Chapter 8 - BOSTON: Wrestling Hill
Much About History
At Boston’s historic Old North Church I must have arrived during the MTV History Tour; the very young tour guide asked everyone to introduce themselves. As I was headed to Wrestling Hill, the secret urban neighborhood with a specific link to the church, I chose to recite the first lines of Longfellow’s immortal poem: “Listen my children and you shall here of the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere…”
The guide interrupted. “Dude, we’re sharing deets, OK? Respect it. ” cautioned our junior historian.
The guide then described the church’s history as dating from “before Facebook and Selena Gomez” and the Revolutionary War as a fight between the “wicked mad Brits” and the “white native Americans” who were “like, ‘bring it, bitch’” to the British. Eventually the “Redcoat Ultimate Fighting Machines” indicated they would move by water, something the Sons of Liberty would signal with two lanterns in the “skyscraper of the time”, the church’s tower, so Paul Revere could warn area residents.
The tour went downhill from there.
Wrestling Hill, of course—otherwise, why include it in this book—links up with this famous event. Turns out, on that chilly April, 1775 evening, Paul Revere had already slipped by boat to the opposite shore from what is now downtown Boston. He had previously advised the church’s sexton, Robert Newman, to signal Charlestown residents on the shore opposite, as to how the British were traveling out of Boston to their area, and beyond. One lantern-light if the British were to travel by land on their way to secure weaponry in the Middlesex countryside, and two lantern lights if they were to travel to Charlestown by water. The British ended up traveling by water.
Trouble was, Newman’s scatterbrained assistant had forgotten to replenish the candle supply—they only had one candle left and needed two, according to new information. Newman sent the assistant to alert a young candle-maker, a junior member of the Sons of Liberty, Wrestling Purslane, in the neighboring town of Rummage. And, they waited. And, then, they waited some more, because this was colonial America, and mass-communication had not been invented. Wrestling was in bed, asleep.
Soon, though, he dutifully appeared at the church with enough candles to solve the problem—just as the British began boarding their boats. With the signal given, Purslane was dismissed. But rather than walk home, he obtained a rowboat and brought the remainder of his candles to colonials on the other side of the Charles River, who had used up their candles during the busy evening, watching, and waiting—and in some cases—fighting the Redcoats. He only returned to his Rummage home early the next morning on a borrowed horse.
Without young Wrestling Purslane, history might be different. Yet, Purslane was quickly forgotten, until his hometown was swallowed by Boston in a nineteenth–century annexation. Subsequently, what had been Rummage was labeled Wrestling Hill in his honor after a relative reminded everyone of his contribution. If only Purslane could see the vegan students, coffee bars, and trails commemorating oppression, now...how very proud he might be! Purslane is, in fact, interred at the Old Rummage Burying Ground (1 Rummage Place, established 1654). His economic epitaph reads:
From him, thy freedom lights were lit
Our country grew a bit
Wrestling Jonah Purslane
Dec. 29, 1757 - Dec. 29, 1833
Which leads me to my tale of this soon-to-be-not-so-secret ‘hood: I targeted Wrestling Hill for what I thought would be the standard array of organic eateries, hookah shops and day spas. Turns out, the district is now known for something else: a battle over colonial-era artifacts.
Some months earlier construction workers digging through the foundation of the former South Bay, West Rummage and Lower Charles River Street Railway, (12 The Rummageway), car barn—soon to be imaginatively named “The Residences at The Car Barn”—had come across what appeared to be a colonial-era button, and a shoe buckle, and all work had stopped. The clues were promising, with pieces of Puritan-like clothing indicating the possibility of colonial era-provenance. Historical treasures were always turning up in Boston, for one reason or another.
Rumors persisted, however, in this once-Irish and Italian working class neighborhood, known as “W Hill” for short, that the artifacts were actually connected to a 1970’s Mafia-hit victim, or a gang fight. This had been, after all, the home-turf of a number of now-defunct gangs.
