually carried as cargo onboard.

The first literary reference to coffee consumption in North America is from 1668, when coffee houses were established in New York, Philadelphia, Boston and other cities. Often these coffee houses also served other beverages such as tea, ale and cider.

In 1773, the coffee house known as the Green Dragon, became the location where enraged colonists planned the Boston Tea Party to protest British taxes on tea. I imagine lots more coffee than tea was served there after that date.

A reference to coffee and tea is found in Shirley Glubock’s Home and Child Life in Colonial Days:

“In 1670, a Boston woman was licensed to sell coffee and chocolate, and soon coffee houses were established there. Some did not know how to cook coffee any more than tea, but boiled the whole coffee beans in water, ate them, and drank the liquid; and naturally this was not very good either to eat or drink.

At the time of the Stamp Act, when patriotic Americans threw the tea into Boston Harbor, Americans were just as great tea drinkers as the English. Coffee-drinking, first acquired in the Revolution, has also descended from generation to generation, and we now drink more coffee than tea. This is one of the differences in our daily life caused by the Revolution.”

Johnson Brothers Coffee Pot

Just one of the many differences, indeed.

My favorite excerpt about coffee and the American Revolution was an incident recorded by Abigail Adams in 1778, and quoted in Revolutionary Mothers by Carol Berkin:

“An eminent, wealthy, stingy merchant (also a bachelor) had a hogshead of coffee in his store, which he refused to sell…under six shillings per pound. A number of females, some say a hundred, some say more, assembled with a cart and trunks, marched down to the Warehouse and demanded the keys which he refused to deliver. Upon which one of them seized him by his neck and tossed him into the cart. Upon his finding no quarter, he delivered the keys when they tipped up the cart and discharged him; then opened the Warehouse, hoisted out the coffee themselves, put it into the trunks and drove off…a large concourse of men stood amazed silent spectators.”

Wow. I guess the moral of that tale, is never stand between a woman and her coffee—especially during a Revolution!

(Pewter Coffee Pot from ColonialSense.com)

Jason Russell, American Patriot

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

When I was a child, I walked by the Jason Russell House on my way to school in Arlington, Massachusetts. Looking at the empty two-story dwelling, I somehow could feel its history—and its fear.

“There’s still blood on the floor in there,” my brother had told me.

Blood? I quivered at the thought.

I felt as vulnerable as Scout in “To Kill a Mockingbird” when her brother and Dill, the curious friend visiting from out of town, discussed Boo Radley, a mentally-challenged neighbor who they feared.

I viewed that dwelling in a whole new light when I learned that people had died there in the American Revolution.

And though my brother/sister conversation gave me the creeps, it also instilled in me a fascination for the war that birthed our nation. History had come alive for me while on my way to the classroom.

The story of my hometown of Arlington is often swallowed up in the historical accounts of the Revolution. The focus has always been on the “shot heard round the world” and the initial battles in Lexington and Concord on April 19, 1775.

One of the reasons that Arlington has not received as much acknowledgement on that first day of the war was that it went by a different name in 1775. It was known as Menotomy, from an Indian word for “swift running water.”

Situated between Boston and Concord, Menotomy Village was actually called “the bloodiest half mile of all the battle road.” More redcoats and patriots were killed or wounded there on April 19 than in all the other towns combined. This occurred when the British troops were marching back to Boston after the skirmishes at Lexington and Concord.

The Jason Russell House stands as a living memorial to those who died there that day.

Russell was a 59-year-old farmer, loyal to the cause of freedom. He owned a large farm—120 acres—right on Concord Road, the path upon which the British troops journeyed. Prior to the battles, Paul Revere and William Dawes both rode by Russell’s house on their way to warn the Minutemen.

When the Redcoats retreated from Lexington, word reached the villagers in Menotomy that the enemy was coming. Russell sent his wife and children to a neighbors’ house for safety.

It became a brutal battle.

A group of rebel Americans running from the British regulars sought refuge in Russell’s house where they could make a stand against the Redcoats. Russell, who had a lame foot, was the last to reach his doorway and was wounded by British bullets. He was bayoneted numerous times. Several other Americans were wounded.

Eight survivors ran into the cellar and shot and killed the first two regulars to come after them. The battle went on, to the Russell orchard and beyond.

