Priscilla Richmond was widowed and living alone. Her home, which was located on present-day Foster Street, was described as being on “the fringe of the woods” in 1905. Priscilla called her house “The Shelter.” Her husband, William, a Civil War veteran, had died in 1898. Her only child, Annie Paine, had married in 1888 and lived in Mattapoisett.

Priscilla finally had Annie back home after she had unexpectedly left to go to Paris. It was around Memorial Day when she left but it wasn’t clear why. It wasn’t until late July Annie’s family found out she was attending a wedding.

Annie’s niece and close friend, Anna Barstow, asked her to be the matron of honor in the ceremony. Anna had lived in Mattapoisett for about 20 years. Her father had been in the whaling business and retired to take over a sizable estate in Mattapoisett. After finishing school, Anna went to work in a hotel on Nantasket beach and later went to Boston and then Philadelphia to become a housekeeper.

While in Philadelphia, she worked for a wealthy bachelor. When he passed away, he left her a large sum of money which she supposedly invested in a mine company which she more than tripled her money. She returned to Massachusetts and lived in “a fashionable quarter of the city” with her own housekeeper, Teresa McKenna. Anna held lavish parties at her home in Boston but still came down to Mattapoisett to visit her widowed mother who lived with the Shaw family on North Street.

It may have been one of these parties that she met Paul Butler. Butler was the son of former Governor and Civil War Major General Benjamin Butler, who famously declared escaped slaves as “contraband of war” and once hanged a man in New Orleans during the war for tearing down the U.S. flag.

Paul Butler was a wealthy businessman and a member of several prominent yacht clubs. Despite Anna’s declaration that she would never marry, the couple had other plans. Around Memorial Day, Paul, Anna, Anna’s friend Annie Paine and several other close friends left for France. Paul or Anna did not tell their families they were going to marry.

Anna’s uncle and Annie husband, Abraham Paine reacted to the news of the marriage; “Surprised? Yes I am … Last I heard from them they were in Paris… where Mrs. Paine was ill.”

In Paris, the wedding party ran into problems. When they arrived, they discovered that as foreigners, it would be impossible for them to marry according to French law. So they quickly changed plans and headed for Switzerland where they were married on July 21.

However, Annie became very ill and stayed behind in Paris. Annie had suffered a series of heart attacks and never recovered. She died on July 22. At home, Annie’s mother, Priscilla, was grief stricken. Annie was so far away and she wanted her back.

After the wedding, Anna Butler made arrangements to return Annie’s body was home. She prepared and placed in a coffin dressed in the clothing she was to wear at the wedding; a white silk dress and slippers.

Annie’s body arrived in New York on August 7, and 10 days later, she was delivered to the Shelter, where her grieving mother awaited her. Her mother did not want to let go of her dear Annie so she kept her body, still dressed in her wedding party clothing lying in the coffin, in a parlor just off of the bedroom.

At one time, it was common to have the deceased laid out in the home in the days before a funeral with funeral services taking place in the home. It is most likely that many homes in the tri town, if they are old enough, housed a deceased loved one until the body could be buried.

However, Priscilla did not want to bury her daughter anytime soon. She spoke of having Annie there for her long, final visit. The room was decorated with flowers and she kept chairs near the coffin so she could sit with Annie and visitors that came to pay their respects. And many people came over the weeks to visit.

Though it was late August, the French undertaker that had prepared Annie’s body for her trip home had taken great care to preserve her. She was embalmed and her body placed in a metallic casket, which was hermetically sealed. In the area of the casket that covered the face of Annie was a sheet of glass so one could see her face. The metallic casket was then placed in a polished oak coffin which had a unique feature; a hinged door over the glass of the casket. Priscilla often kept this door open so she could gaze at the face of her dead daughter.

Going in to September people began to wonder when or even if Priscilla would bury her daughter. It was thought she was waiting for Anna Butler to return home from Europe so she could attend her burial. Anna was just as distraught over the loss. She wrote home to Priscilla, “What shall I do, Mother Priscilla with my beautiful sister gone?”

Local folklore tells that Priscilla kept the body in the house for six months before being ordered by the Board of Health to bury her daughter. But in late August the Board of Health discussed the matter and since they had received no complaints and the body was well sealed they let the mother continue to grieve.