“My concerted guesstimate is, this button, or what have you, is Flaring Nostrils Iannelli or one of his deputies, you know, like Tattoo Tony, maybe, or Clive “Three Knives” McNamee,” offered Mike Gritty, owner of Gritty’s Hardware & Coffee, (457 Rummage Wharf Ave.). Important note: all retail establishments in ‘W Hill’ now sell coffee, whatever their focus; you’re never without a cup of java. Other important note: Mike served time at Deer Island, a nearby prison. Keep the jail humor to yourself.
I took this information and phoned the Center for the Preservation of Early American Relics (57 Rummage Brook St.) which is under the auspices of Crofts University, a private research institution in the Boston suburb of Mehitable (now known as “Crofts University, presented by Sitz Pharmaceuticals/Singularity Aerospace Corporation,” after recession-driven investments.) The school had bought the old Heffernan Poultry processing plant in Wrestling Hill, and was now using the giant refrigerated spaces to store historical things, like candle-snuffers, fire-bells, and old troop-ships—that sort of thing. The button in question was now in C/PEAR’S recesses.
“I don’t know who Tattoo Tony is,” Professor Marina Billiard-Kohan, SnappyMart Chair in Early American History at Crofts, replied to my questions, “but this is clearly the button of a Baptist dissenter, or perhaps one of the Quaker martyrs; they were all buried at Beacon Hill’s western edge. There are reports they were later dug up and moved by their brethren.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, if the object belonged to Mary Dyer, or one of the other Quakers. None of their bodies were ever found, post-execution,” she remarked, referring to the four Quakers hung in the late seventeenth century by the Massachusetts Bay Colony’s Puritan rulers. My own investigation revealed that the Puritans considered the Society of Friends, whose members were called Quakers, a loathsome sect, because, among other things, Quaker puddings were too bland—an outrageous heresy.
If you didn’t know, the Friends also “got all up in the Puritans’ face, yo” about clerical primacy and letting women preach, (“preacher power” and “chicks preaching”) according to an well-informed employee at Tunes ‘n Toast, a music and breakfast place, (7 The Rummageway).
I decided to continue my investigation of ‘W Hill’. Much of it remains working class, with the residential component represented almost solely by multi-family housing. Here and there a clothing boutique has replaced a tobacco or struggling electronics repair store. Even in the 1840s, the earliest apartment blocks were going up to house the workers who serviced the brisk business of maritime Boston. With so many people dependent upon the departure and arrival of ships, a new form of housing came into being in then-Rummage town.
New England’s three-deckers—three level, mostly wood-shingle-sided apartment houses—are ubiquitous. But, Rummage was known for something unique: the spy-decker. Designed and built in the 1850’s by the erstwhile Harvard architecture student, Transom J. Clerestory, these consist of three levels centered on a small, covered atrium. From each apartment, periscopes make their way from the kitchen out the side of the building to Juliet balconies one-half-grade above the kitchen, used for espying incoming ships. The first spy-decker that Clerestory built still stands at 32 Upper Rummage Lane. (private pre-school, no admittance).
Spy-deckers were mostly considered aesthetic blights, until rents in Boston sky-rocketed, and students and others needed housing. They now fetch enormous sums. Oh, don’t even think about it: it’s illegal in Boston to remove a periscope—very few are original, but they are considered historic fixtures. Not everyone is happy with the student
influx from MIT, Northeastern, Boston University, and other schools: the movement to compost or recycle ever last bit of the waste-stream has some longtime residents on edge, with streets clogged with recycling bins, while homeless dumpster divers, and fringe eBay sellers, rifle them for treasures. Step carefully.
When I heard this demographic factoid from Mike Gritty, I knew what it meant: somewhere in W Hill, right now, a pierced-lipped, henna-haired young woman with nails painted for a Black Mass, was garnishing a lentil burger with bean sprouts and vegan Russian dressing, and serving it to a scruffy-faced law student with a distressed leather satchel, while John Mayer, or Lana Del Rey, offered musical accompaniment. I knew what I had to do: find the woman, the burger, the student, and maybe even the music download. I would trust Gritty, but I would verify, too. I would find some answers to this ‘hood’s ineffable appeal, starting at Rummage House, next to a paved area that once served as Rummage’s Town Common, and the town dock on Great South Bay, later filled in.