In Victor Brooks’ The Boston Campaign April 1775 to March 1776, he describes the horrible scene:

“The ‘battle of Menotomy’ became the most brutal engagement of the day as house-to-house and room-to-room fighting resulted in Regulars and militiamen clubbing and bayoneting one another, pistols flashing, men swinging tomahawks and hunting knives and dozens of casualties on each side.”

Wow. No wonder my brother claimed there was still blood on the floor of the Jason Russell house. Even if it was not still visible, surely the floorboards echoed the carnage.

There still are several holes from musket balls visible in the house today.

Jason Russell was buried nearby his home, in the Old Burying Ground. His inscription reads:

“Jason Russell was barbarously murdered in his own house by Gage’s bloody troops on the 19th of April, 1775. Age 59. His body is quietly resting in this grave with eleven of our friends who in like manner with many others were cruelly slain on that fateful day. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”

In 1923, the Jason Russell house on the corner of Jason St. and Massachusetts Avenue was acquired by the Arlington Historical Society and restored. In 1974, it was added to the National Registry of Historic Places. Tours of the home are still given and a museum has been added.

I think I should go back there for a visit. I’ll be looking closely at the floorboards for any blood stains.

For more information on the battle and the Jason Russell House, visit:

http://www.arlingtonhistorical.org/battle.php

Colonial American Motels

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

Some kinds of research can be just plain fun.

For instance, who knew that in place of a chain of motels in the 1700’s, travelers stayed in taverns? Of course, there were no restaurant chains; folks stopped in designated homes called “ordinaries” for quick sustenance while on the road. These accommodations were usually strewn across the countryside every few miles—at least in the more settled areas. If it was frontier, well, better get out the musket to shoot some dinner.

While taverns provided alcoholic beverages, they were also licensed by law to serve not just suitable beds for travelers, but also feed for their horses or oxen.

Food such as roast beef, leg of mutton, ham and cabbage, or perhaps a “fat fowl” were some of the dinners available to guests. Drinks were ale, wine and cider, but drunkenness was frowned upon and cause for a fine.

Most colonials never drank water as it was usually not clean and was known to cause illness. Boiling would have cured that problem but knowledge of bacteria and other microscopic troublemakers was unknown. Folks just knew the water made them sick.

Tavern keepers were usually citizens of good character with a good reputation in their community. Many were magistrates, politicians, or officers in the militia.

Colonial taverns were typically two story buildings with one large main room on the first floor and several smaller rooms for lodgers on the second. Besides offering hospitality to travelers however, these establishments were the main social center of a town. Business meetings were conducted here as well as militia meetings to muster men for the army just in case (let us suppose) they wanted to fight for freedom from England. Just supposing, of course.

One such tavern (still in existence as a historical landmark) is the Keeler Tavern in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Owned by a well-known patriot in the 1770’s named Timothy Keeler, there was suspicion that musket balls for the Continental Army were being manufactured in the tavern basement. In 1777, the British decided to assault the building by firing a few cannon balls, one of which put a large hole in the north wall. Another shot barely missed a patron ascending the tavern stairs. It frightened the poor man so much that it is said he screamed, “I’m a dead man, I’m a dead man!” until his friends convinced him otherwise. The landlord’s son, Jeremiah Keeler joined the Continental Army at age 17, and the story goes that the young sergeant was the first to scale the British redoubt at Yorktown in that decided victory against England.

Colonial American history is so fascinating!

What is truly fun about researching for fiction, is then translating these historical facts into a story. Here is an excerpt from The Promise of Deer Run that developed from the information I gleaned about traveling in the 1700’s:

The afternoon sleigh ride seemed endless. Mile after mile, forests of chestnuts, oaks, and maples lined the roadway. Occasionally an open field widened the landscape and a few deer in the meadows would scurry away at the sound of their sleigh. Dusk was nearing, and Nathaniel prodded Babe to drive a little faster. They had already traveled a total of thirty miles or more and were trying tor each a town called Brookfield before dark. At last Nathaniel caught sight of a two-story house with a sign in front.
“There! There’s the tavern, Sarah.”
The exhausted young woman peeked out from beneath the quilts.
“It could not have come any too soon.” Sarah sat up, her face twisting in pain. “I feel so stiff and sore.”
They both read the wooden sign out front:

Drink for the thirsty
Food for the hungry
Lodging for the weary
And good keeping for horses

Nathaniel grinned at Sarah.
“I’m certain Babe will be relieved at the ‘keeping for horses.’” He jumped out of the sleigh, the prospect of warmth and rest invigorating his limbs. “Let us get you inside first.” He carefully helped her out of the sleigh and hurried her inside out of the cold. A blast of warmth and pulsating light from the large hearth inside greeted the travelers.
The tavern keeper was pouring ale for a customer. When he looked up and saw the couple a look of concern swept across his face.
“Needin’ a midwife, are ye?”
“No sir…not yet. But we do need lodging for the night.”
“That I can provide. But birthin’? Not part of my hospitality, sir.”