According to Annie’s death record she wasn’t buried six months later. In fact, the date of burial is noted as September 27, 1905; about five and half weeks after her body returned home and two months after she died. Weather she was buried by a Board of Health order or unable to wait any longer for the return of Anna Butler, Priscilla finally had to let go and say goodbye forever at Cushing Cemetery.

The tragedy did not end here. Annie’s husband, Abraham, had become withdrawn. He stayed in his “Oakland Heights” home in Mattapoisett and became known as a hermit. In July 1906, he traveled to New Bedford where he made a visit to James Ebenezer Norton Shaw, a young Mattapoisett attorney to draw up his will. He left Mr. Shaw’s office and disappeared. He was last seen asking for car fare at a saloon located at the New Bedford end of the Fairhaven Bridge.

Early in 1907, a gruesome discovery was made. The skeleton of Abraham was found near a road in Mattapoisett. He had no clothing on except for two “flimsy” shirts which were identified by friends as belonging to Abraham. It was believed that he had wandered through the woods half clothed, perhaps intoxicated. At some point he became exhausted, passed out and later died.

In the early 2000s the home of Priscilla Richmond, once known as the Shelter, was falling apart. The home was torn down along with all of the grief it witnessed and a new house was built in its place.

A photograph of Annie Paine’s coffin in her mother’s house can be viewed at the Whaling Museum’s website at: www.whalingmuseum.org/explore/collections/database/search-photographs and keyword search Priscilla Richmond.

By Kyle DeCicco-Carey

On a picture-perfect October Saturday morning, Sara DaSilva Quintal, Restoration Ecologist with the Buzzards Bay Coalition, stood before a group of approximately 50 people who had come out to harvest cranberries. The coalition had put out an invitation to come to the now protected retired bogs formally owned by Decas Cranberry Company and harvest berries.

“These bogs were a high target for preservation due to their proximity to the watershed region,” DaSilva Quintal said. She said that the USDA had worked in partnership with the owner and the Coalition to secure the 60-acre parcel in the continuing effort to protect the aquifer. Noting the diversity of wildlife and plant life in the immediate area, she told the group that the beauty of the open spaces are now shared with the public for recreational activities. Beyond harvesting in the fall, there are walking and cycling trails, picnicking, bird watching and wild life observation, wildflowers, and the silence of nature to enjoy.

Many of us look forward to this time of the year and revel in all things associated with the harvest season. Canning and jarring the local bounty isn’t lost on us, the hearty New Englanders. Applesauce, pickles, green beans, peaches, blueberries, grapes, tomatoes, and so much more become captives in bottles and jars we cherish when the snow drifts pile against the front door. One fruit above all others has a deeper historical significance to this area: the mighty cranberry.

The Cape Cod Cranberry Growers Association website (www.cranberries.org) states: “The cranberry, along with the blueberry and Concord grape, is one of North America’s three native fruits that are commercially grown. Cranberries were first used by Native Americans, who discovered the wild berry’s versatility as a food, fabric dye, and healing agent.

“The name ‘cranberry’ derives from the Pilgrim name for the fruit, ‘craneberry,’ so called because the small, pink blossoms that appear in the spring resemble the head and bill of a Sandhill crane. European settlers adopted the Native American uses for the fruit and found the berry a valuable bartering tool.

“American whalers and mariners carried cranberries on their voyages to prevent scurvy. In 1816, Captain Henry Hall became the first to successfully cultivate cranberries. By 1871, the first association of cranberry growers in the United States had formed.”

When I look back in my own family history, there I find the cranberry. My maternal grandmother and great grandmother “screened” cranberries. My maternal grandfather would jump in a bog and pick berries on days when shore fishing wasn’t an option. The cranberry industry you could say is in my blood. Yet for my son the juice runs even deeper.

My son’s paternal family from grandfather to father, from uncle and aunt to cousins, all worked long hours seven days a week when the cranberry harvest was in full swing. In those days, most bogs were “dry” picked. It was exhausting, labor-intensive work. Dry picking required crews of people operating small machines that were similar to small rotor-tillers. In staggered lines, the crew members walked behind the picking machines making sure that all of the berries were removed from the vines. Once the box was full, the worker quickly removed it, replacing it with an empty one without stopping the forward motion, hour after hour, day after day, until the harvest was in. Fresh fruit cranberries would then be taken to a “screen” house where the berries would pass along on conveyer belts and the “screeners” would deftly remove the less than perfect specimens, leaves, and vines. These berries were then processed into either juice or sauce.