Interesting fact: Rummage House was where the colonial Rummage Lords (later the Committee of Rum Provisioning) presided over rummage, the factor by which merchant ship owners figured out how much rum to give each sailor, per voyage. It might have also just been a ploy for the captain to draw a bigger share of rum—historians aren’t sure. The docks around Rummage were a shipping point for millions of casks of rum. (rum-tum-tummage was the amount of unused rum left over after a voyage, then sold at rummage sales. But, you knew that).
It was now drizzling. And, I, accordingly picked up the pace, mindful of the W Hill version of that Boston aphorism: “if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes—and it will get worse.”
I was here for the “Flags and Flavors” tour advertised by the Wrestling Hill Business Association, as “a taste of the five flags that have flown over Wrestling Hill: the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Rummage Town, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the City of Boston, and the United States of America, and the cuisine of each.” What the difference in cuisines actually was, I couldn’t be sure. But when I looked around, I saw only a small group of people, with a woman in a forest green park ranger’s jacket holding a sign that read: “National Oppression Trail Tour”. I approached.
“I’m here for the food tour, um, Flags and Flavors tour,” I ventured.
“That’s been cancelled on account of budget cuts,” the ranger replied. “I’m Park Ranger Beth-Anne Crone, and you can join us for a tour of the trail your tax dollars paid for. Lots of people come to walk Boston’s Freedom Trail, and that’s fine, but this is important, too,” said Beth-Anne.
“I’m sort of hungry,” I ventured. “Will you be stopping for a bite? I’d counted on that.”
“Nope,” said Beth-Anne, sharply,” but we’re all trying some haddock jerky, which was basically what people ate around here in the 1840s. It’s pretty dry, but it’ll keep your energy up.”
We looked at one another; doubtless, talking about oppression day after day would be sufficient to put anyone in a bad humor. Beth-Anne seemed emotionally bent from the weight of historical cruelties she was now duty-bound to explicate to a guilt-ridden public. Silently, I reached out in empathy to this national servant, and vowed to overlook her sour demeanor. I took a strip of jerky, and noisily heard my teeth clacking through its leathery texture, and affected a grateful facial expression.
The Oppression Trail marks the place where bad stuff happened to different people. Like the nearby Freedom Trail, the Oppression trail is a colorful way to learn more about American History. You can pick up the trail at the statue of Wrestling Purslane, at the foot of Wrestling Hill, along the Rummageway. She called the trail “geographic surgical stitches on the scabby historical wounds of our political tumors and diseases," These were evocative words that left us up-chucking a little in our mouths.
Established by Congress, it snakes for thousands of miles around the U.S., memorializing every nasty, mean, sad event that had occurred since Independence. But, it begins in Boston, “as so much of the dark side of American history does,” said Beth-Anne, with a smile.
And with that, thus chastened by our own sorry history of treating everyone very, very poorly—including our own selves, depending upon the decade—we were off on a duly upbraiding, hopefully redemptive tour.
First stop: the stocks, and punishment mutilation for religious dissenters. You could be put in the stocks for any number of reasons, both civil and religious: not going to church or not taking off your hat in church. “Giggling uncontrollably” or “chuckling without reason” were added in 1659. “Lascivious glancing” addressed the growing teen population, we heard.
Somewhat worse than spending several days subjected to rain, wind and neighbors throwing rotten food at you, while indisposed in a fixed, wooden harness outdoors, was having pieces of your body removed—the Puritans were fond of this as a method of social control, if not ostracism. In Rummage, the Rummage House contained something called the Pruning Yard, where fingers, hands, ears, tongues, nose and feet were pruned, or removed, for various offenses. Hung up on hooks in the Pruning Yard were actual versions of the frightening instruments of holy Puritan mutilation: the Probiscide (for removing noses); the Ear Snipper and the Squawking Annie (for removing tongues).
If you stole rum from the stores here, the consequences could be severe. Insist Colerain and his betrothed, Tranquility Smyth, found that out the hard way when they filched a cask for a picnic, in 1682. Needless to say—but Beth-Anne was happy to say it—Insist and Tranquility were severely punished.