Photo above: Keeler Tavern, Ridgefield, CT

In celebration of The Promise of Deer Run winning Best Romance at the 2012 Los Angeles Book Festival, I will be offering a free book giveaway to one of today’s commenters! Leave a comment with your E-mail address and I will enter you in a drawing!

Sunday Book Review: Daughter of Liberty by J.M. Hochstetler

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

As a lover of historical inspirational romance, Daughter of Liberty held me captive with its charming characters and daring adventures. And as a lover of the history of the American Revolution, this same book thoroughly swept me away. The author, J. M. Hochstetler, is an expert in every detail of the era. She describes in depth the events leading up to the start of the Revolution and she well portrayed the pain of families and friends divided in their loyalties between following the laws of the King of England vs. the outcry of the Patriots demanding freedom from oppression.

It is a heart-rending time as seen through the eyes of a young Patriot woman acting as a spy for the rebel cause. In her intrigue, she is suddenly caught in a personal dilemma she had never anticipated: Being attracted to a British officer who thinks she is loyal to England. Events begin to spin out of control—as do the young woman’s emotions—as she is torn between betraying the British and betraying her heart.

The characters are endearing and realistic, but it is the events of the era that take center stage in this highly dramatic novel that will leave you turning each page with anticipation.

Looking forward to the sequel (Native Son which re-releases May 1, 2012)

(Daughter of Liberty is Book 1 in The American Patriot Series)

I give Daughter of Liberty: 5 out of 5 Reflections

An award-winning author and editor, J. M. Hochstetler is the daughter of Mennonite farmers, a graduate of Indiana University, and a lifelong student of history. She is the author of the critically acclaimed American Patriot Series set during the American Revolution. Her contemporary novel One Holy Night was the Christian Small Publishers 2009 Book of the Year and finalist for the American Christian Fiction Writers 2009 Carol Award. She lives with her husband in the Nashville, Tennessee, area.

www.theamericanpatriotseries.com; www.jmhochstetler.com;americanpatriotseries.blogspot.com

Daughter of Liberty (The American Patriot Series, Book 1)

Sabbaday House

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

Sabbath Day House, Billerica, MA Photo by John Phelan

While researching for my latest historical novel, my husband got very excited when I told him about Sabbaday Houses. Otherwise known as “Sabbath Day Houses”, these small buildings located near meetinghouses were used as a “warming place” for attendees of Sabbath service in Colonial America.

When I told hubby that they included a bed inside, you could see the wheels turning in his head. Envisioning a napping spot for the church that we go to, he thought he could occasionally catch a few winks of slumber when he’s extra tired.

Before he decided to speak to our own Pastor about the possibility of building one next to our church, I explained to him that services at the meetinghouse in the 1700’s lasted all day and the buildings that they met in were unheated. They could get so cold that communion wine and baptismal water were known to freeze. (Yikes!) My husband reluctantly dropped the thought, grateful that our building to worship in is heated through the winter!

I first heard about Sabbaday Houses in an excerpt from Eric Sloane’s American Yesterday:

“Sabbath Day houses…were little buildings put up at a respectful distance from the church and equipped with stools and blankets. Fireplaces were built in the center. A caretaker or servant was left in charge to keep the fires going and coals were continually carried into the church pews to replenish the footstoves there. When churchgoers were unbearably cold, they went out during intervals of the service and warmed themselves in these Sabbath Day houses.”

Sloan drew a wonderful sketch of a modest building with two doors, a central fireplace to serve the divided rooms, and a bed inside each room to recline upon. One door was designated for men, the other for women.

A modern reader might wonder why the church buildings were not heated, but the danger of fire was high because these were all wooden buildings. If a fire broke out in a small wooden Sabbaday House, the loss would be less severe for the community that treasured its place of worship.