Also from The Cape Cod Cranberry Growers website, we find the details for the dry picking process: “This traditional method of harvesting now represents about 10% of the Massachusetts cranberry harvest. Even though fresh fruit represents a small fraction of the total harvested crop, it nevertheless is an important aspect of the cranberry industry and for many growers, a way of life. In order to pick the fresh fruit, the vines must be completely dry. Even a slight shower the night before, heavy dew, or damp conditions from a frost is enough to delay harvest until the conditions improve on the bog.

“The marketing of cranberry products hadn’t reached the zenith as it is today with blended juices, flavored dried berries, berries in cereal, berries in cake and bread mixes, cookies, covering supermarket shelves. Nor had the marketing machine reached beyond the continental U.S. The cranberry industry has done a remarkable job promoting the health benefits of the mighty cranberry not only domestically but globally as well. In 2011 33% of the total U.S. production was exported. European and Asian markets have fallen in love with the mighty cranberry.

“Today most bogs are wet picked. The bogs are flooded and machines beat the vines causing the berries to float to the top where they are rounded up and conveyed into waiting trucks. Wet picking doesn’t require anywhere near the amount of human power that dry picking does. And as the demand for processed cranberry products has increased the demand for dry picked berries has declined. Dry picked berries are the fresh fruit you’ll find in the market seasonally for cranberry bread, homemade sauce, craft projects or, your own fancy holiday fare.”

In 1973, I was young, strong, and looking for employment. It was a time when economic conditions were difficult. White-collar positions in this area were few and far between. I cast about willing to take any type of work to bring in a few dollars. An acquaintance of mine was a crew foreman for Decas Cranberries. He offered me a job picking. I didn’t hesitate, even though I didn’t have a clue what I had signed on for or how it would change my opinion of agricultural work.

Manual labor requires one to put the ego on the shelf and put the body in motion, the brain on hold. Yet there was a type of soul-satisfying meditation when you spend the entire day walking behind a machine that combs cranberries off the vine. You pace yourself and separate your thinking from your body’s repetitive motions, your thoughts can wander and you have time to solve your problems. At least that was my experience. That experience of being out in the open, sitting on an overturned cranberry box waiting for the bog to dry sufficiently for picking made me appreciate fully the men and women who work the fields. I felt closer to my ancestors and felt compassion for the struggles they went through to provide for their children. I felt more connected from having been a bog worker.

Today, about 20% of the total U.S. cranberry harvest comes for the greater Buzzards Bay area. Other regions where cranberries are cultivated commercially are New Jersey, Wisconsin, and the Pacific Northwest. Such large-scale production is not without its impact on the environment.

Commercially cultivated cranberries require vast amounts of fresh water. Fertilizers are used, which causes nitrogen to leach into the ground water. In Mattapoisett, the retiring of bogs near the watershed is of paramount importance.

On this day, many were enjoying that very activity. Mark Kearins of Norfolk has a summer home here and was out for a morning to get fresh air and to learn more about the work of the Coalition. Carol Adler and her friend Pam talked about how much fun they had as children ice skating on frozen bogs and the glory of the morning at hand. Erin Riordan of Marion gathered her fair share with a huge grin on her face. Andrea Buckley and her sister-in-law Karin Kingsland rode their bikes from home and were looking forward to making Thanksgiving goodies with their red bounty. May Wooding and Aimee Mack of Bristol, R.I., had heard about the outing from the Coalition’s mailing, they couldn’t wait to get into the bogs.

Colleen Hamilton and Grace Mullen-Thompson are Commonwealth Corps interns working presently with the coalition. They guided groups further into the bogs seeking good patches from which the rubies could be collected.

DaSilva Quintal said that eventually the bogs would return to woodlands. As I looked out over the acreage, I wondered if one day someone would be giving a talk on the preservation and say, “People used to come here and pick the wild cranberries.”

By Marilou Newell