Crone motioned us to move on, and we headed off into the neighborhood, stopping opposite commercial buildings from the nineteenth-century. “It’s gone now, but the home of Resolve Spiteworth, a merchant, stood here for many years. It was the site of a disastrous Thanksgiving meal that brought King Philip’s War to the town of Rummage,” intoned Beth-Anne.
Resolve had invited some Native Americans to his Thanksgiving in the hopes of diffusing tension. Unfortunately, his eyesight was not very good, and he mistook the action of one of the Indians, who was showing Resolve’s wife how to put on facial decoration, for some kind of inappropriate gesture. Apparently, the translator had stepped out to go the privy. This started a fight, after Resolved painted one of the Indians faces with some oyster stuffing. It went from bad to worse afterwards, and Rummage went up in flames. Resolve ended up with an axe through his head, his wife and children were taken hostage for a decade, after which they spoke pretty good Nipmuc; the eldest daughter married a minor chieftain, Sackawicket—later memorialized as the name of a Cape Cod tennis club.
The good news, said Beth-Anne, is that the original Nipmuc are seeking to claim ownership of the land in Rummage where they used to live at the time of the Spiteworth Thanksgiving, and are proposing construction of a 500-room casino there; some of the casino proceeds have been pledged to clean-up graffiti around the Purslane Statue, and put in new benches made from recycled Vuvuzelas.
Anyway, Beth Anne showed us a clipping at the Rummage House, which explained how Wrestling Purslane’s actions were revived in the collective memory years later.
The Boston Orator & World-Express
July 4, 1876
“Be Not Afraid of Lateness”
To the Editor: Here this pleasant July the fourth, in Rummage Hill extant, hearts are passionful with national fever as we march in traditional assembly from our spy-deckers down the Rummageway to the burying ground, now to honor our Boys of ’76. Yet, within the green expanse of our ancestors’ resting place lie the brave remains, of one whom, directed by Sons of Liberty, did take candles from his Rummage shop to hang in the Old North Church. It is true that Wrestling Purslane, by name, was late to the church, yet he did his duty. Not enough for him, Purslane sallied across the British lines with stores of such, for Middlesex villagers and farmers. He inquired if he should further travel into the darkest night to be of service.
“Be not afraid of lateness,” responded the Minutema
n, Colonel Yarrow, a farmer of Bedford, to Patriot Purslane, “there is no shame in that, only of the not going. March now, boy, ‘n light the world ‘agin!” All Bostonians are now received of his heritage, owing to Rummage annexation, I would note. Celebrate Wrestling Purslane on this day, unto eternity.
—Catherine Humility Purslane, 26 Rummage Field Rd.
Subsequent to this letter, and because of calls for some memorial to Purslane, Catherine took up a collection among school-children and shop-keepers, collecting $8,445.76 ($257,000 in today’s money) for a statue to be erected, in what was renamed Wrestling Hill. Julia Drabstead, a Radcliffe College student from Kindling River, NY, won the contest to dedicate the base with a poem; the dedication took place in April, 1883, fifty years after Purslane’s death. Drabstead took her inspiration from Col. Yarrow’s words.
Be not afraid of lateness
The clock cannot cry for you
Do not remind, of church’s chimes
Laggards are fine, and few
Be not afraid of lateness
‘tis the spring that’s never prompt
When rain gusts blow off new-born buds
Underfoot, they are soon tromped.
Be not afraid of lateness
Candlelight knows no yesterday
Nor waxy melt tomorrow’s dark
When the candle is snuffed for good
Its tardy start leaves faint lasting mark
Perhaps inspired by Emily Dickinson, or perhaps because she was basically a frump, Drabstead later moved to a small house in the Boston suburb of Germane, where she remained unmarried, mildly depressed, and prolific. She never saw the Purslane statue, nor her words at the base.
One of the first signs of gentrification is the focus on making one’s own body healthier and more presentable so as to attract others who are also healthy and attractive. Pretty soon, a neighborhood once known for its denizens wearing stained t-shirts and beat-up shoes and way-past-season fashions presents the same kind of clothing...but, wearing these duds are, instead, great looking people, with clear skin, toned muscles and luxuriant hair, sometimes carefully-coiffed. The process is helped by spa owners and yogis looking for new customers.