An excerpt from “Chronicles of America” website explains much about the values of the townspeople:

“The journey to meeting was frequently an arduous undertaking for those living in the outlying parts of a township, as they sometimes were obliged to cross mountains and rivers in order to be present. From distant points the farmers drove to meeting, bringing their wives and children and prepared to spend the day. In summer they brought their own dinners with them; in winter they found refuge in the “Sabba’ day” houses or were entertained at the fireside of friends who lived near the meetinghouse. The gathering of the townspeople at meeting was a social as well as a religious event, for friends had an opportunity for greeting each other, and the farmers exchanged news and talked crops during the noon hour, in the shade of the building, under the wagon sheds where the horses were tied, or sitting on the tombstones in the burying ground near by, while their wives and daughters gossiped in the porch or even in the pews, for in New England no one looked upon the meetinghouse as merely a sacred place.”

The meetinghouse was a place to gather for Biblical instruction, fellowship, and worship. And with the addition of the Sabbaday houses, a place to keep warm enough to survive the brutally cold winters.

There are few existing Sabbaday houses left that I was able to find. The one pictured above from Billerica, Massachusetts was listed on the National Registry of Historic places in 1973. It appears (to me anyway) that the original size was likely added to through the years.

Though the Sabbaday house has a small place in history, it’s a reminder of the value that our forebears gave to Christian worship services. Their faith was important enough to our ancestors that they were willing to sit and nearly freeze in order to gather for worship.

We, in modern America, are blessed.

http://www.chroniclesofamerica.com/colonial_folkways/cure_of_souls.htm

Photo courtesy of John Phelan, with permission of Commons Attribution; http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Amazon.com: American Yesterday (Americana) (9780486427607): Eric Sloane: Books

A Humbling Thing Happened…

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

The notorious "Stinky Sweater"

I love to find humor in odd places and situations—such as, winning an award and traveling to receive it.

All packed and ready for my trip to Los Angeles to receive Best Romance award for my novel The Promise of Deer Run at the LA Book Festival, my wardrobe only lacked one item: My favorite cotton purple sweater. Now there’s a smart thing to wear in much-warmer Southern California. No problem—except I had left the sweater at a radio station where I had been interviewed months before.

Arranging for hubby to pick up the sweater the night before I left on his way home from work, I gratefully grabbed my garment and took a quick look. Appeared to be nice and clean. What I had forgotten was that my husband had taken the dog to the groomer in his car a few weeks prior. Apparently our Corgi was, shall we say, odorific.

Everything went pretty well, until I reached my connection in Minneapolis. Rushing from one end of the airport to another to catch my next flight, I sank gratefully into the chair, warmed all over by the quick pace. Suddenly I smelled something.

Did I forget my deodorant? I panicked. A quick run to the restroom assured me I had not. But a sniff test on the purple sweater told me the source. It stunk like a dog.

Doing my best to decrease my body heat—the warmer I was, the more it smelled—I smothered scented hand cream on my hands and arms.

Maybe that will cover it up.

It was time to board and the smiling airline rep that took my boarding pass heard a special sound on her machine. “Oh! You’ve been upgraded to First Class,” she said in her most cheerful voice.

Great. Now I get to stink up first class. “Thanks,” I replied, praying her nose might be temporarily plugged up.

Skulking down the ramp toward my jet, I devised a plan. I would take off the outer sweater and stash it. Seeing my poor row partner already seated I smiled and very carefully removed my outer sweater. Did I imagine it or was he plastered as far to the side as was possible without climbing out the six-inch by nine-inch window?

As I removed the sweater, I realized I now had another problem. My turtleneck was far shorter than I desired. If it slid up an inch or so, my residual “muffin” of fat above my jeans—still clinging to life even after a month on the elliptical—would likely frighten to death this First Class bunch on their way to Liposuction Land.

Oh well. It’s easier to close one’s eyes than one’s nose.

I sighed. I figured at least I knew revival skills from my nursing days if anyone passed out.

Finally arriving in Southern California, I made arrangements with my daughter-in-law to wash my sweater “forthwith” as they would say in Colonial America.

But this was not the end of humility. Finally arriving at the award ceremony in Hollywood on Saturday evening, I was handed the program listing all the winners, runners up, and honorable mentions. Although my book won first place, it was listed in the program as “Runner Up.” I suddenly felt like the Miss America second best that was hoping for the crown, but saw it placed on someone else’s head. Sigh.

I approached the event coordinator and pointed out the error. He assured me he would set it straight during the announcement—which he did. And the award itself said, “Winner.”