I found one such group at Yogaddict, 53 Rummage House St. Nadine was my teacher for the basics class, and after listening for a few minutes to the soothing music, while lying on our mats, she began her session. But it quickly took on an unusually belligerent tone. Nadine spoke softly, and I gathered there had been drama in the relatively new story of Wrestling Hill’s earliest yoga studio.
“It’s a beautiful day here in Wrestling Hill. As usual in Boston, it’s drizzling. We’re so lucky to have this beauty around us; this old building, with its leaky toilet, the crumbling back stairwell, and the grimy upper windows that no one can reach to clean.
Now, take your foot and move it toward your mouth; this may remind you of someone who said something that was inappropriate or hurtful. I experienced this recently when my old and former friends at Yoga Moon told me they were not going to split the cost of teacher training, and were withdrawing from our partnership in the Mandala School of Yoga Education. Untruthfulasana. A very healthy pose.”
After that we headed into Bitterpillasana, and then breathed into Backstabberasana, andTakeaflyingleapasana. We practiced Komodo Dragon Feasting on Unsuspecting Rude Person and Angry Bear Mauls a Fool. Nadine apparently had a lot of scores to settle, and we were helping her, and getting a wonderful stretch, too.
The Wrestling Hill Farmer’s (1 Rummage Green) Market is like some kind of old-hippie heaven; it’s held on the mostly paved expanse of what was the town of Rummage’s central greensward. Many of the old-hippie farmers come from their old-hippie farms in the central Massachusetts hills or up in Maine, and they bring down the most delectable cakes and cookies and pies made from old-hippie recipes that seem to uniformly include bulgur wheat and molasses. Blackberry preserves that would taste as fresh as if they were made the previous day were sadly trumped by a grain-and-molasses construct. Dorm-room vegetarian chili starts here, I'm told. Pick up some organic leeks and start chopping.
Day Trips: While you can easily go to enormous South Station, at Dewey Sq., I like smaller West Station, 178 Flinty St., which is a few blocks outside of Wrestling Hill, hidden by a freeway, power station, and abandoned factory. Near Rummage Square—which is, following Boston naming conventions, neither square nor within historical Rummage—it’s worth a visit. Dating from 1891 and looking much like a Christmas bon-bon, the station was designed by March Saint-Jardin in the rather silly Trompe de Treacle style of stonework, in some usage after the Franco-Prussian War sent French architects lurching in disturbing decorative directions. The tiny station contains a frigid waiting room, and uncomfortable stone benches created from some of the wharves that were dismantled as nearby South Cove was filled in during the station’s construction late in the nineteenth century.
Several commuter lines radiate from here. I recommend the trip to Bitter End, in the former mill town of Tartborough, Mass. (trains every 73 minutes), where there’s a wonderful, if unsettling, exhibit on factory accidents at the old spinning mill. Another town on the Bitter End line—Germane—is a classic New England burg, now an affluent Boston suburb. Its 286th Dried, Stuffed, and Mounted Show will be held in early November, featuring a display of the only taxidermied Puritan divine (Endycott Meane; now you know) in existence—always a crowd pleaser. Soupçon (12 Town Common, Germane) is the new French bistro there. Stylishly small portions are offered, so maybe have a nibble before you sit down. Maybe even eat dinner beforehand.
From the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (MBTA) Bitter End Line:
West (South Bay) Station, Boston to: Winslow Middle Falls, Winslow Upper Falls, Haughty Corner/Crofts University (Town of Mehitable), Governor Crane St. (Mehitable), Coldfield, Brimstone, Germane Center, West Running Brook, South Fencing, Blackstone (Blackstone University), Bitter End Village (Town of Tartborough).