I had to laugh. I felt God poking me in the ribs ever so gently with His humorous touch, reminding me of my place in this universe.

* * *

My favorite “humility story” since receiving this honor was a conversation with my elderly, hard-of-hearing Mom on the phone the day after the announcement. It went something like this:

Me: Mom, I won first place for my book, The Promise of Deer Run! I get to go to LA!
Mom: Which book?
Me: The Promise of Deer Run
Mom: The second one?
Me: Yes!
Mom: And you won third place? That’s great.
Me: No, Mom, I won First Place.
Mom: You won third place. Well that is pretty good!

SIGH Nothing like a mom to keep one humble!

* * *

But the best part is knowing that third place or first place or NO place, what is important in life is not the awards given to us, but the people that we love who are there for us, no matter the kudos from others. They are always rooting for us. These treasured folks are what makes life worthwhile. And I am the most grateful for these precious loved ones in my life.

They’ll even love me in a stinky sweater.

The Way of a Man With A Maiden – Proverbs 30:19

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

As a writer of inspirational Historical Romance, I’m always drawn to an interesting tidbit from the annals of old that smacks of real life romance.

While I was doing research for my most recent Revolutionary Faith post about the history of Valentine’s Day, I came across a sweet love story between a man and a maiden that took place during the American Revolution. The story swept me up with its simple detail, yet it’s depth in the characters involved.

This love story took place in South Carolina and began with a spirited teenager named Behethland Foote Moore. Although born in Virginia, her parents relocated to South Carolina when she and her two brothers were quite small. Behethland’s father died two years later, and her mother remarried a Captain Samuel Savage, who brought his new family to a residence on the Saluda River.

Behethland attended a school in Camden known for its excellent reputation. In 1781, due to an outbreak of smallpox, she was inoculated against the disease by a British surgeon. After recovering from the vaccination, Behethland returned home, only to find her town and its inhabitants on the brink of skirmishes between the King’s soldiers and the Continental Army.

Rather than succumbing to fear, the sixteen-year-old stood up to the British on more than one occasion, resisting their efforts to steal apples, preventing them from killing her family’s sheep, and protecting the life of one of her father’s servants by throwing herself between the British soldier’s fists and the boy. She must have startled them with her bold behavior because she survived each incident unscathed.

Her next act of bravery proved even more risky, as she and two other teens conveyed dangerous intelligence information by canoe in the middle of the night. Her heroic act saved the Continental troops under Colonel Henry Lee.

Perhaps it was her feisty courage or perhaps it was her beauty, but the next morning, when a young American officer rode up to her front door, the fires of romance began to kindle. The dashing twenty-one-year soldier was smitten, as was Behethland. Their courtship began soon after.

Although her step-father did not approve of the match, the way of a man with a maiden won out. Behethland and Captain William Butler were married in 1784, after the Revolutionary War ended.

Captain Butler (no, not the Clark Gable one from “Gone With The Wind”) became a member of the State Convention that adopted the United States Constitution and served in the South Carolina House of Representatives from 1787 to 1795. He served in the United States Congress from 1801 to 1814 and commanded the South Carolina forces as Major General in Charleston from 1814 to 1815.

While her husband served his country and managed their plantation, Behethland bore him eight children and oversaw the education of each. Among her children’s notable occupations were several United States Congressmen and a Governor of South Carolina.

An anecdote about Behethland touched my heart:

During a terrible rainstorm one day after school, her eleven-year-old grandson saw a child “of humble means” without any protection from the weather. Despite the jeers and laughter of his companions, the young boy gave the child his arm and held his umbrella over her uncovered head. Although mocked by his friends, the boy received praise from his grandmother, who observed his generous and kind behavior.

The incident was evidence of Behethland’s legacy of love and courage, now expressed in her progeny.

Behethland Moore Butler died at the age of 88. She is buried at the old Butler Methodist Church five miles north of Saluda, South Carolina, near her husband and children. She now rests five miles from where she first saw a Continental Army officer arrive on her porch—a meeting that would change her destiny forever.

“There are three things that are too amazing for me, four that I do not understand: the way of an eagle in the sky, the way of a snake on a rock, the way of a ship on the high seas, and the way of a man with a maiden.” (Proverbs 30:18-19 NIV)

Would’st Thou Be My Valentine?

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

Love in the American colonies. SIGH

It surely abounded since the population grew quite steadily through the years. But was there an official day set aside for love called Valentine’s Day? The answer is “yes”…and “no.”

While Valentine’s Day had existed for centuries, not all of the colonies celebrated the holiday. The New England colonies were known for avoiding any celebrations that they deemed unscriptural, including Christmas. But many of the European immigrants, especially the Dutch, carried the romantic tradition to the New World.

Celebrations of a holiday focused on love go waaaay back in history—all the way to the pagan festivals in Rome. Eventually the celebration became more civilized through the tale of a priest named Valentine, who secretly married lovers that had been banned from matrimony by a military leader. Valentine was subsequently imprisoned. As legend has it, the grateful lovers brought gifts of cards and flowers to the prisoner while he was in his jail cell. Unfortunately, the defender of love was martyred. Definitely not a happy day for Valentine.

Some of the ways the Colonial Americans celebrated St. Valentine’s Day were downright peculiar to our modern sensibilities. For instance, in Marriage Customs of the World: From Henna to Honeymoons, by George Monger, he quotes an excerpt from “The Connoisseur,” a series of essays published from 1754 to 1756 where some interesting Valentine’s Day traditions were described:

“Last Friday was Valentine’s Day and the night before I got five bay leaves, and pinned four of them to the four corners of my pillow and the fifth to the middle; and then if I dreamt of my sweetheart, Betty said we should be married before the year was out. But to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard and took out the yolk and filled it with salt, and then I went to bed and ate it, shell and all, without speaking or drinking after it. We also wrote our lovers names upon bits of paper and then rolled them up in clay and put them into water, and the first that rose up was to be our valentine.”

Betty must have been a trustworthy authority on love.

There was also a tradition that the first man that a maiden would see on Valentine’s Day would be the one she would marry. This practice undoubtedly caused numerous stubbed toes while girls with tightly-shut eyes waited for the signal from a friend that the one they desired was in close proximity.

While the first known written Valentine message was sent in 1684, handwritten notes to celebrate love on February 14 started becoming popular in 1750. The homemade sentiments were replaced by mass-produced cards in the mid nineteenth century. It was a hallmark moment.

So you can celebrate Valentine’s Day like the colonials with some bay leaves and eggs. But I would prefer a few chocolates myself. And if my Valentine wants to make me a handwritten sentiment, I will feel like a blessed colonial woman indeed.

I will end with a quote from Ophelia in Shakespeare’s Hamlet:

 

“Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day,
All in the morning be-time,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.”

Happy Valentine’s Day! May your day be filled with the company of those you love.

The Colonial Meetinghouse

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

Congregational Meetinghouse, Ware, MA Built 1751, Rebuilt 1799

Colonial Americans had the perfect name for a place to meet for church: The Meetinghouse. It was a simple name that belied its community importance, for colonials placed high regard for their centrally located meetinghouses. Each building became the site for their social and spiritual lives, drawing crowds from the surrounding village each Sabbath to listen to sermons preached virtually all day long.

Salisbury Union Meetinghouse

Before 1820, most of the meetinghouses were unheated, due to concerns about fire erupting. Worshippers often brought portable, metal foot stoves filled with heated coals to help them withstand the below zero temperatures. It was so cold in New England winters that the communion bread was known to freeze occasionally!

The bell at the meetinghouse became the “town crier” of sorts, ringing for births and deaths as well as wars and fires. According to Eric Sloane in American Yesterday, “After a death, the bell greeted the morning with ‘three times three for a man, and three times two for a woman.’ Then after a short silence, the bell pealed out the number of years the dead person had lived.” It was a practical solution to communicate prior to telephones and the availability of daily newspapers.

While the style and structure of meetinghouses varied throughout the colonies, they were found throughout the states, both northern and southern.

One of the beautifully maintained meetinghouses from the early 1800’s is the Salisbury Union Meetinghouse now located at Storrowton Village Museum in West Springfield, Massachusetts. It was moved to its present location in 1929 from its original location in Salisbury, New Hampshire. The designation of “Union” simply refers to the fact that it was a building paid for by multiple Protestant congregations, which combined their resources to share the same building on a rotating basis.

Meetinghouse Balcony

Prior to 1818, meetinghouses in most of New England (save Rhode Island) were state supported through taxes. This ended in 1818 in Connecticut and 1834 in Massachusetts. Around this time more denominations began to increase in New England, following many years of predominantly Congregationalist groups—thus the birth of the “union” meetinghouses.