Real Bostonians and especially those from ‘the W Hill,’ know about The Home for Tiny Nomads, 46 Rummage View St., at the top of Wrestling Hill. A well-known orphanage founded in 1807, it’s run by the Sisters of Eternal Servitude. Many famous Bostonians were raised here, and then came to prominence in the arts, politics, sports, and, of course, organized crime. The existing building is the second (the first burnt down) building occupied by the home. It was constructed in 1879 in a modified Queen Anne style, known as Queen’s Anne’s Consort, basically Queen Anne style with a few more nonsensical flourishes to confuse burglars about where the window cranks and keyholes were located.
“It shall be as a large home, with the accouterments and tailings and tub-settings and knockabouts of a typical abode, yet with one important difference. An in-gathering of the motherless and fatherless shall reside, thereunto,” wrote the founder, Mother Rebecca Clare O’Dowdy, in an 1805 letter to Boston authorities.
Bostonians embrace their own history, whole-heartedly encouraging tourists to visit the city's obscure, cob-webbed corners. Here's a sample dialogue for you to use:
Question: “Excuse me, could you recommend any historical attractions in Grimy Flue Hill?”
Answer: "Yah Flue? Christ’s blood, theahs nuttin' theah. Used t’ be, shur’whah. Not no mow-ah. Now, it’s a wick’d pit, ‘n full-ah assholes, ya ahsk me.” (translation: Grimy Flue Hill? Christ's blood, there's nothing there. Used to be, sure. Not no more. Now it's a wicked pit, full of assholes, if you ask me.")
Today, Wrestling Hill’s main drag, the Rummageway, is beginning to show signs of life. Yoga studios, cafes, bistros, an art gallery—yes, the markers of acceptability to the urban neighborhood denizen now pop up, although, because of the average low temperature in Boston, and the amount of precipitation, there’s a distinct downer vibe. Area natives have traveled, however unwillingly, to points outside Boston, to areas outside the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and even, though it is rarely admitted, outside of
New England. The result? They feel a little bit chagrined at how much nicer it is in other parts of the world.
“It used to be,” offered one ruddy-faced fellow, outside (The Tippler, 42 Center Rummage St., no phone) a pub on Center Rummage St., "that none of the locals had traveled anywhere outside New England. Now that they have, they realize that, a lot of the time, the weather sucks little lima beans."
I did know, and after having my first umbrella destroyed in a nasty downdraft, I vowed to spend extra money on rain-proof outer-gear, and military-issue umbrellas.
Over the course of my visit, as city archaeologists and academics began fanning out through Wrestling Hill to find more clues as to the provenance of the colonial button, some residents began to resist the investigations, which often involved strangers digging up cellars.
“There are no Quakers buried in my cellar, darn it all,” one exasperated homeowner told me. “We can’t turn every furnace room into a shrine. These city officials don’t have the sense God gave a head of lettuce.”
It was my last day in Wrestling Hill, and I still hadn’t heard any news about whether I would there had been a definitive analysis of the button, and whether I would be allowed to see the button, or even, to whom the button had belonged.But, I was in for a surprise.
Turning down the Rummageway, balancing my coffee, I was heading toward West Station to catch the Amtrak train to Chicago. Rounding the corner of Upper Rummage St. and The Rummageway, I came unexpectedly upon slightly scary Ranger Crone. Leaning against the building at its base was a large poster, which said in handwritten scrawl:
No. 7
Freedom of Religion: Quaker Martyr, John Leddra
National Oppression Trail
Apparently, said Crone, C-PEAR, had determined that this button was most likely from the clothing of Leddra, the final Quaker to be executed by the Massachusetts Mandarins of yore.
“Yep,” said Crone, matter-of-factly. "As soon as there’s approval from the higher-ups, a plaque will go up on this wall. There’s no reason to wait for the plaque, though. This poster will alert everyone to this as a stop on the trail. We need to let people know about the dire consequences that appertained to those who worshiped as they pleased in old Boston town.”
I mentioned I was on my way to Chicago. Beth-Anne offered me some hardtack left over from the day’s tour.
“You never know when you’ll eat next, and we wouldn’t want you to suffer on that train from hunger pains, now would we,” said Beth-Anne, depositing a dry brown lump in my hand. I noisily chewed it, teeth clacking, as I walked to the station and pondered the equally hard life of the early residents of Rummage, and the peculiarities of up and coming Wrestling Hill.
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