Visiting the Salisbury Meetinghouse at Storrowton last October thrilled my historical sensibilities from the moment I entered the locked double doors. The pine-framed structure built in 1834 can hold 175 worshippers in richly-stained cedar pews. The pews were sold to families for around $20 for their lifetime use. The limited seating in each row would require multiple purchases for larger families.

Pew Door

Entering the large hall, I noticed the latched doors on the end of each pew. I asked historian Dennis Picard if the doors were used to confine wandering children. Not just children, he explained, but the mischievous dogs as well that accompanied their families.

It’s difficult to picture the chaos bringing canines to church must have caused, but there are accounts of parsons chasing pooches out of meetinghouses! It must have been a lively scene at times.

Sounding Board

My favorite gem in the old meetinghouse was the sounding board, a hexagonal wooden structure placed over the pulpit to help resonate the preacher’s words throughout the spacious room. It took some extra help to get the sermon clear to the back of the balcony. The sounding board was one more practical solution, in a day without microphones or electricity.

Old meetinghouses are a reflection of our history’s heritage rich in Christian beliefs—silent reminders of the foundations of our country.
To view more meetinghouses, you can visit:

http://www.colonialmeetinghouses.com/locations_00.shtml

Colonial Cats and Mice

Posted by Elaine Marie Cooper

There is a Colonial American proverb: “You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats.”

Wall Candle Box

Perhaps it was a popular saying because that friendship could help quell the numerous mice the colonists were forced to contend with. Not only did these rodents threaten the colonials’ meager supply of food, these scavengers even ate the supply of candles. The tallow (animal fat) that was used to make this precious commodity was apparently appreciated by the little creatures—much to the house owners’ consternation. To shield the candles from destruction, the colonists built special wooden boxes and set them on the wall to keep their source of light safe from the hungry creatures.

But the early American household also kept that ultimate mice killer—a cat.

Until I visited Storrowton Village Museum in West Springfield, Massachusetts last fall, I was unaware that some colonial homes had openings to the outdoors for their cats to come in and out. I actually thought that cat doors were a 20th century invention. What was I thinking? It made more sense in the 18th century since they likely did not tolerate cat boxes in the house. No clumpy clay in the colonies.

If you look closely at this 18th century home that is situated at the Museum in West Springfield, you will see the cat door in the lower right near the door. A close up will reveal it even more clearly.

Colonial Cat Door

Ah, the life of a happy colonial cat.

My cat has no such luxury. His outdoor ventures to my front porch are closely monitored by humans. He is an indoor, city cat—but a great mouser indoors.

Killer Kitty-Kitty

It looks like he’s been eating a LOT of mice…

Mice were not indigenous to America. They were stowaways on board ships from Europe. As uninvited guests, they quickly made their home quite comfortably in the New World. Along with these little varmints on the boats were other pests: gray rats, black flies and (gulp) cockroaches.

The only reference to mice being in any way useful was in a volume called Taxation in Colonial America by Alvin Robushka: “Specific export duties were imposed on skins of beaver, raccoon, mink, otter, bear, wolf, muskrat, mice, and deer…”

Wait a minute— “mice” skins? They actually skinned them and used them for something? I don’t even want to think about it. But there must have been a lot of mice…

Throughout history mice have been a form of pestilence. And they still are. But there are other kinds of pestilence in our lives that are not just annoying, they can be downright destructive and harmful to our souls. One dictionary defines “pestilence” as an evil influence or idea. And sometimes—as with mice—they are very quiet and it’s difficult to discern their presence.

Spiritually speaking, sin is our pestilence. And the ideas it inspires can be subtle. And if we are not careful, it can infest our lives, causing destruction to our homes and our source of spiritual growth.

Ever watch a cat stalk a mouse? The feline is hyper-vigilant, ready, and quick to attack when the critter is spotted. Death soon follows.

May we be as alert in discerning areas of temptation that can open the door to infestations of sin. May the Lord guide us to be swift in eliminating them.

“Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry.” Colossians 3:5 (NIV)

“Count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus. Therefore do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires. Do not offer the parts of your body to sin, as instruments of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God, as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer the parts of your body to Him as instruments of righteousness. For sin shall not be your master, because you are not under law, but under grace.” Romans 6:11-14 (NIV)

“But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1Corinthians 15:57 (NIV)